On a typical weekday afternoon, my friends and I break for lunch. Many of us do not bring our lunch; we normally walk to an adjoining building that hosts a cafeteria. After buying lunch, we walk back to our building to the familiar kitchen table where we sit together. This process only takes a few minutes, and we’ll eventually end up on the same table chatting during lunch. One friend consistently brings her lunch, and when appropriate, brings sharp utensils. This amuses me.
During one such lunch, a topic of conversation came up. I honestly can’t remember what we discussed. However, I do remember that this conversation, or specifically a friend’s response, distressed me. I reacted as you might expect: I became agitated. I raised my voice. I minimized her position. It was ugly.
I won’t implicitly condemn passionate discussions. I firmly believe that you should be passionate about the topics for which you’d advocate. However, to conduct a passionate discussion in the absence of rational thought does everyone a disservice.
Understanding my reaction
As I mentioned above, I honestly can’t remember what we discussed. However, I do remember that my responses were irrational and emotional. And, for whatever it’s worth, I knew at the time when I was participating in that conversation that I did so irrationally and emotionally. Hours later, once I calmed down, I reflected upon that animated discussion.
I quickly concluded that I was in the wrong; I browbeat my friend simply because I felt threatened and wanted to feel better. I am filled with guilt for doing it; I won’t try to excuse it. However, to correct my mistake, I need to understand why I did it. At the time, I did not understand why I reacted irrationally and emotionally.
I eventually pieced it all together. Ironically, the answer didn’t come to me as I thought about it. It came to me as I reflected on how I felt about it. My responses were reflective, almost visceral. Though that reaction was deeply familiar, and here is its origin.
My deep history with my sister
I have two sisters. One is a year younger, and the other is four years older. I get along fabulously with my kid sister; we even shared an apartment in college. We even graduated on the same day with engineering degrees. While I don’t agree with her about everything, we continue to respect each other. Our relationship evolved from childhood siblings to adults. I’m deeply grateful for that.
My relationship with my older sister is much more complicated. We all grew up straddling three cultures: Cantonese, American, and Puerto Rican. Similarly, we were all bullied for being whatever flavor of minority we were. Furthermore, we grew up pulled in three different directions, trying to adhere to conflicting cultural standards. Most imagine that, having grown up in a similar environment, we would react similarly to the same set of circumstances. We don’t.
My natural inclination to the bullies that tormented me was to fight back, or at very least to resist. Even when I didn’t work up the courage to confront those bullies, I knew that they were ultimately wrong about me. I cannot understand the inclination to assimilate with them. To embrace those who mocked me is completely incomprehensible. Why would I make myself smaller so that they could feel bigger? Though that was her inclination.
We do not even agree about my name. She continues to call me “Frankie.” I have never said that this was okay. I keep asking her to call me by my name. It’s not as if she does it with malice; she forgets. Though it’s clear she doesn’t see me as an adult, but instead as her teenage brother. We’re stuck.
Guilty by association
I can’t tell you precisely what led me to project my sister onto my friend. It may be because they’re both Chinese. I might’ve detected similar body language. It could’ve been something as subtle as the inflection in a particular phrase or word. The answer to the “why” almost doesn’t matter. What matters is that I now understand that this is precisely what I did.
I reflect upon this as a moment of personal growth. It’s like suddenly finding the map to your emotional minefield, or at least a corner of it. The next time I can feel myself drifting into this mode, I can pull back. I’m not suggesting that any of us should abstain from feeling emotions, far from it. However, I can eliminate the Pavlovian response to a bell ringing.
With that said, I’m a big believer in Brené Brown’s Anatomy of Trust, with the BRAVING acronym. Today, I’ll be talking about the ‘A’ for accountability. The description for this one is extraordinarily simple:
Accountability
You own your mistakes, apologize, and make amends.
Naturally, this couldn’t be a genuine moment of personal growth without the other ‘A’ word. That word would be ‘apology’.
The Apology
The following day, my friends and I gathered the way we always do for lunch. Once we were all seated around the table, I turned to the friend whom I had targeted at that prior lunch. I apologized to her for the way in which I responded to her, which was completely unfair and unwarranted. Subsequently, I apologized to the remainder of our friends for subjecting them to my behavior. I eventually explained how I pieced together what led me here. I aspired to do better; I aspired to be better.
As I gauged their reactions, I don’t know if their expressions spoke more of surprise or confusion. I think some considered it unnecessary; friends will always have points of friction. However, I know that friendships can wear thin from cracks like this. The Japanese have a tradition called Kintsugi, where they repair broken pottery with lacquer and gold. It elevates something that may be flawed and imperfect, but still beautiful.
I don’t remember officially getting as far as the ‘make amends’ section, but I’d like to think that I managed to repair the damage that I caused. I’m extraordinarily lucky to call them my friends.