Points of failure: Adult costumes
Last month my niece snapped back at me for the first time. I was devastated. She’s five years old and just starting first grade. While on a video call, I may have lost some cool-uncle points by suggesting that she eat healthy snacks at school instead of Oreos.
“You’re not my dad,” she pushed back.
I recognized her defensiveness. As she grows, some of the baby innocence is lost and turns into personhood — with all its pros and cons. After that happened, I realized how I'd recently done the same exact thing.
At a hang, I'd cut a friend off mid-conversation to disagree with him on some low-stakes feedback he was giving me. I turned it on him instead: “You’re wrong. You’re not seeing how YOU acted poorly,” I said, obliterating their point before they could finish making it.
Realizing that I'd invalidated him, I reached out to apologize the next day.
It was a mistake that had weighed on me like a wet blanket throughout that night. The initial hurdle of apologizing was uncomfortable, but I felt lighter afterwards. I am trying to get used to apologizing early and often; admitting when I’m wrong is going to be a lifelong practice.
I was feeling pretty mature afterwards. But in the middle of patting myself on the back, I did it again.
I had sent music to a bandmate before I began a drive home from a meditation retreat. When an overly negative response came back via the group chat, I struck back and ruined the peaceful state I'd been in.
What’s worse is that I had every opportunity to avoid the impulse; I was driving, I made a call, I placed my phone on do not disturb and told myself I would address it later. But once I hit traffic, I caved. I wanted blood. I wrote back and matched ire with ire, then spent a few days ruminating on it.
Again, I called and said I was sorry.
I’m thinking a lot about how kindness can play a part in preventing this situation. The curious thing is that by choosing to be kind to others when I want to argue back, I am also showing compassion to myself because I avoid feeling horrible afterwards.
The day after the Oreo incident, my mom called and asked me what had happened with my niece.
“Why do you ask?”
“She’s asking if you’ve called today and has been waiting by the phone for you.”
My mom said my niece had told her there was a ‘problem’. It seems that her reaction had been weighing on her. She asked for the phone and apologized. “Era solo broma” she said, Spanish for “I was only kidding.”
We are always just kids in adult costumes, and all we want is our goddamn cookie.
This week I also published a short essay about a 48-hour trip to New York to see my friend Yasser Tejeda shine on Broadway
