WHAT WOULD BARACK DO?
By Joan Steinau Lester
When I arrived at my gym a few mornings ago at 7am, the noise was deafening. Nearly every machine was occupied. Jumbled music blasted from ceiling speakers, and dozens of conversations bounced off the walls. I covered my ears for a moment, then jumped on an elliptical trainer and figured I'd deal with the sound after a good cardio start. Twenty minutes later, dripping sweat, I hopped off long enough to run to the back of the room and notch the music button lower. I happily scooted back onto the elliptical, and for a full minute luxuriated in the barely audible sound. My shoulders relaxed. Until I saw Suzie, the heavily eyelined employee who always seems to be filing her nails while new members stumble through the maze of machines. She was headed toward the back wall. Sure enough, she turned the volume to the max. "Suzie!" I called across the room and made a thumbs-down sign. She rolled her eyes, turned, and lowered the sound. But two loudly chatting women near her called, "Turn it up!"
"Some-one--" Suzie jerked her head in my direction, "doesn't like it." She frowned.
"Me," I waved my hand, deciding not to hide in the crowd.
"Wear a head-set," one of the women yelled.
"I don't have one."
"Wear ear plugs." She shook her head and scowled before beginning to pull up on the bicep curl.
Just then, Suzie and another staff member, Tim, wandered by the side of the room where I was still running in place. "Why is the music low?" Tim asked.
Suzie turned her head away from me. "Some fuss budget wants it down." Suzie imagined, I think, that I could not hear her. "But majority rules, so--" she turned back toward me. "I'm going to turn it up." And so she did. Way up.
The heavy beat pounded against my temples; the unintelligible cries scraped my eardrums. I happen to love music--my music, that is: R and B, soul, 70s rock. Not these unfamiliar twenty-first century screams and jackhammer rhythms. I've never heard one song from my era at the gym, despite its Boomer membership.
Still, I kept moving my legs, wiping perspiration from my neck, my forehead.
I was humiliated. That little bitch, I thought. I'm not going to come any more on the shifts Suzie works. I'll switch to a Monday, Wednesday, Friday schedule. I'm not going to subject myself to this rude treatment. I fumed on, propelling my legs. Or this deafening sound.
But those days are not as convenient. Why should I let her control my schedule? No, I decided angrily, I'm going to tell her: "I insist on being treated respectfully. I don't like the way you rolled your eyes, or called me fussy. That's unacceptable." But as I pictured our confrontation, my heart beat faster and faster. How could I handle this differently? How could I bring harmony to the situation? I was at a loss.
Suddenly, the image of Barack Obama came to me. On the debate stage he's been called out, again and again. He debated a primary opponent who insisted he wasn't "qualified" to be Commander in Chief, while the Republican candidate--and she--were. Now he appears on stage beside a rival who condescends in front of millions, impugning his patriotism, his intelligence ("you don't understand"), his ability to lead. But Obama does not say to John McCain, nor did he to Hillary, "I insist you treat me respectfully." He doesn't cite the patronizing behavior; instead, he graciously shakes his opponents hands, honoring his rivals. He demonstrates respect by focusing on the issues at hand, not allowing himself to get distracted. If he can take that kind of public crap and keep his cool, I thought, so can I. But what would he do now?
Finally I took a deep breath and strode to the front desk where Suzie sat. "I don't want a war with you," I opened.
"More people wanted the music up." She eyed me suspiciously.
"I know, that's why I didn't object." I smiled.
"So why do you want a war with me?"
"No, I said I don't want a war with you."
"Oh."
"I want to work it out."
In a flash, I saw her sarcastic face loosen. "Oh," Suzie said again, looking bewildered, but not displeased.
"I want to work it out," I repeated.
"Well," she offered, "they've left now, so I could turn the music down a little. And you know, where you were, over by the cardio, that's the loudest place. The speakers are right over you." She pointed.
"That explains a lot," I said. "I didn't know that. I walked in and thought I'd die from all the noise." I shook my head.
We chatted for several more minutes, while I was giving thanks in an entirely new way for Obama's leadership.
The impact of modeling is profound. Until I actually saw a fresh way of negotiating conflict in the face of far worse provocations than the one that set me off, I could have read about nonviolent resolution for years--in fact I have--but not think of it in the heat of the moment.
This morning I drove to the gym at 6:15. On my way I vowed I'd accept whatever music was playing. When I walked in, there was Suzie at the desk, flipping the pages of a magazine. And the music, lightly drifting from the speakers, was Love Train, the 1973 O'Jay's hit. People all over the world, join hands/ Start a love train, love train/ People all over the world, join hands/ Join a love train, love train.
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