His utter joy put my grief to shame.
Sometimes we get so wrapped up in our own lives, problems, worries and hurts that a cocoon develops. This structure is meant to insulate us from harm, but in so doing it isolates us from the world around us. It also traps in the pain. This is never a good thing. At the time, I was entombed in my own grief and self-pity.
Around this time I took a survey for one of the college courses I managed to complete while incarcerated. I was instructed to put a check next to every major life event that I’d experienced within the previous twelve months. Stressful things like death of a friend, death of a family member, divorce, moving to a new city. Each was assigned a numeric value.
When everyone had finished adding up their history of stressors the professor revealed that anyone with a stress number over 100 was at risk for all kinds of physical and psychological maladies due to their extremely high stress level. She encouraged those in that category to take steps to counter the stress because of the potentially unhealthy psychological and physical effects. She recommended seeking out a counselor to talk to and lauded the benefits of deep breathing. My score was nearly four times that–385. I laughed. Deep breathing exercises were not the solution to all my problems.
What I Deserve
I’d suffered too much. It felt like I was losing some psychological war of attrition that the universe had been waging against me. Divorce, deaths, prolonged imprisonment, broken relationships. I was deeply entrenched in my unhealthy mentality. I couldn’t get out of it. I didn’t want to. I was comfortable in my chrysalis of self-loathing and silent lamentation. Mental masochism can be a terribly seductive pastime, especially when we’ve deceived ourselves into thinking that we deserve to suffer. Suffice it to say, I was in a very bad place. It took a blind man to show me the way.
I was working in the chow hall, on the serving line where trays were filled and passed to the unending line of inmates. I’d risen through the ranks swiftly and had the coveted position of tray pusher. I was responsible for controlling the flow of trays. Without me there would be chaos and piles of food on the floor. I’ve always thrived in stressful high-stakes work environments.
This day in particular was burger and fries day, which is cause for celebration for most inmates. I couldn’t have cared less. Joy wasn’t a thing with which I was well acquainted. It probably didn’t help that I’d had to deal with an endless string of threats, insults, and accusations of being “The Police” (pronounced with an exaggerated hard “PO” sound, and a terribly offensive thing for one inmate to say to another) because I wouldn’t put more fries or an extra patty on their tray. No one seemed to care that the four foot eleven tiny tyrant Food Supervisor always at me hip would’ve caught and reprimanded me if I had tried to add a single kernel of corn or extra ketchup packet to the assigned portion.
I was floundering in a mire of my own making. Standing at the front of the serving line, running on autopilot, pushing trays and letting the insults from inmates wash over me while the admonishments from my superior needled my back. Towards the front of the single file stream of inmates making their way to the tray pick up window there was a duo walking side by side, which is a grave violation of policy, and one which is usually met by C/Os yelling and gesticulating like feral idiots. So, naturally their tandem nature caught my attention immediately. It wasn’t until the pair were three people from me that I saw the closest man’s unseeing gaze and noticed that he had the other man’s upper arm in a loose grip to guide him. It was when the blind man asked his aid a question that I received my lesson.
“What are we having?”
“Burgers and fries.”
The blind man’s face blossomed with the purest expression of joy that I could have ever possibly conjured in my most vivid of imaginings. Where there had been merely bland features, life and animation appeared as if conjured by some incantation. Three simple magical words: burgers and fries.
His enthusiastic response wasn’t yelled loudly, but had an emphasis and relish that conveyed how fortunate and blessed he felt to be receiving such a beloved meal. His ability to express such depth of emotion and delight over such a seemingly insignificant event was sobering to me. The experience put a crack in my emotional barricade and forced me to confront my toxic wallowing. It began to nurture a change in perspective within me.
Every good thing is a gift, and should be received with the same awe, joy, and gratitude displayed by children on Christmas morning as they tear at packages to reveal the coveted present they’d been so longing for. This pertains to the clothes on our backs, the music in our ears and hearts, the breathe in our lungs, and the food on our plates to name just a few. In my insular grief I’d lost sight of this truth, and had to be shown the way by the unseeing.
Burgers and fries have that kind of power.
That’s why it’s called a happy meal.