Namaste
When my daughter Claire was about three, following my taking her along to a psychiatry staffing at Richardson Medical Center, we went for a quick bite at nearby Luby’s Cafeteria – our table floating in the usual Luby’s sea of blue-haired, frowny-faced, oh-so-disapproving (it was if they all had “the blues”) church ladies. The stage was set…
Our meal was without incident until, out of the blue, Claire looked up from her chicken nuggets and declared – horrifically too loudly – “Daddy, I wanna FUCK!” (This was her attempted pronunciation of “Daddy, I want a fork” – hers having dropped off our table onto the floor, unknown to me.) Whereupon…
You could hear a pin drop, like in the old E.F. Hutton stock brokerage TV commercials (“When E.F. Hutton talks, people listen”), as all jaws within earshot of Claire silently dropped like hot potatoes, in unison, as if on cue!
In that moment, Luby’s easy-listening background music might well have transformed and amplified into “Theme from ‘Jaws’” in which shark-simulating bass fiddles, cellos, trombones and a tuba jointly grind out a chilling, suspenseful “duunnn duun… duuuunnnn duun!”
Our table now floated perilously like a life raft in shark-infested waters! “Let us prey!” was written all over those frowny faces! Schools of church ladies glared at me with mouths agape, but without love agape, each searching for the most biting disapproving words…, each wondering who among them might cast the first stone… If only Saturday Night Live’s renowned Church Lady, played by Dana Carvey, could have been there to bellow out on their behalf, “Could it be… SATAN?!”
(Duunnnnnnn DUN DUN! DUN! DUN! DUN! DUN! DUN! DUN! DUN! DUN!!!)
If looks could have killed, I would have been shark-shredded into tiny tenders on the spot! – while Claire munched contentedly on hers, oblivious to what she had wrought.
Well, as a psychologist (thankfully, none of the ladies were my clients), it was my duty to set things aright! It was time for intervention! It was time for clarification of Claire’s obfuscation!
“Oh!” I cheerily declared to her (but primarily of course to the ladies), “you want your FORK, which dropped on the floor! Is that right?” [as I pointed to my own fork and reminded her of how to affirm “yes” with a head nod].
The day was saved: Claire nodded affirmatively, uttering an audible “uh huh,” and I speedily got her a new fork. As the ladies still appeared to be savoring their disdain, however, I closed the deal with: “You know, when we get home, Mommy and I are going to work with you some more on how to say ‘fork.’” To which Claire replied: “OK.”
Upon transferring her uneaten tenders to a to-go box, we took our leave of Luby’s, and I’ve got to tell you: on our way out, that easy-listening background music never sounded so good! So good, in fact, that there ignited in me a flame of agape love for all the loving Spirits who – unknown to those church ladies – indwelled them, behind those frowny face masks. On Claire’s and my way home, I heard myself offer a heartfelt “Namaste” to deaf ears.
