JUNE 4, 2019 – Yesterday I yelled at four people—two by phone, two in person. I don’t mean “yell” yelled, but I was pretty steamed. In each case of “yelling,” two thoughts occurred to me: 1. I’m becoming a curmudgeon; and 2. The targeted person was probably less than half my age. (That would mean born not much before the fall of the Berlin Wall.)
After the fourth “yell,” I pulled myself aside for a talk.
Me: “What’s going on?”
Myself: “What do you mean?”
Me: “You know perfectly well what I mean.”
Myself: “Those people deserved to be yelled at.”
Me: “‘Deserved’?”
Myself: “Somebody has to take a stand against lack of authority, lack of accountability, lack of responsibility!”
Me: “Don’t go preachy on me.”
Myself: “Whatever. If you’d been paying attention, you would’ve noticed that in each case I gave a trigger warning.”
Me: “Trigger warning?”
Myself: “Yeah. Before I yelled I warned that I was upset and had to vent.”
Me: “As an objective bystander, I don’t think your so-called trigger warning lessened your threatening tone.”
Myself: “I wasn’t threatening.”
Me: “What would you call it?”
Myself: “Exasperated.”
Me: “Fine. I think you crossed the line when you told the guy from New Jersey that his state was like Zimbabwe.”
Myself: “But in many respects it is.”
Me: “That’s pretty low. I mean, how would you feel if someone from Zimbabwe heard that you were comparing his fair country to the state of New Jersey?”
Myself: “Ya gotta point there.”
Me: “Look, I don’t mean to be on your case, but I think you need to take a deep breath and take a short break. You’re kinda stressing me out, not to mention myself.”
Myself: “Okay.”
I followed my suggestions and for the “short break,” sorted through some old papers in my office. Among them was a folder that one of my sisters had recently pulled from storage (stuff from our parents’ house) and given me.
Among the papers in the folder was a photocopy of a neat, compactly-handwritten letter I’d sent to a couple of friends. Dated July 14, 1982, the letter was 28 pages long. It was a blow-by-blow account of my adventures the previous month in Poland during martial law. The account included much dialogue, and was based on copious notes and dictations I’d taken during my travels.
The letter swept me back to one of my biggest adventures—the other “biggest adventure” being my first visit to Poland nine months earlier when the country was essentially in revolution against the communist regime.
This evening, for the first time in 37 years, I reread the entire letter. I was 27 when I’d written it. No curmudgeon yet, I was on a mission to see first-hand the beginning of the end of the Soviet Empire. I didn’t yell at people back then. I spoke calmly and listened to their stories of hardship and resistance.
I need to remind myself more often of the person I was.
© 2019 Eric Nilsson
