“It doesn’t matter who started it. It doesn’t matter who did what to whom. It’s what YOU did that matters.”

When I was a child, my parents recited this litany every time my brother, Freddy, and I earned dual spankings for fighting.

Admittedly, I hated the preparatory lecture as much as the paddling that followed. Clearly, my parents were unjust and unfair in their child-rearing practices.

Last week, my encounters with a cab driver, a neighbor and a friend produced flashbacks to my parents’ punitive teachings. My first flashback occurred while riding in a taxi when the driver set the meter to a higher rate.

“Excuse me, sir, but shouldn’t your meter be set at ‘Rate 1’ since I’m traveling to a neighboring suburb?” I asked politely.

Suddenly, the driver launched into an angry tirade. “Do you think I like this job? Do you think I like driving a cab for 10 or 12 hours a day? I hate my job,” he yelled angrily.
Fearing that my cab driver developed a case of road rage, I quickly apologized. Soon my fear melted into pity as he began sharing his story.

“Six years ago I came here from Bethlehem where I was a director for the Ministry of Finance. I came to America for more education and opportunities for my family,” he said. “In Bethlehem I used my mind to make major decisions. Now I drive this cab back and forth through the city every day. My mind has nothing to keep it occupied. All of my knowledge is useless.

“When I came here, I bought a house in Tinley Park. I owned my own business, a tobacco shop. But the person who sold the house cheated me. There was structural damage,” the driver added. “So I lost my house, my business. I lost everything. Last week I spent $1,250 because the engine blew out on my cab. Every day I work, it costs me money.

“Now I look into my children’s eyes and I feel ashamed. Their father is a cab driver. This is all I have to offer them. What kind of life is this for my wife and my children?” he asked

Upon reaching my destination, the meter read $13.60 for a fare that usually costs $10. I handed $15 to my driver.

“I’m so sorry for all the people who have hurt you. It makes me sad that people can be so unkind to one another,” I told the cab driver.

“No, forget it,” he said waving away the money.

“Please, sir, take this,” I insisted. “Thank you very much for the ride.”

My second flashback happened two days later at dinnertime. When the doorbell rang, I greeted a neighbor who asked to speak with my husband, Tom. Clad in soiled clothing from work, my neighbor seated himself on a chair with white upholstery. My mouth ached to ask him if he would mind sitting on a different chair in order to preserve the pristine upholstery, but I zipped my lip. Soon, I overheard the man ask Tom if he could borrow a few dollars until payday.

“Today, I feel like killing myself or someone else,” our neighbor said, describing his very bad day at work. Hearing his desperate words made me glad that I kept silent about the chair. After our neighbor left, I noticed that the white upholstery remained unstained.

Early Monday morning, my friend phoned, insisting that I hurry up and meet him in two hours instead of the Tuesday lunch we had planned. His timing couldn’t have been worse. The weather outside was nasty by North Pole standards. I just washed my hair and my column, which I hadn’t started, was due. I stammered an uncertain response not wanting to change my busy schedule.

“Well, I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have called you. My phone has been ringing all morning. So many people with so many problems. Ouch, the potholes on this road are painful. Talk to you later,” he said.

I hung up the phone feeling sorry for my friend. The anxiety in his voice emphasized the bad day he was having. But I figured that I had too much to do, and decided that I would be a better friend for him on Tuesday when my own work was finished.  Then I had a flashback featuring that queasy feeling which encased my heart when I wasn’t working things out with Freddy. So I called back and told my friend I was on my way.

We had a very wonderful afternoon talking and ate dinner. Suddenly, while walking, he stumbled. His fall ended as his chest crashed into the sharp edge of a table. I cell phoned Tom who came to join us and make sure our friend wouldn’t need a ride to the hospital for a possible injury to his heart.  

Growing up, I thought my parents were the meanest Mom and Dad in Roselle. They were insensitive, unfair. Perhaps, my parents’ paddling was intended to teach their four children that we should not demand justice for ourselves, but rather practice mercy for the injustices and sufferings of others. Maybe Mom and Dad spanked some sense into me, after all.