Sharon Smith: The problem with first impressions

Purple hair, black clothing and multiple piercings on a surly-looking teenage girl with a skateboard on a newly paved parking lot. “Hmmm,” my conservative self instantly stereotyped. “I know exactly the type. Gruff. Disrespectful of authority. Likely to key my car if it’s in the way of her skateboard.” Nevertheless, I smiled and waved. She stared back, eyes narrowing.

A few days later I saw her again. I gave a halfhearted smile and a sloppy wave. This time she smiled and waved back. Wow, I thought. My stereotype is deflating faster than a pin-pricked balloon.

The third time I saw her, she was with a friend, skateboard under her arm. They were carefully and intentionally skirting the field where a flock of migrating Canada geese were resting, so as not to disturb the tired birds. She and her friend had chosen the long way around, something I had also done a few minutes earlier. She waved from across the field and so did her friend.

In my three interactions with this young lady no words were exchanged, nothing other than glances, smiles, and waves, and yet I found that I had prejudged someone, only to find delight in a kindred spirit and a bond in a common love for the natural world.

Apparently I hadn’t learned my lesson with the teenager, because then there was Charlie. Charlie was in a meeting I attended and he couldn’t stop talking. At first I was patient, because Charlie is in his eighties, and he has a slow, folksy way of speaking.

But Charlie kept talking. He didn’t just talk slowly, he talked long — going on and on and on and on and on about trivialities, with numerous detours before he got to his convoluted point. The moderator of the meeting was extremely patient with Charlie, but his body language indicated he was losing patience.

Somehow, he restrained himself and let Charlie continue to drone on. I started staring out the window and looking at the ceiling with the hope that Charlie would notice how bored everyone was becoming. 

But no, of course Charlie did not notice, so intent was he on telling how his morning coffee was brewed, followed by a graphic blow-by-blow description of how his key got stuck in his door, and then the mailman arrived, and what was in the mail today? Only a few advertisements, and then he set down his favorite coffee mug on the table and then decided he should put it in the dishwasher… and so on and on and on and on.

That morning, listening to Charlie, I learned what eternity feels like. Finally, the meeting moderator interrupted — Thank God! I silently rejoiced. But, no, he was just gently steering Charlie back to his main point. Mercifully, Charlie was almost done and finished his soliloquy 10 minutes later.

Later, the story came out. I learned that Charlie had recently lost his wife and had no one to talk to. Again, my stereotype deflated like a tent collapsing when the center pole gave way. As with the purple-haired teenager, I had been quick to stereotype, quick to judge, when there was more to the story.

I wonder how many other stories I have gotten wrong: people I’ve dismissed or misunderstood or labeled without really knowing what’s going on. The purple-haired teen and Folksy Charlie have no way of knowing what they’ve given me to think about, but I think that’s how my best insights arrive: not with a grandiose revelation, but with a wave across a field or a very long story about a coffee mug.

— The Rev. Sharon Smith is pastor at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church and a work in progress when it comes to first impressions. She enjoys writing, teaching and discovering her “growth areas.”