Polishing Up The Golden Rule

“Treat others as you want them to treat you.” Who hasn’t heard that at least once in their lives? Isn’t it, like, the second principle of the Kindergarten credo? If I’m correct, it comes right after “The potty is our friend.” I personally believe I adopted that motto sometime in late 1971. My theory is that they were the first words ever spoken to me by the doctor who extracted my slimy little body from my mother’s 110-pound body, the body that immediately made like a desert after I was born because it dropped down into the lower ‘80s later that day after the sun had gone down. Mom had been inflicted with morning sickness that not only trickled into lunch and dinner, but also into the fourth, fifth, sixth and eventually the ninth month as well. I was a selfish little bugger. Any weight she had scrambled to gain while pregnant, which wasn’t much to speak of, had all gone to me and my placenta. What kind of person would do such a thing to their mother, I ask you? I was a vicious child who needed to be put right (and quick) for inflicting so much pain and suffering on another human being.

Unfortunately, the doctor’s message didn’t really sink in for the first few months. Colic — in a word. From the stories I’ve heard, two months felt like two years to my parents and aunties and neighbors alike. And, frankly, I’m surprised to still be alive. Murder had to have crossed somebody’s mind. Who knows for sure, but maybe some sense was slapped into me in lieu of homicide. Because here is where the story changes dramatically. I suddenly went from colicky to: “You were such a good baby! We could set you down on the floor somewhere, and you’d still be in the same spot three hours later. And so quiet! If we weren’t careful, we could just forget all about you for days and days.”

Treat others as you want them to treat you. If even half of my family’s storytelling is true, then all I wanted in life as a toddler was to be treated to some good ol’-fashioned solitude. I didn’t want to be bothered with people and their crying and neediness. Which is totally believable, by the way.

But as the years passed I realized that being silent and unaccompanied wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be. What I really wanted was respect, even if it meant asking people to roll themselves into the shape of a pretzel and then bathe in hot butter and salt crystals. Because that is exactly how I tried to treat the world. Which only means that, while I wasn’t qualified for sainthood, I was most definitely a candidate for martyrdom. Or a good ass-kicking.

As it turned out, I would be a thirtysomething before I really grew to understand that old and tarnished rule for all that it’s worth. Recently, a man the size of a dump truck came into my office and hovered over my desk. “I need a list of all your customers’ names and phone numbers who are scheduled to install an irrigation reservoir this year,” he bellowed without blinking even once. If I weren’t three feet shorter and two hundred pounds lighter than him, mentioning his size wouldn’t have been necessary here. But the hovering and bellowing seemed a bit unnecessary given the obvious disparity in our statures.

“I’m sorry, but the Privacy Act prevents me from giving you such a list. We need customer consent before releasing their personal information,” I said as firmly as possible, my eyes watering in an effort to meet his unblinking stare with one of my own.

“What?” he yelled in disbelief.

And so I calmly repeated myself.

“Then how the hell are we supposed to bid on earth-moving projects?” he interrupted before I could finish.

“It’s the customer’s responsibility to seek bids for their projects. Not ours. In fact, it goes against policy for us to make any recommendations whatsoever. We do have a list of area contractors that we provide to those who don’t already have someone in mind. If you give me your business card, I will add you to the list. But, as I mentioned, we do not give out our customer’s private information without their consent first.”

He continued to stare at me. I can only guess he assumed that if he shot enough daggers my way, maybe I would change my mind. And, believe me, I wanted to change my mind, give him the damn list, if only to get his large, grime-infested body to go away. But I also wanted to apologize for upsetting him, for being so difficult… for ruining his life! And then I remembered what I had only recently retaught myself — treat others as you want them to treat you. Intimidated? Bullied? Controlled with passive-agressiveness? That is so not how I would want to be treated. And to go even further, if I was such an ass to another human being, I would want to be corrected. Albeit as kindly as possible. I wouldn’t want someone to squirm and cower in an effort to please me if I was acting so contemptibly. I wouldn’t want someone to apologize insincerely while I proceeded to manipulate their behavior with intimidation and fear-instigating tactics.

So I held firm. And stared back. I stared as though keeping everything I ever loved was contingent upon winning this contest. And then the most amazing thing happened. He blinked. Just before saying, “Well, okay.” And then he went away. And it felt good. And smelled lots better.

The second principle of the Kindergarten credo might not be for everyone —sadists and masochists, narcissists and sociopaths might never get it. But it works for me.