Potlucks, Short Guy, and Being Human
“Only if we are secure in our beliefs can we see the comical side of the universe.”
One of the many things I look forward to when all this pandemic business is over is a good, old-fashioned potluck. I love them. Especially if the organizer remains true to the spirit of the potluck. None of this “A-H brings salads and I-Z brings desserts!” I don’t know if it’s the wee bit of Irish blood in my veins but I really prefer to throw caution to the wind and just enjoy the serendipity of it all. As I have been known to say, “I have only been to one potluck that didn’t work out.” However, that is all I have ever shared about that particular, fateful potluck. I think, after 25 years, I’m ready to reveal the details.
It was in my third year of university that my friend, Shannon, invited me to a potluck that she and her roommates were planning. I was looking forward to it but also feeling a pinch of social anxiety. While Shannon and I were kindred spirits and had spent a summer working in the Yukon, I didn’t really know most of her friends and roommates. By the tender age of 22, I had almost perfected a confident exterior, but inside I was craving a community of people where I could be myself.
Shannon’s friends, like Super-Cool-Maggie, seemed nice but were also pretty happening with funky outfits and smart university brains. What would happen when they found out that behind my quasi hippie exterior I was just a girl with a redneck father who grew up on an acreage called “Sore Ass Lodge.” There was actually a sign with letters burnt into wood, made by my Dad, and hung outside our house. I grew up on moose meat and ran around, barefoot and feral until I hit puberty. How could I possibly fit in with this crowd who probably had Shakespeare read to them at bedtime and were tenth-generation university graduates?
It was some comfort that our mutual friend, Yukon Dan, would be at the gathering. Dan was from the Yukon, thus the nickname, and he was loved by everyone who met him. He was warm, real, and a tough-as-nails rugby player. He would always pause to talk to friends he met on campus, looking them in the eye and never in a rush. And it just so happened that Yukon Dan was also short. He just barely made 5 feet but it wasn’t something you really thought about. I ran into him a few days before the looming potluck and we chatted for a bit. For some reason, our conversation turned to the fact that he literally only ever wore shorts. I asked him about this and Dan laughed and simply stated that being from the Yukon, he never felt cold, even in our south coast winters. That was it. No big deal. We parted, mentioning that we would see each other at Shannon’s, and went our separate ways.
I can’t actually remember what I brought to the potluck but I know it was something chocolate because, well, everyone brought something chocolate. Brownies, chocolate mousse, chocolate cake, chocolate cookies, chocolates. Oh, yes, and one fine young university man brought a box of Alpha-Bits. So that was it. Chocolate desserts, Alpha-Bits, and about 20 hungry students. As we were laughing about our bizarre supper and deciding how many desserts we could potentially eat on an empty stomach without getting sick (I can distinctly remember that I decided against the Alpha-Bits), I found that I was beginning to feel at ease with this new group of people. And then Yukon Dan arrived.
Of course, Dan entered the cozy kitchen to exuberant welcomes: “Hey Dan!” And “Yukon Dan!” If only I had followed suit… if only. I paused from selecting my dessert and yelled, “HEY SHORT GUY!”
Did I really say that? Breathe. Don’t puke. Breathe. Yes, the sudden silence and surprised looks confirmed that I had, in fact, just insulted the most liked guy on campus. My mind raced for, what felt like, minutes as I considered how to escape. But I’m sure it was less than ten seconds before Yukon Dan roared with laughter and he quickly related our conversation earlier in the week about his choice of apparel. Shorts guy. Not short guy. A small but crucial difference.
Instead of escaping, I had no choice but to stay. The horrifyingly embarrassing moment had led to a lot of laughter and several people introducing themselves to me. Once again, my embarrassment had made others more at ease and ready to open up about funny stories of their own. Dan and I sat for a while having a great conversation, over brownies and beer, about human folly and foibles. As it turned out Super-Cool-Maggie ended up being Down-to-Earth-Maggie and we made the discovery that her Uncle Jimmy was one of my Dad’s best friends! Jimmy was a legend of East Vancouver and one of the most colourful characters to make up the cast of my childhood. We both had wild redneck skeletons in our closets. I chatted with a few more people that night and realized that they were just human. Some had great haircuts. Some did not. Some had interesting outfits, others just simple jeans and t-shirts. Some were funny and others were soft-spoken and sweet.
The lesson I learned at the time was that nobody cared about my pedigree or how hippie my hemp necklace was. But looking back I can see much more. In a society that has become increasingly quick to either elevate or dismiss people by throwing them into a category, I think we need to be reminded that people are people. They are not cardboard cutouts or memes. They deserve neither your worship nor your derision. People are complicated. Yes, my Dad was a redneck but he could also quote poetry (albeit Robert Service) and was a gourmet cook who introduced our little bumpkin palates to the likes of curry and pesto before that was a thing on grocery store shelves or take-out.
As online shaming and mocking have become the norm, I understand the urge to wrap ourselves into a cozy bubble before we lash out at the “other” with a sassy remark or snide judgment. After all, they probably just made fun of our category. While I do believe there is a place for debate and discussion it is useless if we set out to “destroy their argument” before we have humanized our opponents as another who has been made in the image of God.
At this point in my life, I am pretty sure I am past being concerned about what people think of my outfit or worried that they might find out that I don’t mind the taste of Lucky Lager. I do, however, struggle to not feel threatened when I hear an attack on my faith or ideologies and am tempted to respond with judgment or mockery. There is a Proverb that has become a challenge to me: “A fool takes no pleasure in understanding, but only in expressing his opinion.” 18:2 This is what I long for. To be neither impressed by slick arguments nor crushed with disappointment by those that counter mine. But to seek to understand another human being.
So when all this craziness is over, bring on the potlucks and the rednecks and the academics and the neighbors. Let’s talk and laugh and ask questions. I want to keep reminding myself that people are three-dimensional and are worthy of my time. I also hope to never again be at a potluck with only chocolate desserts.
