Writing Exercise - Thoughts from the Bank

Stopped in at the bank at lunch today to get a money order to pay for my latest ebay purchase. The line was (thankfully) shorter than it often is & I was quickly at the front of the line.

Behind me, a woman arrived to wait in the queue, sharply dressed in a black pant suit with the hint of white collar jutting out of it. She was agitated & pacing/walking/swinging/dancing behind me, walking in & out of the line, spinning around & then back into the queue. She had a mane of dusty brown hair, sunglasses atop her head & a face ravaged by years of living. Perhaps ravaged is the wrong word.... it's the kind of face I've seen before. Many times I've noticed women with attractive, shapely, young looking bodies, but their faces look anything but young... their faces carry in them the marks of years of hard living - drinking, smoking, drugs, eating disorders, whatever. They are road weary women, the kind that gets classified as 'trailer trash'. It's hard to tell how old they actually are. Their faces just look old, tired, beaten by the winds & forces of life...dark skin, creased with a thousand worries, no hint of smile on their faces, eyes cold & hiding their emotion as much as if the sunglasses were still on.

While we're standing there, Madonna's "like a little prayer" starts playing over the PA & she begins to sing - singing somewhere in the nether regions between right out loud & too quiet to hear - it's not at full voice, but it's definitely audible to those around. For a moment she seems happy, finding the familiarity of '80s tune & her movements almost approach dance instead of simply agitated. Shortly, she returns to agitated & begins talking to the man who's entered the queue behind her about how she's "usually a happy person, but not when someone is sticking their noses into her business" & she starts to swear & curse & throw out random sentences.

& all the while I'm standing there, eyes front, trying to ignore her, to let her be in her little world & let me stay in mine. I start to wonder what's up with her. Is she upset? drunk? on drugs? demonized? and then the next available teller beckons me over & I feel a breath of relief to step away from the unstable woman.

But, the woman gets the teller next to me & begins, full of anger & tension, to tell her story to the teller that she has a bank card & her money is in the account, but her so-called friend (expletives removed) came in yesterday & shut down the card so she doesn't have access & she wants the teller to get her access to the account. The teller looks are the card, gets the woman's information & plainly tells the agitated woman that her name is not on the account & so there is nothing that the teller can do. And the woman starts to rage, "you need to call that blankety-blank & get my money out of the account" & again the teller, calmly says that there's nothing she can do & that the woman needs to talk to the owner of the account & get access through him. And the woman grabs her stuff & walks off fuming that she's going to, "sue that blankety-blank for fraud."

And she leaves, the next lady at the till politely assures the teller, "she wasn't angry at you" & the teller nods & smiles & talks about how that she just lets that stuff go over her head & she doesn't worry about it. And we all chuckle softly & breath a sigh of relief. We laugh partly to mock this odd & agitated woman, partly at the absurdity of the situation. Part of it though is a nervous laugh, trying to cover over the reality of how this woman has made our day uncomfortable & has breathed in anger, agitation, violence, hate into our lives. The nervous laugh comes with a sigh of relief that we are 'safe', back with the normal people & normal routines where everyone keeps their thoughts & lives to themselves & no one swears & curses or dances & sings out loud & we are all free to remain islands unaffected by each others joys or pains.

And I am impressed in this, by my own cowardice, at my lack of courage to do something. I stand there, trying to hide, hide my gaze, my attention, from this wild woman. I am afraid to say anything. To ask how she's doing, if there's something wrong. I'm afraid to stand up for the teller, to tell the woman to be quiet or that she really needs to have it out with the owner of the account, to tell her that she needs to go easy on the teller 'cause the teller's hands are tied by the legal structures designed to protect all of us (or at least keep random people from accessing our bank accounts).

But instead I say nothing. I am afraid of the woman's reaction. I'm afraid on being on the receiving end of her anger. It's odd because I fear less the threat of her physically attacking me than I do simply her anger, the wildness, the instability, the unpredictable-ness of it. I am afraid of being yelled at. Afraid of seeing her wild eyes flash at me as the object of anger, or the closest man she can lash out at since the man who has her money is not in the room. I fear confrontation. I live for appeasement & it's hard to appease wildly angry people - they're looking for someone to vent the anger on & aren't wanting to listen to reason & so I hide in fear, hide from her, hide from helping others.

And more than that, I refuse to give her the gift of person hood. I refuse to look at her except perhaps sideways glances out of the corner of my eyes. I don't give her the gift of attention, of acceptance, of all the subtle, non-verbal ways we recognize each other as humans - the quick look at each others eyes, a nod hello... Instead I actively work to block her out of entering my world, my bubble - not that it fully works - her anger & agitation spills across the room, staining everyone, but I 'win', she doesn't talk to me, she is treated like a leper, like she doesn't exist. I have successfully ignored her as she rushes out into whatever happens next in her life.

And as I walk out & drive away, I start to reflect, to find the quiet filled with questions & unknowns. My head slips to the patented "what would Jesus do?" question & instead of answers, I begin to think more of this woman & my thinking passes from the self cantered thoughts of how she's inconveniencing me to where she's coming from. She comes into the bank looking sharp, businesslike & professional, yet that's a mask & perhaps she knows that. Perhaps the agitation is fuelled by fear - the fear that she knows that she is not a 'businesswoman', not a 'professional'. Perhaps she senses the eyes of those around her, the gaze of comparison &, like a hunted animal, stands wild eyed before the predators of money, success & beauty, the predators of "not enough" that seek to cripple & maim all of us. Perhaps she's comparing herself to the 'professionals' behind the counter, neatly dressed, make-up perfectly in place, a stable job that keeps their money in their bank accounts instead of the accounts of random 'friends'. Perhaps she's already heard the snickers & hushed conversation as she leaves. Perhaps she feels the looks & points & stares already digging into her & furthering the sense of condemnation.

And so perhaps the anger is there to mask her fear & she pours on the stench of anger to cover the odour of her fear. If she can be angry enough, forceful enough, maybe she can cover over her lack of 'professionalism' & people will fear her instead of tear her apart with criticism & scorn. Perhaps she doesn't know how to cope, how to interact without the masks. Perhaps if she stops being angry, she'll just break down & then she won't be 'strong' enough to 'protect' herself from the wolves around (not that the anger & hardness is doing a better job of it).

And what of the man whose name is on the account? Is he friend? lover? businessman? owner? What else has he stolen from this woman? Her dignity? Her time? Her trust? Why does she need the money? Is it to pay rent? to feed a child? to feed an addiction?

Perhaps her moment of joy with "a little prayer" is the only place she feels safe. It is familiar to her. It fits her world instead of the world of businesswomen & banks & politeness. Perhaps her lending her voice to the song is the only escape she has from the moment. Perhaps her song is more than words, perhaps it, too is a little prayer. A prayer that goes unheeded by all of us standing around her.

And in the end, there is only the questions.. the questions & the silence. The silence mixed with shame. Shame for cowardice, shame for refusing to risk, shame for letting my mouth talk more about helping/being there for others than my actions speak. I have heard it said that we either warm or chill the 'climate' of the planet by how much we give to others or refuse to give. And again, I find myself helping to make the world a colder place by refusing to give others the gift of person - the gift of seeing the human behind the masks, behind the coping mechanisms & by refusing to leave my 'bubble'. And again, as a human & as a Christian, I fail to keep the 'trust', I fail to walk in brotherhood, in love, with those around me & choose the road of least resistance instead of the path of love (which somehow always embraces the path of suffering).

God help this woman. Lead her home safe & provide for her. God help us all (specifically me). I continue to see how I'm perpetuating the problems on this planet instead of helping to repair things.