Weird-O-Meter

Mine is Broken

“Did you see the accident?” Leah asks calmly, as I put the car in reverse and very carefully back out into the street.

“Just an almost accident. What happened in the real accident?” 

“You know how the high school boys fishtail their SUVs and peel out all over town after school,” she says matter-of-factly as she peels off her extra layers of clothing and her headscarf.  “Well, they were all doing that in front of the girls school and one of the guys lost control.  His tire popped off and he hit a sign.”

“Is he alright?”

“Yeah, he just jumped out of his new Land Cruiser laughing.  Then he hopped into someone else’s SUV and off they went – fishtailing down the road.  They left his car just sitting there with three wheels.” The way she tells me this story is the way you would tell someone about your preferred brand of dish detergent.  Blasé. 

“That’s weird right?”  I ask.  “You just told that story like it was a perfectly normal, everyday occurrence.  But that’s weird right?”

“Well, it would be weird if we didn’t see this kind of shit every day.”

 _____

Nothing strikes me as odd anymore.  My gauge for weirdness is broken.  I used to have something of a weirdness thermometer.  The red mercury inside would rise and fall in accordance with the weirdness of things around me.  That thing is broken, and this is how I know:

Minutes before Leah joined me, I was waiting for her in my car.   I was sitting alone, biting at a loose piece of skin near my thumbnail to pass the time, when a massive white Lexus SUV slammed into the parking spot adjacent mine and laid on the horn.  A couple of nomadic chickens lifted their heads up from the sand they were pecking at to appraise the ruckus.

While the sound of the horn was still wafting heavily over the endless sand dunes beyond the grocery store, a tinted window slowly descended, revealing an Emirate man wearing mirrored Cavali aviators and a perfectly sculpted five o’clock shadow.  He laughed heartily into the Mobile Blackberry pressed against his temple, then honked again.  A squatty little Indian man responded to the demanding honk by hastily waddling out of the grocery store to attend to his customer.

If you were to see a pair of $1000 aviators on a man in an $80,000 vehicle at a podunk grocery store in the middle of the desert, you might think it weird.  Six months ago, the red mercury in my weirdness thermometer would have risen as well.  Now it doesn't phase me.

The little Indian chap was still a couple car lengths’ shy of reaching the menacing Emirate when he barked a guttural Arabic command from his open window.  These abrasive instructions to the Indian, which I assume deafened the person on the other end of the phone line, turned the grocer 180 degrees in his tattered sandals, and he ran back towards his store.  You might be wondering who this rich guy is that doesn’t even have to get out of his vehicle to get his provisions.   It wasn’t even weird enough to distract me from the loose flap of skin on my thumb.

There was a plastic drape whipping around in hot wind where the front door to the store should have been, and just before the Indian feller hobbled through it, he turned and looked at me as if to say, I’ll take your order as soon as I help this guy who is obviously much richer and more impatient than you.

Soon, he emerged from behind the plastic doorway with a bottle of water and a cold can of Mountain Dew, which he promptly delivered to the posh-looking Arab in exchange for a couple wadded bills. Transaction complete, the window on the glimmering white Lexus glided back up; this was obviously not their first transaction of this nature. 

The Emirate driver jammed his Lexus into reverse, and without even a casual glance at his rearview, peeled out backwards into the street – his Blackberry still tight against his ear.  I watched indifferently as I continued to work the pesky skin flap between my teeth.

Before this guy’s back tires could make contact with the road behind us, a giant white Toyota Land Cruiser screamed towards him honking and swerving to miss the Lexus.  The two of them avoided an SUV demolition derby by about the width of a Blackberry phone, but the only ones taking notice were the handful of nomadic chickens pecking about.  The Emirate simply reached up and scratched his nose with his left hand and continued to back out, laughing into his mobile all the while. 

The screaming horn brought the Indian chap back to the threshold of his store to assess the situation.  He and the chickens gazed blankly while the Lexus driver, again without checking his rearview, peeled out into the street. 

Meanwhile, the annoying skin on my thumb had been amputated, and Leah still hadn’t made it to the car, so I decided I’d see what the chickens and the Indian were watching. 

All of us - Indian, chickens, and I - watched as the SUV rolled exactly one block and then pulled up next to a puny villa about the size of a trailer home.  The plaster on the side of the home was flaking off, and plastic bags and empty Mountain Dew cans littered the unkempt sand yard.  He killed the engine, stepped out of the Lexus, and strolled into the shack, water and Dew in toe.

Perhaps it strikes you as strange that a man living in this kind of home rocks a pair of four-figure sunnies and drives a Lexus.  My weirdness gauge didn’t budge. Perhaps you find it peculiar that he would drive a car one block instead of just walking.  Eh - normal.

The wandering chickens, presumably satisfied that there was nothing left to see, returned to their pecking.  The squalid little grocer who was still standing in the plastic-flap doorway turned his head, waved his arms, and yelled something at them.  They scattered a few steps, but then returned to their pecking.  The squatty Indian grocer wadded up the bills he'd just received, stuffed them into his pocket, and made his way over towards my car.

I cracked the window and spoke deliberately and slowly in hopes that he might understand some English. “I. Don’t. Need. Anything. Thanks.”

“EHH!”  He responded. 

EHH! I've come to learn is the universal term for I have no idea what you’re saying, but let’s bumble through a conversation with hand motions and a linguistic concoction of English/Arabic/Indian.  As he inched his way towards my car, I decided I liked this guy, if only because his blackish skin and small, white button-down shirt made him look a bit penguinish.

I waved both my hands in front of my face and smiled.  I tried broken Arabic. “La La La, Mafi Ordeed.”

He shrugged his shoulders and wrinkled his forehead.  “EHH!” Either I didn't speak good Arabic, or he didn't understand Arabic.  I rattled my head in the east and west direction hoping a simple no gesture would do.  He stood his ground at my window.  Not knowing how else to tell him that I wasn’t interested in buying anything, I turned the key, rolled the window up, and stared straight ahead, effectually ignoring him. 

Is that a weird thing to do?  Maybe six months ago it would have struck me as patently weird.  Now, it didn’t even register on my weirdness gauge. 

My penguin Indian friend, however, clearly found the situation weird. 

He was wondering, of course, why I was sitting alone in the parking lot to his grocery store if I didn’t need anything from said grocery store.  After all, his business is on the edge of town in rural Al Wagan - a small, decrepit Bedouin village jutting out from a sea of sand dunes where age-old tribes adhere to conservative Islamic values.  There’s no reason for a blonde white guy to be in that town at all.  There’s even less of a reason for a blonde white guy to be in that particular town sitting in a parking lot of a grocery store if he doesn’t need any groceries.

As I assessed this bizarre scene from my penguin-looking friend's perspective, I suddenly realized that the weird thing about all this was that, so far, none of this had struck me as weird.  But what else could I do?  I couldn’t leave without Leah, and we had agreed to meet in this little parking lot.

The grocer waddled into my line of sight out in front of the windshield and gave me a hearty scoff and shoulder shrug.  He offered up his final EHH - but this time punctuated it with a question mark. 

“EHH?” Then he harrumphed himself back through his plastic flap and into his store.

I didn’t speak his language, but I definitely understood his question. EHH? meant Why? Why was I here?  What was I doing?  It was all very weird for him.

And maybe the whole scenario should have registered atop my weird-gauge too.  After all, what I was doing in this man’s parking lot was essentially hiding.  I had to pick up Leah and take her back to the city where we share an apartment building, but I couldn’t pick her up at her school because we are mandated to respect the local culture and values in Al Wagan – one of those values being that an unmarried woman should never be in a car with a man unless it’s her father or brother. 

It’s not illegal to ride coed, and it’s not even taboo in the cities like Dubai, Abu Dhabi, or my hometown of Al Ain.  But out here in the desert town of Al Wagan, the place where I spend my workdays, a coed car ride shared by unmarried teachers could really ruffle some feathers.  Nomadic chickens and otherwise.

And that’s weird right?  Six months ago, before I had lived in this country – it would have been.  Now, it doesn’t even register on my weirdness gauge.

Without any loose thumb-skin to keep me occupied, I began to look around with my six-months-ago-Adam-eyes to see what else should be registering on my weirdness gauge.

That’s when it occurred to me that unfenced chickens wandering around town are weird.    

I looked up to see what the chickens were getting up to now that all the excitement had dwindled.  They seemed to have exhausted their hopes of finding food in the sand near the store, and they were wobbling off in the other direction. I watched them in my rearview mirror as they venture out into the empty street, and I wondered, perhaps as homage to the old joke, why the chickens were crossing the road.  

Once they arrived safely on the proverbial other side they shuffled up to a fence line near a lean-to hut fashioned from old brown palm branches; there, they roosted in the shade of the glossy black 2012 BMW that was parked next to the make-shift dwelling. 

Wait, I thought, a shiny black 2012 BMW parked in the sand driveway of a makeshift Bedouin hut?  How did I not notice this juxtaposition before?  Presumably the same man who operates this rickety chicken farm fashioned out of rotting palm branches owns a brand new German-import luxury vehicle.  This should have sent the mercury in my weirdometer rising long ago. I had seen it as I pulled up.  I just hadn't noticed it.  There's a difference.  But I had to forgive myself.  Luxury vehicles are as common here as palm trees - even out in the middle of the desert.

Six months ago, seeing a man refuse to leave the comfort of his vehicle to purchase a bottled water and Mountain Dew would have struck me as weird.  I would have assumed he must be someone with fame or political sway. Six months ago I would have expected someone who could afford $1000 shades and a Lexus to live in a place that doesn’t resemble a Bedouin Boo Radley’s house.   But now, six months later, nothing seems weird. 

Suddenly aware of the infinite weirdness around me, I began to wonder what else I’d missed – what else would have registered high on the weird gauge for six-months-ago Adam. The chickens.  The out-of-place wealth.  The gender rules.

I had inadvertently reengaged my weirdness gauge, and suddenly a world that I had grown accustomed to looked and felt weird.  I felt wobbly.  Unstable.  I needed something normal, and just then, Leah opened the passenger door.

“Did you see the accident?” She asked, as I put the car in reverse and very carefully backed out into the street.

I drove us towards home while she peeled away the superfluous layers of Muslim-approved clothing that she's required to wear to work, and as we sped by her school, she pointed her finger out the window towards a Land Cruiser that was twisted around a stop sign.  “Look over there.” 

Amongst the wreckage was a renegade tire that had rolled about 20 yards from the accident. It was the very scene she had described to me.

“And he was laughing when he got out?” I asked.

“Yeah.  You know, he’ll probably get a new SUV tomorrow.” 

I flashed back to a conversation I had with an Arabic colleague on my first day of school.  What, I asked him, do the kids do for fun around here?  And in the tone you might use to explain your preferred brand of detergent, he explained that they wrecked their cars.    


At first I thought he was joking, so I smiled and waited for him to reveal the truth.  No really, he said, they try to flip their SUVs.

And you know what I said to him?  I said, "Weird."

Now I've been here for six months, nothing strikes me as weird except how much my definition of weirdness has changed. 

_____

I spent the last couple of days trying to look at my current world through my old eyes to see what kind of weirdness I’m considering normal now.  Here is a list of things that happened in just a few days that no longer cause me to raise an eyebrow.  In fact, if I hadn't started writing this particular blog, I wouldn't have recognized them as being even a bit peculiar.  My definition of weird apparently has a bit of elasticity to it.

1. I was driving next to a rickety truck with a camel in the back when a Porche whizzed by on the shoulder of the highway at well over 200 miles per hour. (Normal here)
2.  I asked a security guard at my school to kindly unlock the gate so that I could get to the restroom. (Yes, our school has prison gates) When he unlocked the gate, six students jumped out of a closet nearby and escaped the school (Not an everyday occurrence at my school - an every couple hours occurrence.)  
3.  I counted three Bentley’s sitting in the driveway at the mansion across from my apartment.  (Sometimes there are 4)
4. I gingerly bumped noses with my entire class as they left, on purpose. (Formal Emirate greeting)
5. I parked my Hyundai between a Ferrari and a Mercedes. (The next car over was a Jaguar.)
6. I played the song Amazing Grace on my harmonica to a class full of Muslim kids and they went nuts for it.  (I'd exhausted my entire repertoire - Amazing Grace was the only thing I knew that I hadn't played yet.)
7. I hitched a ride with a student.  If that's not weird to you, then this will be. Before he would let me out of his brand new Land Rover, he insisted on dousing me with a bottle of Arabian Oud.  A bottle of this stuff runs just under $1,000 USD.  The bottle is about the size of a cigarette lighter.
8. I poured camel milk over my cereal. (Got camel?)
9. A student who speaks exactly zero English stood up, unannounced, and tried to impress me with his English skills by singing the song Mr Boombastic in its entirety during the middle of class. (He sounded just like Shaggy with an Arabic accent.  All my students think Shaggy is the bee's knees.)
10. I checked on hotel prices at the Burj Al Arab.  $2,400 USD per night.  I briefly considered seeing if any of my friends wanted to throw in and try it out. (It's on a man-made island in the middle of the Sea.  They fly you out to it in a helicopter. My weird-o-meter might be broke, but this country sure isn't.)
11. I paused at the grocery store to decide between buying regular chicken eggs or quail eggs. (You can also buy dove at the grocery store - not the facial soap, the bird.)
12. I read the word خروج and it made sense to me. (Arabic for Exit - pronounced like you're hawking a loogie, twice)
13. I conducted an entire class while sitting cross-legged on the floor.  (I was also shoeless)
14. My students encouraged me to pray in school and tried to drag me to the Mosque. 
15. I realized that if these scenarios are no longer weird to me, America will be weird to me.  

_____

In a land where the Bedouin went from nomadic desert wanderers to the richest people on earth in a span of 50 years, there's bound to be some strangeness.  Is it weird?  Well, to quote Leah, "It would be weird if we didn't see this kind of shit every day."

Paper Trail

Paper Trail

Cold.  Emotionless.  Detached.  Three words used to punctuate a sentence that’s been addressed to me more times than I can count.  It goes something like this: “I don’t understand you, Adam.  Nothing ever affects you.  It’s like…you’re just so  __________.”

All of my life, I’ve been accused of being aloof to a fault.  Distant.  Indifferent.  You name a word that denotes the inability to feel, and I’ve been called it.   And it makes sense.  How can I defend myself against these indictments when, sure enough, I never hit out of anger, I never yell, I don’t cry at funerals or during breakups, and when my team wins a big game and everyone else is whooping around spilling beer - I celebrate by smiling and offering a casual, nice win eh?

I simply never got the hang of getting “swept away with emotion.”

Cold. Emotionless. Detached.  Still, I’ve always had this notion that maybe I’m not as calloused as I appear to be, that I'm not smothering my emotions to try and look cool, and that maybe I just process my emotions differently than most.  But how do I explain this to Jason? 

I’m milling around this little two-room grocery store/restaurant picking up little fun-sized bags of potato chips staring at the labels.  They’re all written in Arabic, so I can’t read them but it doesn’t matter because I'm not even hungry for potato chips.  I’m just in this little grocery store because I thought it would be a good place to think it over, and then maybe come up with an answer I could give to Jason.   Why is it that I don’t ever seem to get swept up by emotions? 

As it turns out, the convenient store/restaurant will provide me with an answer – but only because its inconvenient layout.

Earlier today I spotted Jason with a piece of paper clinched forcefully between his fingers.  It was all scrunched up like a stress ball, and he was waving it around violently.  Standing chest-to-chest with a school administrator, he glared down with squinty eyes, and from where I was standing in the doorway to the teacher’s office I could see that my fellow teacher was not having his best day at school.

I couldn’t make out the words he was discharging, but his tone and stance told me that this was not a cordial conversation.  The administrator, a good five inches shorter than Jason, was gazing up at Jason's furrowed face offering condoling looks of sympathy in an attempt to diffuse the situation. But everything about Jason’s demeanor said that this situation had been anything but diffused. 

What’s got Jason all riled up, I wondered.   I made my way over to him to find out, but not before scooping up a couple of notebooks and pinning them under my arm in hopes that it would look like I wasn’t eavesdropping but simply going somewhere with important documents. 

“…So how am I expected to teach…?” Jason thrust the wadded paper into the administrator’s line of sight, “…When I can’t even get any freaking copies made!”

That’s all I needed to hear.  I knew exactly what was going on.  The paper Nazi. 

In the UAE - paper is a precious commodity.  I don’t know exactly why this is, but what I do know is that you can buy a gourmet meal in this country for $4.00 USD, but you can’t get a ream of paper for less than half your monthly salary.  And you can’t purchase the stuff just anywhere; there are only a handful of places that sell paper.  Thus, the copy machine etiquette here is quite different than what Jason and I are used to.

Back in the States, the copy machine is fair game.  If you work in a school or office and you need copies; you walk up to the machine, place your paper face down on the glass and punch in the number indicating roughly10 more copies than you actually need just to be safe.  No harm done. 

In the UAE, we don’t get to make our own copies.  There is always someone manning the copy machine. I call him, affectionately, the Paper Nazi.  His job responsibilities go something like this:

1.   When someone comes to the copy room to make copies, tell them no.
2.   If they insist, tell them that it will be at least two days before their copies will be ready.
3.  If they say they need them in less time than that, tell them they can only have half as many as they   want.
4.  If they insist again, misread their desire for copies as a personal affront and get offended.  Then storm over to the copy machine and make exactly half as many copies as requested. 

This paper peculiarity does make managing a classroom a bit more challenging,  but how could I blame the guy?  Protecting the paper is his job, and paper doesn’t grown on trees.  Wait... 

So there was Jason - letting it be known to the administrator and whomever else happened to be within shouting distance that this copy-room arrangement did not suit him.

"Seriously.  All I asked for was 20 copies.  How hard is that?  I know he’s got paper in there!”

I've felt a tinge of frustration with the copy machine policies a time or two myself, and the Paper Nazi - because he's the human representative of these policies - absorbs the brunt of my dissatisfaction.  I’ve just never stormed up to an administrator and maligned an innocent sheet of stationary in protest.  I’m too aloof to even get fired up about the school's infuriating paper policies. Detached. Unemotional. The list goes on.

“I am seriously going to kick that paper guy’s ass.”  Jason informed me as we walked down the halls of the school together.  He’d seen me ambling by and decided that perhaps I would be a better outlet for venting than the administrator. He followed me and my notebooks on our way to nowhere in particular, and I turned us around at the counselor's room and headed back to the teacher’s office with Jason in toe, hoping his flashes of anger would leave him oblivious to the fact that I’d only walked by him to do a bit of inadvertent overhearing. 

Settling into our neighboring office desks, we continued our conversation and I fielded another emotional outburst from my fellow teacher. “I am so freaking angry right now, Adam. That paper guy…”

“That paper Nazi,” I interrupted. 

“That paper Nazi has plenty of paper up there, and he’s not doing anything.  He was just sitting there on a box of paper.  He could have made my copies.  He was just being lazy and obnoxious.  I wanted to punch him. God, I hate it when I get this mad.  It’s so stupid!”

I furrowed my brow at Jason and mimicked the administrator’s understanding nods.  “I know.  It’s frustrating isn’t it? That guy isn’t just a paper Nazi; he’s the Xerox Hitler.”

Jason’s face relaxed.

“You never get upset, though, huh?” He said. “Nothing ever affects you.  It’s like - you’re just so…” He paused.

Here it comes.  What will it be?  Cold?  Emotionless? Detached?

“I don’t know – you just never get worked up. You’re always so cool.”

Well, that has a far nicer ring to it than cold or detached.  I smiled at Jason for placing me higher up on the thermometer; then I offered up a thought.

“Maybe it’s better to be like you, Jason.  You’re passionate.  That’s a good thing.”  I suggested.

“No, it’s not.  I want to be able to control myself better - like you.”

“Huh?”  All of my life I've been told that my detachment is a problem - that I needed to let myself be more emotional - that my propensity for aloofness is a problem to be fixed, not a goal to be strived for.

“How do you keep your cool all the time? Why don't you get emotional?  I want to know." 

"I don't know.  I'll have to think about it."I said.

So here I am, milling around this little grocery store looking at fun-sized bags of chips and thinking.  I left school for my lunch break and walked here.  I figured this would be a better place to ponder his question than the chaotic school.  Why am I so detached, so unemotional? 

I press my way through the scrawny isles and crowded shelves towards the soda cooler, but I don’t get two steps before I knock a box of potato chips and a bag of rice onto the floor with my arm.  I turn around to pick them up and send a shelf full of candy to the floor with my butt. 

This odd little grocery store/restaurant where I came to do my thinking is run by a couple of dusty little Indian men, and it looks like the kind of place you’d see in India.  It’s segmented into two rooms.  In the front room where I’m browsing through the potato chips and knocking groceries onto the floor, there is the grocery store.  Imagine all of the things you’d find at a Walgreens packed into a room about the size of a walk-in closet.  In the adjacent room is a janky little restaurant - also small, but not nearly as congested, chaotic, or disorganized.  It serves falafel. 

I calmly bend down to scoop up the things I’ve knocked off the shelf, and I think about how pissed Jason would be if he were here and he’d been the one who initiated this game of grocery dominos, especially now that he's already a bit edgy from today's paper incident. I imagine him fuming as he curses and bends over to scoop up the fallen items. Of course, I think, this clumsy series of events has not evoked a bit of emotion from me.  Maybe I am too detached.

I grab the bag of rice off of the dusty tile floor, and while I’m doubled over I see something I’ve never seen in the store before.  There, on the bottom shelf, barely visible on the crowded pile of soap boxes and plastic bags, is a ream of paper - and for cheap.  I finish cleaning up my mess and snatch up the paper.  I drop it on the checkout counter along with a Coke and some Arabic potato chips. 

With my paper and snacks in hand, I leave the hot, crowded little store, and walk into the adjoining restaurant.  The queer thing about this Indian-run business is that typically have you have to walk through the grocery room to get to the restaurant.  The Indian men lock the outside door to the restaurant so that customers must first walk through a hectic maze of disorganized products before they can get to a table and order food.  I reckon this helps them drum up business for the grocery store. 

The restaurant, even though it’s just as small, is far more comfortable and I hope it will provide me with the quiet I’ll need to sit down and think - to figure out why I’m so detached – why people see me as emotionless - why I never yell about the Paper Nazi or angrily curse myself for initiating a grocery avalanche - why I don't feel sad enough when bad things happen or happy enough when good things happen.

The restaurant is a good thinking room; just an empty floor plan with a stove and some patio furniture to sit on and eat.  I pull my plastic chair up to the table, drop my treasured paper, and pull up the tab on my Coke can.   I  drink one gulp and look at my paper. Size A4.  Recycled.  Still in the package and for less than $20. Next time I visit the paper Nazi and he tells me No Copies, I’ll hand him my own paper and insist that he has no excuses this time. Sweet revenge.

I pop a handful of salty potato chips into my mouth and think about how I wouldn’t have seen the paper in the first place had I not been in that congested isle and knocked over those potato chip bags and rice.  Then if I’d allowed myself to be angry about starting that avalanche, I probably would have been too frustrated to notice the hidden treasure on the bottom shelf.  The absence of a knee-jerk emotional reaction kept me calm enough to spot the buried treasure. It reminds me of a story I read in Japan.

The story was a Buddhist Koan about a farmer, and I’ll bet the farmer’s friends called him detached and emotionless too.  Cold.  Aloof. You name it. I felt a connection to the farmer when I read his story, and in lieu of my current self-reflection, it means even more.  The Koan goes something like this:

A farmer wakes up one morning and sees that his horse has run away in the night.  He leans against his fence and stares off into the distance.  His neighbor, upon seeing what has happened, walks over to the farmer and leans against the fence nearby.  “Horse ran away, huh?  You must be furious.  That’s really unfortunate.”

“Maybe,” the farmer replies.

The next day the farmer goes back to stand by the fence when he sees his horse trotting back home.  But now the horse has another horse tagging alongside him.  The farmer opens the gate and both horses run in.  The neighbor, upon seeing what has happened, walks over to the farmer and leans against the fence.  “Horse came back with another horse, huh?  You must be ecstatic.  That’s really fortunate.”

“Maybe,” the farmer replies.

The following day, the farmer stands by the fence and watches his son saddle up the new horse.  The son rides off into the distance on the new horse but returns home with a broken leg.  The neighbor, upon seeing what has happened, walks over to the farmer and leans against the fence.  “Son broke his leg on the new horse, huh?  You must be sad.  That’s really unfortunate.”

“Maybe,” the farmer replies.

The following day, a man from the government comes to the farmer’s house to draft the farmer’s son for the war.  Upon seeing that the farmer’s son has a broken leg, the government man turns around and leaves.  The neighbor, upon seeing what has happened, walks over to the farmer and leans against the fence.  “Son got out of duty because of his leg, huh? You must be very happy.  That’s really fortunate.”

“Maybe,” the farmer replies.

The point is, the farmer knew that no one can know the true nature of an event until it is seen in the big picture, and you can only do that with the advantage of hindsight.  The farmer never blew up in anger when things went wrong.  He never celebrated wildly when things went right.  He knew that some events that seem really unfortunate are actually blessings once you view them in retrospect.  And some things that seem fortunate turn out to be bad.  We never know until we have the advantage of hindsight.

I can just hear the neighbor in the story now.  I don't understand you, Farmer.  Nothing ever affects you.  It’s like…you’re just so _________.  Detached.  Emotionless.  Cold.  But even though the farmer seems distant  – I think he just knows that you can only see the true nature of an event after it’s happened.  Therefore, he sees no reason to get overly upset when his horse runs away or overly excited when his horse returns with another. 

Maybe that’s why I abstain from knee-jerk emotional reactions.  Maybe I'm like that farmer.  I head back to school to tell Jason the story.

“That’s a great story, Adam, and you are just like that farmer.  And, of course, I see the advantage of being like him.  But still,  I think I’ll probably still lose control of my emotion sometimes.  I can’t help it.  Even if I know it’s stupid to get too emotionally involved in a situation, that’s how I’m hardwired.  That’s how my brain works. When something happens, I get an immediate emotional response.”

I tell him that I see what he means.  It’s not like my one little story is going to realign the way he processes his life experiences.  The next time the Paper Nazi irritates him, he can tell himself that Buddhist Koan a million times, but he’s still going feel that warm heat rise in his body. He’s still going to feel his heart rate go up. He’s still going to ball up his fists. 

“And if I’m honest,” I tell him, “I think people are far less disturbed by your emotional reactions than they are by my lack of visible emotion. Sometimes I wish I had a little more Jason in me. And that's the truth."  But it's not like I'm really without emotions.  It just appears that way.

It’s only later that I realize that the key difference between Jason and me wasn't in the Buddhist Koan. The answer was in the crowded Indian grocery store and restaurant where I remembered the Koan. 

Jason’s mind - like most other people's - is laid out just like the little Indian grocer/restaurant  The situation may be headed for the logical part of the mind, but first it must pass through the hot, crowded, and chaotic emotional room and knock a few things off the shelves.  Only after it’s kicked around in this muggy, congested room can it go to the restaurant room where it will sit and ponder.  Jason can’t process an experience logically until it’s gone through the emotional room of his brain. 

Every situation I encounter enters my mind through the logical part of my brain – the restaurant.  That’s where it sits for a long time. It eases into a plastic chair and ruminates.  Ponders.   It has a coke.  It eats a bag of Arabic potato chips.  Only after a good long sit will it head into the muggy, crammed emotional room. Unlike most people, I can’t process an experience emotionally until it’s gone through the logical room in my brain. 

My rooms are just backwards.

Sure, I never cry at funerals or during breakups.  I never hit anyone out of anger.  I rarely whoop and holler from excitement after a big win.  But here’s a secret: I do cry sometimes; I've been so angry that I could hit someone, and I experience moments of pure bliss and transcendence.  I just never get these emotional experiences "in the moment."  They hit me later.

My emotions kick in when I'm doing what I did in that restaurant - when I'm just sitting and thinking, and all of the sudden I see how connected every event in my life is. When I see how things that got away, like the farmer's horse, often brought later fortunes.  When I see how loss and luck and loved ones are all woven together and even though none of it ever makes sense at the time, every piece our lives fits together like a puzzle.  But I only see that long after "the moment" when everyone else gets emotional.

Like the farmer, I never feel situations as they happen; I only observe them as they happen.  Only after I have the advantage of hindsight can I process them emotionally.  Only after the experiences have long passed and I’m able to see how a runaway horse and a broken leg fit into the intricate puzzle that is the human experience do I cry or experience overwhelming excitement or happiness. I'll bet that farmer broke down and wept cathartic tears into his pillow years later.  

Cold?  Emotionless?  Detached?  I think maybe the rooms in my brain are just backwards. 

I think someday I'll tell Jason my "room" theory to help him understand why I am the way I am.  I'll calmly relay the story about how I found paper on the bottom shelf of that grocery store, and how it was my unemotional response to the grocery avalanche I initiated that led me to it. I'll tell him how the rooms in my mind are set up differently than his.

His face will probably light up with joy, because that story will enter his brain through his emotional room.  He'll laugh heartily and tell me how fortunate I was to have stumbled upon that realization and that ream of paper all in the same day. And maybe that was fortunate.    

Maybe.