Pathologically Genuine XVI: Lunch with Omar

Although there is a myth that ostriches bury their heads to hide (the myth is a result of creating holes for their eggs in the ground, not to hide), the word has the opposite effect on me.

My book coach gave me an assignment this past week to write a couple of “scenes.” She didn’t define scenes because she wanted me to think it through. I think the exercise was about giving more context and feelings within a single “event.” I wrote two. This is the second one- a scene where I first understood that people can see me as narcissistic. All comments are welcome!

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I have a situational friend, Omar, who was dean of the honors college at UNCG when I was provost. Omar represents what I would like to become when I grow up. He is a brilliant historian who speaks several languages, writes with extraordinary academic skill, teaches with deep care for his students, and somehow manages all of that while helping care for his mother.

He has a trait that my dad had that I truly admire—he is exceptionally curious about people and engages that curiosity in conversation with ease. I have the curiosity but not the ease of engagement unless I am in my role as a faculty member with a student. He is also much better looking than me.

I arrive at a restaurant in Greensboro, Chez Genèse, to meet Omar for lunch. This is one of Omar’s favorite places. Chez Genèse recreates the experience of a small restaurant in Paris, with high ceilings, wood floors, and with plants, decorations, tables and chairs that look like they may have been purchased when the owner visited a café in France. It also wins my heart because it hires employees with cognitive and/or physical disabilities.

I am not particularly excited about going to Chez Genèse, though. The taste and textures of French food are not always consistent with my sensory needs. The menu contains items like a fruit crepe filled not only with fruit but also with Nutella, vanilla crème fraîche, or apricot paste. Just thinking about the texture of those three makes me nauseous. There is also a Croque-Monsieur with hot ham, Gruyère, and béchamel. I never acquired a taste for ham, probably because of being from a Jewish family that didn’t keep kosher but just rarely ate pork and ham. I also don’t like the taste or texture of Gruyère. And béchamel produces the same nauseous reaction I have when I think about apricot paste.

Omar loves the roasted beet salad and orders it to go because he just had some dental work done that morning. I get sensory overloaded just from the name “roasted beet salad.” I end up ordering two scrambled eggs with a baguette. I also order coffee, which is so good I drink several cups.

Conversations with Omar are easy. He leans forward when people speak, as if the most interesting thing in the room is whatever they are about to say. The main reason Omar invites me to lunch is to explore his interest in pursuing a master’s degree in biology. But we haven’t seen each other for a while, so we start by asking each other how we are doing. I am a bit wired from the coffee, and I get pretty revved up telling him about how happy I am in phased retirement, how much I enjoy doing pet therapy with my golden retriever, Brea, and all the places we go.

My brain tends to move faster than my mouth, so I speak at a rapid pace. I don’t finish sentences because my brain is already on to the next topic. I am talking about stuff that I am interested in, so I assume that Omar is equally interested.

When I stop to take a breath, Omar reenters the conversation. He is a gentle person with a very gentle manner of speaking. After waiting for me to finish a sentence, he asks, “Jim, would you like some advice?”

I respond, “Sure!”

I already know that I can get carried away when I am talking. So, I expect the advice to be about that, and I am right. Omar also tells me very gently that I might be better at paying closer attention to him. For example, he suggests that when he says something, I might want to ask a question out of curiosity or just to let him know that I am listening.

He recommends that we agree on a safe word that one of us can say when we want to refocus the conversation. We decide to use the word “ostrich.” Omar also coaches me on how I can refocus the conversation and engage him rather than just stop talking.

As the conversation continues, there are maybe five occasions where Omar gently says “ostrich.” When he does, and I successfully refocus the conversation to engage him, he gently supports me by saying “good job.” I am still very much a sucker of any positive reinforcement. And I am actually enjoying this learning experience a great deal. I even call ostrich on myself a few times as an act of self-awareness. Our conversation remains friendly and fun for the remainder of lunch.

During the conversation, I really enjoy my eggs and the baguette. I am always surprised that something as simple as scrambled eggs can be transformed into an ethereal dining experience by a talented line cook.

We say our farewells with a genuine hug. Although Omar is still a situational friend, not a true friend, it is clear that we like each other a lot. He goes off to the bathroom as I leave the restaurant. I exit and cross the street, still thinking about Omar gently calling “ostrich” whenever I disappeared into my own thoughts.

On the other side of the street is a disabled older man who I wrongly assume is panhandling. I am not that comfortable in urban settings, so I start to take a wide berth. But, then I think of the word “ostrich” and its link to getting out of my head and engaging other people. As I have those thoughts, he asks if I can help him. I nix the wide berth.

It turns out that his motorized wheelchair is stuck and he needs some help turning it around. He has a cane, so he is able to stand up and explain how I can help. He guides me as I reposition the wheelchair where he needs it. He is very grateful for my help, and I feel really good that I am able to solve a problem for him. I also feel embarrassed by my initial reaction to take as wide a berth as possible from him when I cross the street.

My car is halfway down the block. My mind is full of thoughts from my lunch with Omar and my interaction with the disabled man. I think about the many times my wife has told me to stop talking and pay more attention to her and how resistant I am to listening. Of course, when you are married to someone for 27 years, your behavior can get stuck in a pattern. I plan to use the ostrich on my self, or at least think about the word, so I can break the pattern.

I think about how grateful I am to Omar for telling me how he was feeling when I just kept talking, and I am amazed at the gentle way he did so. This makes it so much easier to accept.

As I sit in the driver’s seat of my Hyundai Tucson, I am reminded of a time when my wife told me I am a narcissist in a moment of anger bordering on rage. I truly never feel like the world revolves around me. Instead, I feel like Pluto the day it learned it is no longer a planet. But my conversation with Omar drives my wife’s point home. I recognize for the first time that I can appear narcissistic to others even though I don’t want the world centered on me.

I start my engine and pull out of my parking space. I drive away looking forward to getting back to my office, where I begin researching the relationship between autism and appearing narcissistic, as well as finding ways that I can avoid appearing that way.

Ostrich is now a powerful word for me. Although there is a myth that ostriches bury their heads to hide (the myth is a result of male ostriches creating holes for the female’s eggs in the ground, not to hide), the word has the opposite effect on me. It now causes me to raise my awareness out of my internal sand and back into the world.