Learning To Handle Space Invaders
Our dorm was actually pretty quiet. There was a fellow, however, who would occasionally fall under the illusion that everyone wanted to enjoy his radio at full volume. They didn't--but he persisted.
By exploiting an obscure phenomenon, there was recourse: radio receivers actually radiate radio waves. With the cover off my short-wave radio, these invisible messengers would pour silently into the ether. And by carefully tuning them to just the right frequency, the offending radio would soon belch obnoxious whistles and squawks, the victim of enemy waves. In seconds it would fall silent, a real head-scratcher to the once-defiant owner, who decided that lower volume was the cure. It was.
Later, similar space invasions would arise from a guy who felt duty-bound to drink himself goofy--and treat the rest of our house's occupants to a midnight serenade. Beyond reasoning with, he would crank up the stereo to ear-splitting levels and attempt a sing-along. But there was a way to furtively interrupt the house power.
When his revelry was in full swing, I'd "pull the plug," sending him buzzing like a mad bee, trying to rectify the sudden silence. We were all soon peacefully asleep. An early riser, I'd restore power upon leaving the next morning, instantly reactivating the cranked-up stereo he had forgotten about. Double-whammy.
Some space invaders leave us breathless. Consider being seated in the non-smoking section, only to discover that only a tiny bit of latticework separates you from the smoke-filled room next door.
For many, Sunday afternoons are a time of rest and restoration, recovering from last week and preparing for next. Then suddenly a raucous b-r-a-a-a-a-k of power equipment breaks the peaceful spell. A chain saw or other gasoline-powered monster is on a space-busting rampage.
Hardest to rationalize are talkers with the notion that all within earshot want to hear jokes, stories, and tales of dubious veracity. When captive with such in a common conveyance, earshot is also arm's length. Escape is impossible, and visions of skid chains for the tongue involuntarily pop into the head.
Undeniably, it's too easy for me to also become a space invader--of a different sort. Not with noise or smoke, which are temporary inconveniences, but with vibrations that transmit my disapproval in relationship-splitting ways. The art of persuasion allows us to steer what we want to say around others' mental roadblocks, not run roughshod over them or shoot daggers through their hearts.
And as I continue to have opportunities to learn that art, I'm hopeful that no one will actively seek a way to "pull the plug" on my invasions of their space. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe reminds us, "Tolerance comes with age. I see no fault committed that I myself could not have committed at some time or other." How true. But I might add, "or might have committed--but conveniently forgot."
Copyright 2001 James McAlister
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