Whenever I go out to eat with a group of people I like to see what they do with their arms. Table and chair levels can cause frustration aplenty if arms have to be elevated above a natural elevation. How do people use their cutlery? Are there schools of approach when it comes to which hand should wield the fork, the knife, the spoon? What do one’s arms do when they are done and wait for the others to finish?
I was raised on a set of table manners that were meant to domesticate my Turkish and more primal way of eating. In rural Germany, Abendbrot was eaten with fork and knife. We were taught the rules and then asked “What would Merkel say if she were eating with us?”. We were young and didn’t particularly care for Angie, so the theoretical source of judgement was changed to Obama.
The most important thing I notice is elbow positioning. Even in the semi-strict and weirdly Anglo-judgemental summer scrans, we were not judged on our elbow positioning. We were protestants, after all. But as other cultures (especially catholicism) started to permeate my peculiar bubble, I started to notice some other rules they were trained against as a child. The most striking to me was: NO ELBOWS ON THE TABLE!
It is apparently disrespectful. Who am I to judge? I was told by my grandfather if you placed the knife’s sharp edge looking at your neighbor, that meant you wanted them dead. That is far weirder. But the elbows on the table has consistently taken up real estate on my mind for some reason. When I am out with a partner, a friend, a colleague it always comes to mind. Are my elbows on the table? Why do I care?
While not particularly religious, I have a respect for the many quirks and ideas presented in different beliefs. This ranges from a very high-level appreciation for disparate individuals coalescing under a central cause to the relinquishment of arrays of modern living out of dedication - commitment to the bit.
I try not to enforce the strict ideals I once had imprinted on me to other people. When a prior partner used different hands for cutlery, I found it charming; I felt I had found someone who mirrored me. I always fondly dreamt of days where I would cook for them and I would set the table so our utensil-side preferences were thought before.
Letting go of the past has been hard. Not just the past that happened, but also the future I had dreamt of in the past. Things change, people lose you, rocks and hard places, but the sun will rise tomorrow (this sentence could be a summary of Watertown).
One of the things that I have been trying to shake off from the past is a lack of caring. A defense mechanism that once had been paramount to me, was something that one night in Zurich I decided to give up. It had isolated me far too much. And no matter how many times I had listened to “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot” I never felt as good as when I heard the refrains in “Rock ’n’ Roll Suicide”.
I felt the nonchalance was a form of pride. It had torn me from people, not anyone in particular, just the grander everyone. I always had a love of being myself, but the lack of passion and care I showed to the outer world had completely isolated myself.
It took me a year to connect. From the ashes of pride rose love. Looking back I am (ironically) proud that I had not gone sin-hopping. From my internal pride that kept me from opening to people, keeping my brain safe; I had done hard work to open up, talk about my fears, be vulnerable. ’Tis a shame that a similar transition was not possible for the other half.
In my eyes, pride was a way of masking. Of thinking you were holier than thou to hide your fears, pain; a blanket of safety - albeit one covered in holes. One can live an entire existence under this charade, but I was not going to let myself be that way.
Love, as its foil is frightening. Love (lost) will tear you apart, humble you down to your core and make you feel worthless. It strips you of everything to a point where you yearn for the blanket of safety. But it is long gone at this point. You were spit out by someone who saw you in your most vulnerable and it is now your responsibility to build you up bricky by brick.
So why did I want to go from pride to love? Why go through the gruel if torment is behind every door?
I always felt that core to the human existence is a choice between the calm and the torrent. The calm will keep you at ease and is greatly valued, but should not be permanent. The storm is what gets you to your destination, not waiting at shore.
I would always want to be remembered as someone who tried: did the risky, the hard, the daring thing to push themselves. I believe this shift in my approach will lead me to the place I want, knowing full well that there is doubt, suffering and uncertainty en route.
While I have plans for the next steps I will take, I will be grounded in love and not pride - passion over insouciance.
I will always think of the Catholics when I think of pride, manners, elbows. The people close to me have heard me say “The Catholics were right about one thing” dozens of times, maybe not understanding that I was referring to the original sin. But no matter what, pride will not be the death of me and I will hope love will not get me killed.