Because You Never Asked

DISTINGUISHED PEOPLE

(5/07, Spain)

     We often hear someone referred to as a “distinguished person”. There is something in their presence, their bearing, the way they carry and present themselves, that defines them as such. Without even trying (if they had to, it would preclude them having it), they impose a kind of respect that others immediately feel and react to. They seem to carry an aura with them that is more felt than seen.

     One of the nicest things anyone ever said about me is related to this concept. Before telling that story, some background is necessary.

     The Spanish writer Juan Jose Millas has appeared in these pages before in the form of a translation of one of his newspaper articles (see essay, “Suicide, Guantanamo Style”). Millas, for those who haven’t read the referred essay, is one of Spain’s eminent satirists, his regular newspaper column being syndicated throughout the country. Like many of Spain’s foremost journalists, he is also a first rate novelist. His latest is called “Laura and Julio”, and it captured my utmost attention from the very first words. I cannot further expound upon this novel because, as I write, I’ve only read 20 pages of it. But there have already been a few passages that so resonated with me, they became the embryos for this essay. They now sit next to the notebook I am writing in, scratched onto a small piece of paper ripped from a notepad. I would normally underline the material, but the book was loaned to me by another person who has appeared in these pages, my literary guru in Spain, the Catalan gentleman, Pepin Mari. No distinguished person would ever consider scribbling into another’s book.

     The novel in question revolves around a young married couple, Laura and Julio, and an enigmatic neighbor named Manuel, who lives in the apartment next door. Manuel is a bohemian type who refers to himself as a writer, although he is still to write anything. Over the course of 2 years, he becomes a fixture in the married couple’s apartment. His magnetic personality begins to be an essential facet of Laura and Julio’s life together.

     And then, boom, he is involved in a serious accident and left clinging to life in a coma. The authorities find a note saying they should contact Laura and Julio in case of emergency. This having been done, they soon realize, in spite of the close relationship that’s been forged, they know virtually nothing about Manuel. They have no clues as to next of kin or who to contact until Julio remembers Manuel once said his father was a diplomat. He informs the Foreign Ministry. Two days later he is waiting for the father to arrive at the hospital.

     And this is where the aforementioned resonant phrases appeared.

     Obviously, Julio had no idea as to what Manuel’s father would look like, but he recognized him from a “100 meters away”, not because of their discernible physical likeness, but from the way he carried himself and interacted with the world around him. There was a “distinction” here that had nothing to do with the elegance of the clothes he wore, a wardrobe his son had no vocation for. And yet, it was just this shared  “distinction” that made the father immediately recognizable for Julio. Millas, through the thoughts of Julio, puts it like this:

     “La distincion venia de adentro”. Being distinguished came from within.

     The interlude in the hospital goes on for another page or two. This seemingly innate distinguished quality the father-diplomat exudes so effortlessly, becomes the focus of Julio’s experience that day. I quote some excerpts of Julio’s thoughts as set forth in the novel. “People like Manuel and his father ( … ) they dressed from the inside out. Upon rising in the morning, they first got their emotional side in place, and over this emotional being came the inner organs, and over the inner organs came the muscles, until the final layer, the clothes, came to rest. He, on the other hand, dressed from the outside in, ( … ) hoping that exterior layer of decoration would conjure up an original character, a unique thought, perhaps an unusual way of confronting the world.”

     Whereas Julio dressed in order to try and be distinctive, the clothes of Manuel and his father were little more than the outer appendages of their natural distinction. Julio tried to make his clothes the vehicle of who he hoped to be; the clothes of Manuel and his father were the result of who they were.

     One would be challenged to find a person who did not want to be considered a “distinguished” person, which is just another way to say who others respect and respond to as such a person would want. Millas’ penetration into the soul (remember, it comes from within) of such a person, is illuminating. It explains something we might already have some understanding of, but cannot express clearly to ourselves. He provides the key to open that door.

     But I quarrel with the stingy nature of the great writer’s depiction of this distinguished quality. He seems to suggest, perhaps unconsciously, that the demographic of this quality trait is the almost exclusive province of our upper classes. Manuel’s father is a diplomat, they obviously come from a financially well accommodated lineage, and Millas presents their distinction as a harmonious result of this. It leaves the impression that distinction is mainly a product of this small group.

     Being a “distinguished” person crosses all the barriers we humans have erected in delineating ourselves. Although it might take on different exterior ways of manifesting itself, it could appear at any time amongst any constituency. We might not like to admit it, but we all carry around some residual baggage sprung from an upbringing that defined who you are and who they are. There is a little bit of snob in all of us, meant to stroke our concepts of self worth. We usually enter into contact with others with these almost subconscious prejudices intact. They generally won’t be broken down until we begin to know the inner worth of a person, a process that takes some degree of personal contact.

     That anonymous garbage man you see passing by every third day or so, in his less than elegant, grease stained work clothes, could very well be a “distinguished” person.

     Hopefully, the reader will forgive the following self indulgence as I tell the story I promised near the beginning of this essay, for its relevance in the never ending quest for truth and enlightenment this mass of dubious philosophical patter strives for, is considered reason enough for inclusion, all fears of crass self indulgence aside.

     Not too long ago, a relative of mine visited the town where I live. Upon arrival at the airport, she was forced to use the services of the company I work for. Knowing of such employment, she asked the person she was dealing with if he knew me. I shall call this person Louis, and he is not without his own interesting life story, being a son of the deep south whose lyrical accent and love of football are the only 2 vestiges left from the youth of a man who has transcended a very provincial origin (how‘s that for some subtle prejudice?). As is logical, Louis said he knew me and a brief dissertation ensued.

     Later that day, my relative paraphrased what Louis had told her. He said I was not the kind of person one talked to just to talk --- how ya’ doin’, nice weather, and other such forms of mundane chit chat --- and that he never said anything to me unless he really had something to say, something that mattered.

     I have little money, don’t know how to “dress”, nor do I come from a social class with inherent qualities of distinction, but what Louis said about me has a rather “distinguished” quality … don’t you think?

     Relevant Material: A rich landowner running for political office in Spain’s first elections after Franco‘s dictatorship, offers one of his poor agricultural workers 25 pesetas if he will vote for him. The “peon” throws the coins at the owner’s feet and exclaims, “con mi propia hambre, mando yo!” With my own hunger, I rule! From the novel, “La Senda del Drago” (The Path of the Drago), by the Spaniard, Jorge Sampedro.                       

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Email: JerryG@postcman.info