Benjamin Gerritsz. Cuyp:
Joseph interpreting the dreams of the baker and the butler (1630)

" … just like everybody else."

My daughter Heidi, gone nearly three years now, worked as a teacher and interpreter, performing simultaneous translations for patients and plaintiffs unfamiliar with English. Her career focused precisely on what we all engage in, if less explicitly, for we are always Interpreting whatever we witness. No experience comes pre-interpreted for our convenience, and it's probably for the worst that we grow complacent over time, even losing the sense that we are Interpreting when it's all we ever do. Heidi complained of fierce headaches after a day of intentionally Interpreting. I sometimes register the same complaint. I often feel as though I never learned how to interpret and that I generally make a hash out of my attempts.

I am a particularly inept mind reader. I often have trouble reading my own mind. I realize I expend much of my internal dialogue energy guessing others’ intentions and assessing underlying meanings. For the volume of processing I perform, I receive a meager rate of return. Those times when I feel most confident I understand tend to be those moments I later learn I was baffled again. The correlation between feeling I understand and confirming understanding seems painfully slight. I am still learning to consider my interpretations tentative since so few of them have proven authoritative.

In my defense, weak though it might seem, I can declare that I long ago adopted an antidote to my inevitably inept Interpreting. If I could only remember to deploy it more frequently, it would doubtlessly save me considerable trouble. I consider this one of my Ethical Responsibilities, given the frequency with which I make erroneous Interpretations. I insist that I hold the Ethical Responsibility to make The Most Generous Possible Interpretations in the absence of better information. Better information almost always seems absent. If I'm interpreting Hitler's intentions, historical precedent allows me to go right ahead and make scathing conclusions. If I'm attempoting to interpret my neighbor's behavior, I enjoin myself to stretch and be just as generous as I can imagine. Every alternative interpretation holds the potential to make the situation worse.

I can afford to be this generous. For me not to dispense generosity renders me miserly to the detriment of my own experience. If I can avoid interpreting what might have been ineptness as malice, the resolution of the trespass might be simplified. When I can ascribe what I might have insisted represented intent to ignorance, I retain greater latitude for forging actual understanding. If I don't honestly care about having a relationship with another, the universe still seems better served when I can maintain some civility in my criticism. Those who blithely dismiss others as "assholes" ultimately seem just to discount themselves.

My head aches most days from my Interpreting efforts. Molly, our almost feral cat, and I tussled for over an hour about her disposition this morning. She seemed to want out but insisted on staying in. She actually went out and stayed there for all of three minutes before returning inside to harass me about letting her outside again. I understand that she despises the litter box. I recognize that the cold inhibits her from going outside. We meow at each other, her seeming to chew me out for trying to help. Me, complaining about her yowling. I can accept, if forced to, that she's doing her best. She might not be complaining about her benefactor, but it's difficult for me not to feel underappreciated through the thick of it. We inhabit different universes that seem so similar that we too easily engage in inept Interpreting, just like everybody else.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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