Wanna see the world the way I do? Be warned, though, do this once, and you can’t stop.
Today, or if today is over: tomorrow, I want you to choose a random person that you’re going to see for at least ten minutes today. You can’t know them, at all. Not even their name. Today has to be the first day you’ve ever seen them. Today may be the only day you ever see them.
I want you to give them a name. No, I’m serious. I want you to give them a name, and I want you to rewrite their life. I’m asking you to tell yourself their childhood, why they are the way they are today. I want you to explain every aspect of them. What are they thinking, right now? Why did they choose what they’re wearing? Explain their expression. Note their little gesticulations, and habits. Why are they fumbling with the pen in their hand? Why do they have a pen in their hand?
Let me give you an example.
Sometime last semester, I went out of town with my mother to go to a thing on Domestic Abuse, because my aunt was murdered by her husband, a couple weeks before. On the shuttle from the parking lot to the airport, there was a man sitting next to me. He reminded me of Morgan Freeman.
He was black, and somewhere in his middle to late fifties, I think. He wore kind of small, rectangular glasses that had a silver frame. He wore a wedding ring. He had a brief case in his lap, and his suitcase wasn’t very big. He was dressed relatively formally. He had a white dress shirt, a vest, and black slacks. His shoes were nice, but I’m not a good judge of expensive shoes. He was extraordinarily solemn, and he sat totally still the entire ride. His hair was cut really, really short, and it was all snow white. He had really, really dark skin– he wasn’t black, like, brown, he was black. Like, seriously black.
He sat totally straight, and he was pretty tall. He looked kind of sad to me, and at one point he pulled out a black berry, I guess to check the time, or something. I ‘m pretty sure he wasn’t wearing a watch.
I didn’t speak to him at all, because that’s generally frowned upon in shuttles– I think. But, I decided his name was something that demanded respect, like Leonard or Vincent. He was raised Catholic, and was relatively poor in childhood, but he didn’t live in the ghetto. His mother was the kind that demanded the respect of her offspring, he respected and was in awe of her– because she was raised in a world harsher than his.
His father was never in the picture, but he did have siblings. Probably an older sister, or a younger brother. He was raised somewhere rural, but not really rural. Some place with corn fields, and mild racism. He grew up to respect elders, adults, and everyone in general. He was taught his thank you’s and pleases at a very young age, and didn’t have to be reminded.
Even as a child he was shy, withdrawn. He had a small group of friends, but he was really, really loyal to them. He was too nice to bully. When he got older, he met a nice girl, he moved away– much to his mother’s resentment. Their marriage was average, they didn’t have children, but not because they didn’t want any. He was all work and no play, he climbed through the ranks of his career, probably as a journalist or lawyer.
His marriage was comfortable, rather than preferable. They weren’t likely to divorce, but that didn’t mean they were happy. His mother, as it is now, is no longer living– but she had a good life, and died without pain. She was a good person, and he whole-heartedly believed that her address was now somewhere in heaven. His religion was failing him, he didn’t enjoy life, but he didn’t hate it. Everything was monotonous, but he wasn’t sure that that wasn’t the way he preferred it.
Currently, he was going away on a business trip, it was nothing big– nothing too important. It was all just the same ole’. He was destined to be at the top of the ladder, but he hasn’t quite gotten there, yet. His very presence demands the respect of everyone around him, and he’s rather intimidating to those that refuse to be intimidated by anything. He’s not a violent man, he wouldn’t hurt a fly, but he’s not afraid to speak his mind. He’s probably never told a lie in his life, and he would never let anyone push him around.
Now, here he is, sitting in an airport shuttle next to a little Asian girl that’s probably half his height, and a redheaded woman. They don’t talk, he thinks they don’t like each other, but he doesn’t realize that he was the same way with his mother, in public. He takes things as life hands them to him, taking life day by day, and never complaining.
His name is Leonard or Vincent, he is fifty-six or fifty-eight, and he’s not happy. But, then again, no one is, these days.
The worst part about what I do is, sometimes I start to talk to this person. Many times before, I’ve ended up becoming good friends with the people I interpret, and sometimes I’m really right, or really, really wrong. Sometimes I forget that my interpretation was made up by me, and not told to me by them. Leads to awkward silences, when they’re like: “But… I don’t have a step-mom.”
