Interaction Matters
“People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
—Maya Angelou
Each summer, I have the privilege to work alongside thousands of educators to help kick off their school year. The energy surrounding these days is infectious. For me, one day from the summer of 2018 stands head and shoulders above the rest. It wasn’t what happened while on-site that became a moment in time that I will never forget; it was what happened on my trip back home.
Like many other days, I was on the go and running non-stop. Part of my world entails spending countless nights away from home, in hotels scattered around the country while flying from place to place. That afternoon was similar to so many I’d had before.
After opening for a district that morning and rushing back to the San Diego airport, I dropped my rental car off and hopped on the airport shuttle bus. But I’d hopped on the wrong shuttle bus. Being at airports non-stop doesn’t prevent me from making careless mistakes at them. Just before the driver pulled away, I grabbed my stuff, hopped off, and ran to the other shuttle; this time, it was the right one. As we drove toward the airport, I did what I’ve done hundreds of times: I looked down at my phone, made sure I was checked in, looked up my gate, and figured out how much time I had until I boarded. A few minutes later, our crowded bus full of travelers disembarked in what seemed to be complete chaos.
I moved through the large crowd and followed signs to Terminal 2. Upon arriving, I looked around and saw all of the airlines for my terminal, except for the one I was taking, American Airlines. Flying so much each year, I’m entirely comfortable in airports, but for a few moments in this one, I felt alone and lost. I looked around and finally asked someone for help. An older gentleman pointed me toward the opposite end and said, “Didn’t you see it? It’s on the other side. You have to go all the way back down there.” I thanked him and went on my way, walking quickly back through baggage claim and again through the masses of people toward the other side of the terminal.
About halfway through the crowd, I noticed a man about my age. I could tell he seemed a bit lost and appeared to be looking for someone or something. He was holding a cane and was wearing unique glasses. I remember thinking to myself that he was probably trying to locate his bag. I also thought about how challenging that must be if he was alone and was, in fact, blind like I had assumed.
I kept walking and eventually walked right by him, glancing back down at my phone.
Consumed with my own craziness, all that was on my own plate, the calls I had to make, and the work I had to get done, I continued walking toward the security checkpoint. At one point, I turned back to glance at the man who had caught my attention and noticed that he continued to stand alone. It was clear he felt lost, just as I had a few minutes prior on the other side of the terminal.
I started to feel sick to my stomach.
A few hours before, I’d had the opportunity to encourage almost one thousand educators who give their all for kids every day at a Southern California opening day. In part of my talk that morning, I was challenging them on building relationships and the responsibility of building and owning the culture in their schools. I shared how even the smallest interaction can make someone’s day and be an encouragement, how showing someone you care and that they matter can be life-changing.
That morning I was hoping to tug at their hearts by helping them truly understand their lifelong impacts and how their fingerprints would be left forever on the children they serve. This afternoon, however, it was my own heart tugging back at me. The further I walked, the more like a hypocrite I felt. Here I had just been challenging others to make every interaction count, and there I had just walked right past someone with obvious physical needs who could use some help.
So I humbly listened to that little voice inside my head, and I turned around.
I hustled back over to the man who was still standing there, looking around, and it reminded me of how I had felt only minutes before, but I had been able to see where I was. I walked up to him and simply said, “Hi, my name is Tom. You look like you need some help. Can I help you with something?”
“I’m not sure where I am,” he said. I asked him which airline he had just flown and if he was trying to get his bag.
“I can’t remember which one it was,” he said.
I started to realize he needed a bit more help than which direction to head or how to find his bag. I looked around and saw an information desk by one of the exit doors, figuring those at the booth might be able to help. I asked the man his name, to which he replied, “Scott,” and then I invited him to put his hand on my shoulder to go figure out where he needed to go. As we started walking together, I asked if he had a boarding pass so we could help figure out where he needed to go.
Scott responded, “I think it started with a U. I don’t remember. And I came from up north.”
Over the next few minutes, the attendant at the information desk helped us figure out which plane Scott came in on and which carousel his baggage would arrive. The attendant asked, “Scott, was it the United flight from San Francisco?”
He responded, “Oh. Yes, sir. That’s it. Thank you.” The attendant then pointed to the far end of the building, exactly where I had just asked for my own directions.
Scott turned to me and said, “Thank you for helping me.” Still feeling bad that I had walked right by him the first time, like hundreds of others, I asked if I could help him get down to the other end safely and help him get his bag.
As we began to navigate the crowd, Scott paused and turned toward me. “I’m really sorry. I have a hard time knowing where I am sometimes, and it’s easy to forget things. It’s not that I’m blind; my brain just doesn’t function right,” he said.
I replied, “No problem, Scott, let’s get you there safely. I’m glad to help.”
After glancing at my phone to see how much time I had to get to my gate, I asked Scott what his bag looked like. He struggled to get the word camouflage out. He then said, “It’s a military color.”
Having a dad that served in the Marines and having tremendous respect for those who protect our freedom, I paused and asked, “Scott, are you in the military?”
Scott stopped walking in the middle of the crowded room and pointed to his hat. “Purple Heart” was embroidered on it. I had completely missed it, both the first time I walked by him and during our few minutes of interaction.
Scott slowly began, “It happened in Mosul. It’s a place in Iraq, if you’ve never heard of it. I was Delta Force. It’s part of the army.”
My heart stopped. I started to anticipate where he was going with his story.
He continued. “It was a beautiful day like today, except it was much hotter. Maybe one hundred and thirty degrees and, trust me, that’s really hot.” He laughed. “I can still smell the air from that day. My team was helping a family in the city. We were keeping these women and children safe because there were a lot of bad guys in the area.”
I’m not ashamed to admit that it was about
