The Opposite of Cruelty
the magic of kindness
One of the reasons working in service can be so rough is that you do not know what to expect, and there is no buffer between you and the general public. In the previous column, I described an experience that is not uncommon: coming across people who are simply unpleasant to serve.
You run into those types 10-20% of the time. They’re easy to write about. Diagnosing their behavior as undesirable and diving into why is fascinating.
But more often, the people you meet on a daily basis are incredible.
Sometimes, How To Be In Public will be a place to dissect mind-blowingly cringey behavior. After all, humanity is at the heart of business and transaction, and humanity can be downright ugly.
But more often, I want to turn toward the good stuff.
A popular thing to say these days–whether you’re working in service or just going to the grocery store–is, “I hate people.” I have been caught muttering this phrase myself, and at times there has been some sliver of truth to it.
But we don’t hate people. Not by a longshot.
I recently moved from a city of 1.2 million people to a city of approximately 11,000 people. The center of town is a mile away. Two miles in any direction from the center of town you’ll find pastures, farmhouses, cattle and vineyards.
Though the city’s locals stay in on weekends when tourists line the square, this place is not devoid of the same patterns and behaviors as the public you find in the bigger city. Let’s remove the 10-20% of the population that feels the need to throw their weight around and focus for a moment on the larger piece of the pie: the incredibles.
A couple of weeks ago, I was minding my own business, cleaning a table, when a woman I had only met once approached me and offered me a dozen fresh eggs from her chickens.
“Let me pay you,” I implored.
“Absolutely not, they’re each laying like eight a day,” she said, “I can’t eat them all.”
They were the best eggs I’ve ever had. And they came to me by way of a complete stranger.
These moments of kindness and generosity cut straight through all the bad drivers and crappy tippers and ignorance and get straight to the heart of what being in public could be: transaction of a different kind.
There is the kind of transaction we’re used to, in which money is traded for something we need or want, then, there’s the kind of transaction that takes us by surprise, in which something is offered unexpectedly and traded without money at all.
If you’re like me, this second type of transaction means more and usually ignites a spark of magic within. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a little obsessed with it. There’s an intangible currency involved.
It’s the opposite of cruelty.
At this point in writing this column, I had to stop and search “the opposite of cruelty.” The usual suspects popped up in the list of antonyms: compassion, kindness, tenderness, mercy. These qualities encourage us to think of–and can be applied to–others as well as ourselves.
There is something in these qualities, though, that is very subtle. While cruelty and the like can be subtle, something about gentleness allows it to often be forgotten or overlooked. It’s in their very nature. Gentleness, compassion and the things we feel in those moments of overwhelming kindness are not boisterous, as are the clanging cymbals of tragedy.
They are quiet and often wordless.
We are so accustomed to having the ugly stuff broadcast first and foremost that we forget to find the ways in which we take care of one another that surround every tragedy. Communities swarm around grief.
Where there is darkness, there is also light. Darkness, even in its most opaque state, is still defined by the absence of light. The two cannot separate. They are eternally bound.
Back to people.
When I was 23, the car I was driving spontaneously caught fire and I was suddenly in the position to buy a car. I’d never bought a car before.
At the time, I was working at a bar and happened to have some really solid regulars. We haven’t gotten to dive too much into regulars, but they are the bread and butter of restaurants and bars.
These guys would come sit at the bar in waves: first at happy hour, then throughout the evening in shifts until about 10 p.m. One of them, part of the later group, had risen through the ranks of car salesmen to do other things. But as I told the group about my recent bewildering vehicle combustion and explained that I now had to buy a car, he piped up.
“I’ll come with you,” he said, “it’ll be fun.”
Over the next few weeks we discussed pricing and test drove three or four cars, and he told me what was and wasn’t good. He also had a mechanic who looked at each one, giving it the thumbs up or down.
Ultimately, we found the car I’m still driving today. He made sure I didn’t get swindled, taught me what questions to ask and helped me find a car that wouldn’t catch on fire anytime soon.
It was one of the biggest kindnesses I’ve ever been dealt.
Communities–whether made of church members or bar regulars–tend to come together to care for one another. One of the things I love most about restaurants is this: you form relationships, sometimes lifelong ones, with the people you serve and work with.
And sometimes, the person who benefits from this care is you. It reminds you to do the same, and it reminds you that there is this underlying currency more important and much, much more valuable than money.
When you step into a restaurant, you join a community. You get to choose how closely you participate, but you can be sure that somewhere within those walls is a family, and that they are looking out for one another amidst the chaos.