“Even flowers that have thorns?”
“Yes. Even flowers that have thorns.”
In my last job I came to be detested by many of my co-workers, and with good reason. I took this position amid a bitter struggle between the staff and management. Within a month of my hire, the newly formed union had called for a strike.
Humor is my defense. My thorns are the words I use to lighten the situation around me, to make my life more bearable, and not, as it would seem, to entertain others. I know this, because on more than one occasion my humor has brought hurt upon those around me.
I decided that I would join this union, for the sole reason that most of the people in my office were so strongly in support of it. And my boss, though a member of management, had once been a union organizer, and I respected her greatly. Screw my own thoughts on the matter. When surrounded by a majority, only a select few have the courage to stick to their beliefs and face ostracism. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m a coward for the most part.
“Then what good are thorns?”
“Thorns are no good for anything – they’re just the flowers way of being mean!”
A week before the strike, a group of us were sitting around a table eating lunch, trying to have a good time, but fully aware of the looming storm. So I made a joke. A play on words. When the puzzle was complete, the answer, ‘scab,’ was both a point of laughter and a rallying cry against all those who would cross a picket line. Everyone at the table felt better, and I felt like my esteem in their eyes had risen.
Wait. There was one person at the table who didn’t find it so funny. In fact, this person had chosen not to join the union. With a quiet dignity she smiled and finished her lunch.
The courageous thing to do would have been to immediately call out my mistake. To apologize. To let everyone know how sincerely and miserably sorry I felt. To send out a company wide email with the subject line header of ‘Ass’ and a message body of ‘That would be me.’
“Oh, I don’t believe you! Flowers are weak. They’re naïve. They reassure themselves whatever way they can. They believe their thorns make them frightening…Then you think flowers…”
Over two years I slowly began to hate myself more and more for this one incident. When I was a child, a friend and I decided that we would pick on Lane, a little quiet kid who was new to the school. He was very shy and able to answer all the teacher’s questions correctly, but with a funny-sounding voice. So on his first day, Danny and I welcomed him by pushing him from behind all the way home.
I owe Lane tremendously, because he helps get me through the bad times in my own life. When things go wrong, I can always say to myself, ‘This is because of what I did to Lane.’ Because I feel so horribly about it, I wind up enjoying my misery, in the way of the repentant who drives nails into his hand for comfort.
But through my cruelty I always remain somehow faithful. I was one of only a handful of individuals who never crossed the month-long picket line. I joined a committee. I continued to tell jokes, pay my dues and keep my feedback to a minimum.
“No, not at all. I don’t think anything! I just said whatever came into my head. I’m busy here with something serious!”
“Something serious! You talk like the grown-ups!”
And throughout this time, the Union president, who bore the burden of a labor war campaign continued to fight for worker rights. And she was tremendously nice to me. And two years into our contract, when I began to waver, she was supportive.
And when I quit the union, she looked at me as though I were a traitor. The same person who never failed to offer a smile and kind words, this kind woman with librarian glasses now glared and returned my ‘hello’ with silence.
Thank you, Lane. I understand that I still have dues to pay.
quotes from Le Petit Prince
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