The New A-B-C

ACT 1: Scene 1

When he returned, she was sitting on his picnic rug. On the edge, actually. Talking to another young woman.

The rug had been moved forward from where he’d left it.

He approached, knelt down, side-on to her. ‘You’ve taken up occupation’, he said, or something of the sort.

She turned. ‘Oh, is this your rug?’

‘Yes’, he said. ‘You’ll have to move when my partner gets back’. He meant his wife. Somehow ‘partner’ felt more appropriate. It was the local market, after all. Full of young families, older folk sitting back in collapsible chairs. Kids dancing in front of the stage, the music loud.

He got to his feet and walked the short distance to a food caravan. Ghanaian dishes. He ordered something with beef and rice. ‘About 10 minutes’, the young bloke behind the counter told him, handing over a tag.

While waiting, he glanced occasionally at the rug. She was still there. She turned to look at him a couple of times. Perhaps not at him, he couldn’t be sure.

ACT 1: Scene 2

The food wasn’t bad, a bit dry perhaps. Could do with a spicy sauce. He stretched out on the rug, watching the kids jumping about in front of the stage. She was next to him, back turned, talking with a friend.

A cold beer in the cooler bag beside him. Good planning. But he wasn’t in the mood. Finished his take-away. Wandered off and found his wife. She headed back to order food for herself. He continued to meander. Most of the stalls familiar. Crafts and displays. He stopped by the Environment Centre stand. Bought himself a T-shirt.

ACT 2: Scene 1

Back on the rug. She’d moved. He sat down with his wife. Two friends came across. A catch-up chat. Travel, death, old age.

Suddenly, she was there at his side. ‘I have to say something’, she said. ‘You were really rude to me. I didn’t know it was your rug.’

They looked at one another. She, dark eyed, composed, early 30s at a guess. Him, white, grey-haired, somewhat elderly and somewhat taken aback.

‘I’m sorry it came across that way,’ he said. ‘I felt it as an intrusion’.

‘This community welcomes mothers and children,’ she responded.

He was silent for a moment. ‘Actually, I’ve had a bit of history around that subject.’

‘And I’ve had problems with old people,’ she said.

They continued to look at one another. Tensions easing. Talked a bit more. He complimented her on her courage to approach him. ‘Better to do that than let it slide under the carpet,’ he said.

She nodded.

‘I made an assumption,’ he added. ‘And maybe it was already a loaded situation for both of us.’

They introduced each other. Talked a bit more. Then she got up and left.

Act 2 Scene 2

A second tour of the market. Thoughtful. Yarned with an acquaintance from the past. In the food business, unhappy about government restrictions. Met up with a couple, sitting on the bench. Saw something between his fingers, her eyes a’shining. Thought they were stoned. Mistaken, as it turned out.

A new band on the stage. Pulsating. An invitation to dance. The night primed.

Wandered back to the car and drove home.

Final Act: A reflection

What was that all about? A caution about making assumptions, that’s for sure. But more than that. Beliefs come into play. My belief the rug was my sacred space, immune from invasion unless I granted permission. Her belief the rug was an invitation to share territory.

And the influence of personal history. The older I get, the more affronted I tend to become when feeling disrespected by younger folk whose boundaries appear more elastic than mine. Past encounters loaded my dice. Conversely, the young mum may have been on the receiving end of lectures (or worse) from geezers of my vintage. Her dice similarly loaded.

Yet the takeaway message, at least to me, felt humbling and healthy. She’d come up to me and put her point of view. We had a conversation. We met one another, face-to-face, eye-to-eye. We aired our grievances, listened to one another,absorbed the emotions of the moment, and moved on.

Readers may have had experiences akin to my market story.

Somewhere, there’s a universal message around Assumptions and Beliefs. They are common to all of us. As are the many forms of Communication.

This recent encounter struck me as a reminder. A reminder of self-righteous tendencies, and that standing one’s ground can flip from positive to negative and exacerbate a fraught situation – or we can stand our ground while at the same time remaining open to hear and absorb the point of view of another – and acknowledge our role and responsibility in whatever has occurred.

We learn our formal ABC at a young age – yet are largely left to our own devices in this relational A-B-C realm of which I speak. Understanding and owning our assumptions and beliefs is a stepping stone on the road to fruitful communication –and may result in conversations that leave us feeling lighter and more satisfied.

Thanks to the initiative of a young mother, I was able to recognise I’d landed in a pothole on that long road. Whether she had a similar recognition, I cannot know. But if we should meet, I’d be tempted to ask.

AC for Unsplash

By Bruce Menzies. Based in Fremantle, most of the time, Bruce Menzies is the author of three novels, a family history, and a recent memoir. Details at ‪BruceJamesMenzies.com If you’d like to read more of Bruce Menzies’ work on Fremantle Shipping News or listen to a fascinating podcast interview with Bruce, look here.

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