Healer heal thyself. I was at the opera house watching a Beethoven concerto that I was thoroughly enjoying, despite persistent neck pain. At interval, when the clapping had ceased, the man sitting behind me tapped me and said, You know your bobbing up and down and massaging your shoulder ruined that entire performance for me. You were crossing and uncrossing your legs, and wriggling about—and there was no one else in this entire hall behaving like that. Two thousand two hundred spectators, and youre the only one bobbing up and down. Oh, how annoying that must have been for you, I replied, to get the only bobber in the village... It was, actually, he went on, unamused. Very annoying. At the time, I thought his angry reproach unjust and his tone obnoxious. I found myself planning pithy retorts (‘perhaps, sir, what’s ruining your performance is your stifling etiquette, complete lack of empathy, and an inability to disattend to relatively minor distractions...’ or ‘thank you, now you’ve ruined it for both of us…’). I sought out vindication from others at interval (‘come on! you were sitting next to me, right? Did you notice anything? I barely moved...’). But above all I began ruminating on how, to my great chagrin, I was clearly just as angry and unempathic as he was. If he had not been angry, would he even have been bothered by my squirming? Possibly not. Or else, it might have disturbed him somewhat, and he may even have had a quiet word with me, but he would not have done so in the way he did. His etiquette is arbitrary, his empathy for my own experience and discomfort clearly poor. Ok. Sure. But what of my own anger? Healer heal thyself. To do this, I need to understand the mans reaction. I mean really understand it. It’s not enough to pay it lip service by describing it in neutral terms (he was irritated with me because my moving bothered him during the performance). It will get me nowhere to couch my explanation in my own appraisals (he was getting all Victorian on me for daring to show a bit of enthusiasm for the music); or in thinly veiled pseudo-psychological denigrations (hes really just jealous…). I need to actually abandon my own point of view for a second and try to glimpse the world through his eyes, even if (and this is the hard part) it casts me as the bad guy. What do I see? Firstly, I see a strongly held conviction that classical music attendance should be a kind of formal, meditative process, and one in which you respect the listening experience of those around you. I may not share such a conviction, but I can dig it. Then what? What was it like for him sitting there? I can approximate his experience in the following internal monologue: Im heavily attached to Beethoven’s concerto, a wonderful and solemn work, and am preparing to immerse myself in it delectably. But wait, what do I find? Obstructing my field of vision is this tall twat squirming in his seat, adjusting and readjusting his position. Christ, just decide on whats comfortable and stay there! Oh what now? Hes grasping at his shoulder and appears to be massaging himself! Show a bit of restraint, son! His hand is only inches away from my face. Clearly, this man is oblivious to all and sundry. Now hes finished massaging himself, but has begun his own personal jig to the music!! I can hear Beethovens sforzandi thank you very much, I dont need my visual field to jiggle up and down for added emphasis. This entire performance is becoming marred by the movements of this cad... Someone really needs to instruct him on how to sit quietly and appropriately in a chair. I get it. If I’d been that man, I’d have felt the same way. That having been said, I’m not that man. I’m the other man, and I get his point of view too.
Posted on: Tue, 29 Jul 2014 10:39:08 +0000
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