Kicked old green teeth right in the knee

I don't like the look of you

Charlie Daniels (RIP) wrote a song back in 1973 called Uneasy Rider. It was a funny take on the regional differences among folks at the time and how looks are the first point of judgement in any encounter with strangers.

Now the last thing I wanted was to get into a fight
In Jackson, Mississippi on a Saturday night
Especially when there was three of them and only one of me

They all started laughin' and I felt kinda sick
And I knew I better think of something pretty quick
So I just reached out and kicked old green teeth right in the knee…

Charlie Daniels could blur the lines between hippie and redneck like a lot of country rockers back in the day. Inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame, he nonetheless created and performed with Elvis, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, and Ringo Starr.

Musicians aside for a moment—I have a question for you.

Do you judge other people based on their appearance—before they even have a chance to open their mouth and confirm it?

You do—you know you do. I do too. It’s an inevitable part of being human. It is an age-old threat recognition built into our DNA. See the thing. Assess the thing. Fear the thing. Kill the thing. Eat the thing.

Out of 3 possible targets, why did Charlie Daniels choose ‘ole green teeth’ to kick in the knee? Did he perceive that green teeth’s self-esteem might be waning—that he would be the least likely to fight back? Based on what—his green teeth? He doesn’t say.

People look different from us—and to us. Human beings are incredibly diverse in their appearance—whether by race—by custom—by gender—size—by how and who we choose to worship—or merely by the outer attire we choose to drape our meat sacks in.

In many ways we’re much the same—but our outward appearances have too often been used to separate us from each other. The fact that this is true is a testament to the other fact that we’re frightened by those that appear to be different than us. We’re frightened by those that believe differently than we do. Struck terrified by those that live differently than we do. So much so that we want to hurt them—imprison them—kill them. It has always been so.

This fight, flight, or freeze response is ancient in animals and humans. An instant response of our sympathetic nervous system—triggering a massive hormonal response of adrenaline, cortisol, testosterone, and estrogen. Then the other half of the autonomic nervous system—the parasympathetic—kicks in and re-regulates the levels in the body.

In today’s modern world the real threats still exist but are less frequent that our ancestors dealt with. With the exception of the unfortunate and oppressed—and there are millions of them who live in constant fear for their lives—the rest of us merely read about it or see it on our devices. Never mind that the machine wants it this way—likes it this way—when we’re at each other’s throats. But we’re not really—it just seems like we are.

The narrative drives us to extrapolate these horrors that are experienced by others far away into something that might actually happen to us—when of course it likely won’t. We live in a heightened state of free-floating anxiety—and swirl in our social justice causes. We drop hate bombs all over social media to people we’ve never met—never talked to—never lived a life anything like. And nearly 100% of our angst and fear is based on people that look different than we do.

We really can’t help it—and we certainly won’t change it unless we actually have the courage and curiosity to discover that the narrative is a lie.

In younger days—my drinking days—my days of conquest—I had developed a very effective thousand-yard stare. Do not approach. Do not fuck with me. It mostly worked. It wasn’t that I was a tough guy—quite the opposite—I was afraid. Afraid of intimacy—afraid of engagement—afraid of being found out. To go along with the look I had a complimentary set of judgments based on first glance. You either made the cut or you didn’t—based on a narrowly-defined and very instant assessment.

Fuck you. Fuck that. Fuck them. Fuck it.

Today I’m more curious. If I judge myself fairly, I’d say I’m kinder. I recognize my privilege as an educated adult born of a white family in the greatest century of the greatest country in the world. I also recognize pain—sadness—grief—and heartache. I’ve lived part of my life hand to mouth—couch-surfing and stealing groceries. I’ve recovered. Putting myself in someone else’s shoes for just an instant seems to help me judge others less vehemently.

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There’s a young woman with her head down low—long, stringy, green hair and lots of face jewelry—cleaning the self-checkout terminals at the grocery store. The machine voice says please put your purchase in the bag over and over each time she touches it with the cleaning rag.

I softly say, I can imagine that voice is a wee bit annoying.

She turns and looks at me with this devilish grin and says you have no idea—I want to kill it.

I retort oooh that’d be fun—we could smash them all and run. But then you’d have to find another job and I’d just go on with my day.

She pauses for a moment and says yeah I need this job—but thanks mister that was fun to think of for a minute.

My walk-off reply was, I appreciate you being here doing your job. Truly.

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Over here is a really skinny dude with acne—bad teeth, greasy hair, and a furtive glance—working the checkout counter at the place where I get my oil changed. As he’s handing me the invoice for my service—I notice he can’t make eye contact with me. I softly say pretty fucking hot today—it’s gotta be miserable back there under the cars.

My recovery spidey-sense is in full alarm mode.

He sniffs yeah—hot as fuck—then looks away this way and that.

I reply, You alright man? Keeping it real? Or moving backwards at the speed of light?

The young man snorts angrily Fuck yeah living the dream.

I thanked him for the work and slipped a $20 across the counter to him get a meal or a 12-pack on me. He regarded me as an alien—or maybe a cop—as I walked away.

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There’s a rather round-shaped, middle-aged white guy with a leather Harley vest over a wife-beater—a ruddy face—and a MAGA hat—anchoring a stool at the end of the bar.

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The face on the server—with her hair pulled back tight in a severe bun—is so angry that I’m afraid to ask her anything—but she’s standing between me and my meal.

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He gets out of his Subaru in the Whole Foods lot—rear window adorned with the Imagine Whirled Peas and CoExist bumper stickers—and strides purposefully towards the door in his Birkenstocks—clutching his reusable green grocery bags.

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I observe the behavior of others in these moments—and examine my own. Opportunities to do something different—and kind—in many moments throughout the day.

An otherwise mildly irritating act by someone who you’ve instantly judged to be that person—or that person—quickly escalates to a heinous crime. That woman over there becomes that fucking loony bitch with the armpit hair. As if…

A single dad struggling with his shopping cart and trying to corral his children becomes this fucking no good, weed-smoking, deadbeat dad dickhead is going to single-handedly ruin Christmas, the climate, and my marriage. As if…

Instant judgment based solely on appearance leads to frowns, snarls, eye-rolls—or worse.

I try to imagine what the Iroquois felt when they first saw these hungry strange men in silly costumes and pasty skin alight unsteadily from their ship. Imagine what the German settlers bearing several generations’ worth of righteousness and belongings thought when they saw the Lords of the Plains galloping towards their children.

Imagine the shock—really the awe—the European Jews felt when confronted with the reality of the sheer evil incarnate represented in Nazi soldiers.

What did the Egyptians, Babylonians, and Greeks think when thousands of Xerxe’s ships landed on their shores?

You get the idea. It is deep inside our DNA to be afraid of others who are different. It all starts with the appearance. Why wait to find out who this person is—or what they might offer—when I’m 99% sure based on history and culture that they’re bad?

My loving bride Ann puts up with my many idiosyncrasies—including my propensity to strike up a conversation with the most sullen, forlorn, ragged and otherworldly strangers. I do approach with caution always practicing good situation awareness. Where are their hands? What’s in them? What’s behind and beside us? It’s not like I roll up on these people—no one likes that. Once the instant checklist is done—I love striking up a chat. Generally, the folks are working in a place that we’re eating or shopping or having a service completed. But occasionally it’s on the street. It’s my way of assessing any level of risk. It’s also a way of disarming any pre-judgment coming back at me from them—if they’re even paying attention. Here comes the happy little white couple all full of entitlement and expectation—here we go.

Not so.

What I’ve found in my oral adventures is that there are teachers everywhere. Just last night as Ann and I were having a simple Mexican food meal at a favorite local joint—our waitress came up to the table singing along with the house music.

I said, wow we get serenaded along with great food?

She laughed and said I sing to keep me from thinking about work—and about the other many things I think about all the time. You know those thoughts?

Ann and I both laughed, do we ever!

The book of Mark, Chapter 12 tells the Parable of the Wicked Tenants. In the key verses 29-31, Jesus is addressing a group of scribes who have asked him what the most important of the commandments is, Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second of these is to love your neighbor as yourself. No other commandment is greater than these.

I’m not naive. I know there is nothing harder. I don’t care what your belief system is—or what religion you do or don’t practice—there is not one thing harder than loving your neighbor as yourself.

There will not be a friendship coming out of these encounters. I will likely never see these people again. The point is we had a moment together. I like to think I brightened one person’s day and maybe changed their pre-conception of an old bald white dude—for just a minute.

That’s all we really have—one moment at a time.

Peace.