I pulled into the parking lot at 10 a.m. Sunday morning. Before even getting out of the car, I noticed the bike with the fendered 26-inch wheels, old-fashioned handlebars, overstuffed seat and more improvised saddlebags than I thought a bike could hold. It occupied a good portion of the sidewalk leading to the front door of the restaurant. It was a slightly odd sight in this neighborhood, one comprising almost entirely middle to upper class residents. And within three seconds of entering the establishment, I could identify the bike’s owner.

There in the northwest corner of the place, sat a wiry, 40-something caucasian male with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and matching stubble. He wore stained khaki workpants, a greasy t-shirt, worn cross-trainers and a weak smile he flashed intermittently at the service staff as they moved between the kitchen and the dining area, shooting not so subtle glances at him. Upon seeing his smile, the thing that struck me was how straight and clean his teeth appeared to be.

It made me wonder where he’d come from - more demographically than geographically. Against the backdrop of a fairly upscale Sunday morning crowd mostly attired in church clothes, he struck me as someone who could rather easily be transformed into one of them, at least on the surface.

Was he a recent victim of the economic downturn, or was he a foreigner to this middle class world? Did he look at the rest of us, knowing what our lives were like? Did he flash that fleeting smile because he knew the restaurant service staff and patrons who seemed to look down on him were really only a few steps from his circumstance?

Being only ten years younger than him at the most, I thought about how slight a twist of fate it would take to find myself in his tattered shoes.

“Come back,
show your face;
can’t you see?
You’re too good
for this place;
can we leave?”
-The Frames (”Suffer in Silence“)

I posted this lyric because every time the song comes up on my mp3 player, I tend to think of any number of girls or women I’ve known who seem to obsess over some idea of beauty or worth as though it were the diametric opposite of what they are.

Such obsessions have always puzzled me, especially since I tend to be amazed by women in general. Often when I point out what I think are signs of beauty, I get some form of reprimand from whomever I’m trying to compliment. It makes me feel like either my concept of beauty is skewed, or they see every reflection of themselves as though it were in a funhouse mirror. Maybe it’s because so many people in general are overly self-critical, but in my epxerience it seems to be more prevalent among females. Which bothers me immensely.

It doesn’t bother me just because my attempts to compliment females end up being rebuffed, but also because I have four young nieces. The idea of any one of them struggling against poisonous self-perceptions or societally-imposed expectations makes me feel a strange combination of sadness and infuriation.

It strikes me that reducing people’s worth to mere surface appearance does severe disservice even to those with the most sparkling veneers. When I get to know a person, the visage I see is influenced by other attributes I come to recognize in them. It’s not unlike the way a person’s sense of taste is affected by their sense of smell - only with a person, there’s much more that goes into the equation.

We shouldn’t become so concerned with one facet of our identities that we discount the other factors making us who we are. And we shouldn’t make the mistake of judging others that way, either. Now, if only a simple blog post could make it so…

(haiku reference)

They just don’t make ‘em like they used to. That’s the kind of sentiment I heard almost non-stop growing up. To this day, my father takes note of the ways in which society has lost qualitative ground. Most of his assertions, like 90% of anything a parent tries to tell a child, go unappreciated until I notice them for myself. read more