Haters: A Love Story
We all want to be liked. We might say we don't, but to varying degrees our behaviors often suggest otherwise. Time and again we are faced with people and situations that make us yearn to be like Sally Field at the podium on Oscar night circa 1985, proclaiming with astonished giddiness as she accepted her Best Actress trophy, "You LIKE me! You really LIKE me!!" The trouble starts when we cannot make such a proclamation. When we are unable to say this, we may wonder what we have done wrong, and what crime we might have committed (in this life or another) to have provoked such a negative response from another human being, searching the archives of our minds to figure out where or when it all went south. Even if there is not enough evidence found for our own conviction--and there typically never is--the best we can hope for is to repeat in our minds the one statement that, at least temporarily, seems destined to rescue us from the damage caused by someone's unjust disdain.
Repeat after me: I don't care what anyone else thinks of me.
In my life, I have used this phrase often. I have rarely ever meant it. Don't get me wrong, it always made me feel a little better. I just don't think it was coming from the right place is all. Instead of freeing me to be exactly who I am in the face of any and all naysayers, it built a wall of protection around me, an invisible shell which nobody would ever be able to crack. But being the boy in the bubble is like playing on the defensive line of a championship football team with the stingiest defense around. No matter how impenetrable either one may seem, something is bound to get through. Whatever the sport, even the very best defense can't pitch a shutout every game. And in life, no matter how hard we try, we cannot prevent anyone from an unsuspected attack or worse yet, from not liking us. The best we can do sometimes is just try a new approach, changing our mindset (however subtely) just to see what happens.
Recently I decided to give this a try in my own life. In the moment, I felt I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. It seemed like the only best option left. Why not give it a whirl? I had no choice, really. Nothing else had worked up to that point, so I decided to try and change the one thing I had some control over: my own mind.
Something had to give. You see, I was face to face with a hater. I was willing to try anything.
Now, I don't know why this man hates me. He just does. I don't even know his name. I just know that his contempt for me is obvious every time our paths have crossed at my coffee shop. His body language says it all: the pursed lips, the anxious energy, the cold blank stare when faced with my presence. He won't even speak to me, but he will talk to my coworkers, whom he has advised many times over that he actually hates me. Yes, he used the word hate. A strong word, sure, but whatever his reasons, I don't doubt he means it.
His reappearance in line recently after a several-month hiatus instantly caused me to experience some physiological reactions that belied my whole "who cares what anyone thinks" stance. I felt adrenalized at the mere sight of this hater. My heart began to beat in my throat. I got a little shaky. Sweat began to form on my brow in spite of the arctic air-conditioning circulating all around me. Fight-or-flight was kicking in, big-time.
I wondered why this hater's mere presence was igniting such a firestorm of negativity and fear in my body. I tried really hard to remember why it was that we had this little feud going to begin with. How did it start? The best I could come up with was that on prior occasions, I had made his drink incorrectly once, maybe twice. Or rather (as I recall it) I had made his drink according to his specifications, only to have him return it angrily. After a few rounds of this, it was obvious there was something else at work here. It had nothing to do with the drink. It had everything to do with me. Had anyone else made his drink exactly the same way, he would have lapped it up as if it were a trough of ice cold spring water discovered after a week of trekking across the hot, dry Sahara desert with nary a drop of liquid to be found. Me? I could have presented his perfectly-executed beverage in a gold chalice, served up on a silver platter, and it still would have tasted like Aunt Suzie's leftover fruitcake from two holidays ago.
This was a no-win situation at best.
I thought about all of this as I efficiently knocked out drink after drink, still anticipating the arrival of the hater's cup in queue. I was smiling on the outside, delivering frothy, caffeinated concoctions to all of the other regular customers gathered around the drink handoff. On the inside, my mind raced like the lead stock car at the Indy 500. The funny part was, he didn't even know me. And I didn't know him! This relationship, me vs. the hater, had already been well-established, but upon closer inspection it all seemed pretty hollow. There was very little substance there, save for a few misunderstood interactions and a couple of overactive imaginations. Hardly enough fuel to keep the fires of hatred burning, at least in my opinion.
This realization settled me a bit, enough to calmly spot his syrup-filled cup sitting in the on-deck circle at the espresso machine. It was time to make the hater's drink and then deliver it to his hate-filled hands. Pulling the espresso shots and steaming the milk just so, I recalled some of his previous visits to our store. I remembered how nothing I ever did was able to change his perceptions. I was powerless to change this man's view of me, or his drink, or anything else really. In this light, only one response made sense: stop trying. The only answer I could think of was to just be me. Besides, there was nothing he could do to hurt me. He was no real threat to my livelihood. He was just a man. He was allowed to have his own opinions. And who knows, maybe I reminded him of the big, bad bald man from his youth, the one that kicked his beloved little puppy and stole his favorite candy when he was a wee little tike. There could be any number of reasons he felt the way he did, none of them very rational, but then nobody ever said hatred was rational to begin with.
Finally, it was showtime. I took a deep breath. I called his drink out, placing it shakily on the handoff plane. He was there immediately to pick it up. I smiled and thanked him, making just enough eye contact to see him staring right through me with those dark, blank eyes. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He hated me. I knew that. It was glaringly obvious. But this time, I was completely fine with it. I didn't hate him. I didn't have to, and he couldn't make me.
True to form, thirty seconds later he returned the drink. Not enough syrup, he complained. Fine. I didn't even pump the syrup anyway. My co-worker (whom he likes) did. He didn't know that. If he had, maybe he wouldn't have complained. Who knows. Who cares. Not my problem. He was allowed to return the drink after all. He was even allowed to dump it on the floor and do a little Irish jig in the resulting puddle if he so desired. And most of all, he was allowed to hate me. It was his life. I couldn't stop him.
He was having his own experience. Best of all, I was allowed to have my own.
I didn't have to defend myself. There was nothing to defend against. Come to think of it, the idea that we must react to anything and everything that does not coincide with our rose-colored views of the world and of ourselves is probably the very line of reasoning responsible for every single war ever fought. On this day, I put down the heavy artillery. I stopped fighting a losing battle. Raising the white flag and surrendering felt a world apart from digging the trenches any deeper.
Releasing the burden of wanting everyone in the world to like you is akin to discovering a swiftly-moving escalator when you thought you had no choice but to trudge up five thousand steep stairs every single day for the rest of your life. It's so much easier to breathe and requires far less energy to take that escalator, leaving more time and space to simply let life happen. The key lies only in knowing that another way of getting there exists.
It is in this spaciousness of allowing ourselves and everyone else to find their own way that we can remember our connectivity. Both haters and lovers make the world go round, and truly, one is not as far removed from the other as we may think. We have all been a little bit of both at one time or another.
Being faced with haters or lovers should make no difference. I am who I am. Period. In my own twist on Sally Field's Oscar-winning speech, I had discovered something very important, and almost as astonishing in its sincerity. I liked me. I really liked me. And I didn't care what anyone else thought. No other opinion of me mattered as much as my own.
For this, there is no defense required. Freedom reigns supreme. That pure, exhilarating sense of freedom that can only come from letting a hater be a hater.
Repeat after me: I don't care what anyone else thinks of me.
In my life, I have used this phrase often. I have rarely ever meant it. Don't get me wrong, it always made me feel a little better. I just don't think it was coming from the right place is all. Instead of freeing me to be exactly who I am in the face of any and all naysayers, it built a wall of protection around me, an invisible shell which nobody would ever be able to crack. But being the boy in the bubble is like playing on the defensive line of a championship football team with the stingiest defense around. No matter how impenetrable either one may seem, something is bound to get through. Whatever the sport, even the very best defense can't pitch a shutout every game. And in life, no matter how hard we try, we cannot prevent anyone from an unsuspected attack or worse yet, from not liking us. The best we can do sometimes is just try a new approach, changing our mindset (however subtely) just to see what happens.
Recently I decided to give this a try in my own life. In the moment, I felt I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. It seemed like the only best option left. Why not give it a whirl? I had no choice, really. Nothing else had worked up to that point, so I decided to try and change the one thing I had some control over: my own mind.
Something had to give. You see, I was face to face with a hater. I was willing to try anything.
Now, I don't know why this man hates me. He just does. I don't even know his name. I just know that his contempt for me is obvious every time our paths have crossed at my coffee shop. His body language says it all: the pursed lips, the anxious energy, the cold blank stare when faced with my presence. He won't even speak to me, but he will talk to my coworkers, whom he has advised many times over that he actually hates me. Yes, he used the word hate. A strong word, sure, but whatever his reasons, I don't doubt he means it.
His reappearance in line recently after a several-month hiatus instantly caused me to experience some physiological reactions that belied my whole "who cares what anyone thinks" stance. I felt adrenalized at the mere sight of this hater. My heart began to beat in my throat. I got a little shaky. Sweat began to form on my brow in spite of the arctic air-conditioning circulating all around me. Fight-or-flight was kicking in, big-time.
I wondered why this hater's mere presence was igniting such a firestorm of negativity and fear in my body. I tried really hard to remember why it was that we had this little feud going to begin with. How did it start? The best I could come up with was that on prior occasions, I had made his drink incorrectly once, maybe twice. Or rather (as I recall it) I had made his drink according to his specifications, only to have him return it angrily. After a few rounds of this, it was obvious there was something else at work here. It had nothing to do with the drink. It had everything to do with me. Had anyone else made his drink exactly the same way, he would have lapped it up as if it were a trough of ice cold spring water discovered after a week of trekking across the hot, dry Sahara desert with nary a drop of liquid to be found. Me? I could have presented his perfectly-executed beverage in a gold chalice, served up on a silver platter, and it still would have tasted like Aunt Suzie's leftover fruitcake from two holidays ago.
This was a no-win situation at best.
I thought about all of this as I efficiently knocked out drink after drink, still anticipating the arrival of the hater's cup in queue. I was smiling on the outside, delivering frothy, caffeinated concoctions to all of the other regular customers gathered around the drink handoff. On the inside, my mind raced like the lead stock car at the Indy 500. The funny part was, he didn't even know me. And I didn't know him! This relationship, me vs. the hater, had already been well-established, but upon closer inspection it all seemed pretty hollow. There was very little substance there, save for a few misunderstood interactions and a couple of overactive imaginations. Hardly enough fuel to keep the fires of hatred burning, at least in my opinion.
This realization settled me a bit, enough to calmly spot his syrup-filled cup sitting in the on-deck circle at the espresso machine. It was time to make the hater's drink and then deliver it to his hate-filled hands. Pulling the espresso shots and steaming the milk just so, I recalled some of his previous visits to our store. I remembered how nothing I ever did was able to change his perceptions. I was powerless to change this man's view of me, or his drink, or anything else really. In this light, only one response made sense: stop trying. The only answer I could think of was to just be me. Besides, there was nothing he could do to hurt me. He was no real threat to my livelihood. He was just a man. He was allowed to have his own opinions. And who knows, maybe I reminded him of the big, bad bald man from his youth, the one that kicked his beloved little puppy and stole his favorite candy when he was a wee little tike. There could be any number of reasons he felt the way he did, none of them very rational, but then nobody ever said hatred was rational to begin with.
Finally, it was showtime. I took a deep breath. I called his drink out, placing it shakily on the handoff plane. He was there immediately to pick it up. I smiled and thanked him, making just enough eye contact to see him staring right through me with those dark, blank eyes. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He hated me. I knew that. It was glaringly obvious. But this time, I was completely fine with it. I didn't hate him. I didn't have to, and he couldn't make me.
True to form, thirty seconds later he returned the drink. Not enough syrup, he complained. Fine. I didn't even pump the syrup anyway. My co-worker (whom he likes) did. He didn't know that. If he had, maybe he wouldn't have complained. Who knows. Who cares. Not my problem. He was allowed to return the drink after all. He was even allowed to dump it on the floor and do a little Irish jig in the resulting puddle if he so desired. And most of all, he was allowed to hate me. It was his life. I couldn't stop him.
He was having his own experience. Best of all, I was allowed to have my own.
I didn't have to defend myself. There was nothing to defend against. Come to think of it, the idea that we must react to anything and everything that does not coincide with our rose-colored views of the world and of ourselves is probably the very line of reasoning responsible for every single war ever fought. On this day, I put down the heavy artillery. I stopped fighting a losing battle. Raising the white flag and surrendering felt a world apart from digging the trenches any deeper.
Releasing the burden of wanting everyone in the world to like you is akin to discovering a swiftly-moving escalator when you thought you had no choice but to trudge up five thousand steep stairs every single day for the rest of your life. It's so much easier to breathe and requires far less energy to take that escalator, leaving more time and space to simply let life happen. The key lies only in knowing that another way of getting there exists.
It is in this spaciousness of allowing ourselves and everyone else to find their own way that we can remember our connectivity. Both haters and lovers make the world go round, and truly, one is not as far removed from the other as we may think. We have all been a little bit of both at one time or another.
Being faced with haters or lovers should make no difference. I am who I am. Period. In my own twist on Sally Field's Oscar-winning speech, I had discovered something very important, and almost as astonishing in its sincerity. I liked me. I really liked me. And I didn't care what anyone else thought. No other opinion of me mattered as much as my own.
For this, there is no defense required. Freedom reigns supreme. That pure, exhilarating sense of freedom that can only come from letting a hater be a hater.
Comments
As an undercover people pleaser this blog shed some light on my regular barista, Paul. You have be given gift of prose and you had an amazing epiphany. I already know you hook me up with an awesome caramel brulee latte.
Goodluck with using that epiphany to drive you in all relationships with uppity corporate barista haters. Because its just practice for the rest of our lives. I felt like a 2nd class citizen when I was a barista serving business men n women on their way to meetings. Now I have somewhat joined the ranks of corporate america, these same thoughtless drones treat even their superiors that way.
Some people just suck regardless of what hat they where. There is no rent available in my head for people like like that