Lessons on Listening at Detroit Metro...

Theresa is a rotund woman of simple intelligence. She munches on mini-Ritz sandwich crackers as she tries twice to strike up a conversation. I am watching the Mormons congregate with their baby strollers around the ticket counter in Detroit, which has become part of my annual pilgrimage back home to Idaho, via Salt Lake City. For a large woman Theresa has a dainty way of brushing the Ritz crumbs from her lap, like a far different kind of woman might smooth the pleats of her tailored trousers. Despite my standoffish posture and lips that are naturally shaped like a frown, she's determined to strike up a conversation. A slight shift of my eyes in her direction starts the sweet, lilting small talk. I feel guilty that it grates on me like microphone feedback. It's not her fault that flying exposes the mood I call "generally pissy". I have a lot on my mind. She's on her way to Colorado to see her daughter who just had her second child. Her first child's unexpected arrival is apparently what landed her in Colorado with her boyfriend who makes a "darn good living" in the oil fields. She says that she loves those babies so much and can't wait to see them. I feel like Theresa is worried. I assume it's the daughter's "sitch", or then perhaps the next narrative which enlightens me on her son (the high school football player) who has torn his rotator cuff and might not get to play for the rest of the season. But she is just thankful that he'll be o.k. and it's not the end of the world. She sits straight and her voice gets stronger when she mentions her older son. He gives her reason to worry, as he's currently stationed in Iraq. Theresa is visibly very proud. When he came back from basic training he would take the garbage out and say "hi" to the elderly neighbor without even being reminded. He called recently (a little down) to tell her that he misses the way she used to get up early to make his breakfast when he worked at the gas station. He tells her not to worry, that he isn't seeing much action. She thinks he's lying. Just when I know that she sure has her share of worry, she says that her husband has just been laid off from General Motors. She rustles in her seat and folds her arms when she explains that she can't understand why he lost his job but "them fancy executives who make the decisions sure didn't." Her husband is a big, quiet man who worked in a transmission plant. She's worried that he'll forget his heart medication while she's gone, even though she put sticky notes on his boots. I can picture him hunched quietly over his pot roast in the evening, somehow comforted by the hum of Theresa describing her day of volunteering at the book fair. Similarly, I find a strange comfort in hearing about her common (yet profound) life struggles. I am lost in this thought when I notice she has stopped talking. I inwardly chastise my manners for seeming distracted and am about to invite her to continue when she fastidiously folds up the bag of Ritz, looks around nervously, and confesses that she's a little nervous about fitting into her seatbelt. I reassure her that she should be fine, but that she can just snag herself an extension from the front if she's worried. She seems comforted by this and explains that the hormones she's taking have really caused her to put on weight. I make a self-disparaging comment about not needing the help of hormones and she laughs; I'm glad. She doesn't ask about me, nor do I volunteer. But she looks at me knowingly for a moment and apologizes for carrying on. I tell her I've enjoyed listening, and I have. I realize I don't do it often enough.

It's grand to have been brought into the world having so much to say. It's even quite fun to have the bold confidence to say it in ways that make others want to listen; laugh and be entertained. And I suppose it's easy to assume that we who speak freely and loudly, with wildly waving arms and cartoon expressions have the world by the tail. And sometimes I think we just might. :) But sitting there (albeit with initial reluctance) listening to Theresa made me think about the extroverted politicians and decision makers all over the world who are pontificating on these same issues: Iraq, the economy, parenting, health. I wonder if they, too, have sometimes failed to stop and listen. Hell, while I’m on my cloud of infinite possibilities, what would happen if they were here listening to Theresa as she brushes the crumbs off her lap?

There was something lasting about that melancholic moment in Detroit Metro, surrounded by screaming babies, hearing about sacrifice and struggle from someone who steadfastly forges through her life for her family. I don't know if Theresa's son made it back from Iraq, or how her younger son's rotator cuff healed up. I'm not sure if her quiet husband is somewhere building a hell of an American made transmission, or if her daughter is doing o.k. in Colorado with the two babies. I truly hope fate smiled on all of those things; but somehow, regardless, I think Theresa's alright. And we will be too.