It can’t be easy being a political figure. Just ask the presidential candidates whose every word and action is caught by the media. Locally, our city council discovered this recently when some of its members made controversial remarks about our city’s future and the people who live here—or in one city councilman’s opinion, want to live here. I’ll spare referencing his overplayed and belittling comment about people from Alabama should anyone from Alabama read this. Instead, I’ll share this story with you.
As I watched this controversy unfold, I thought of berry picking.
When I was a young girl, we lived across the way from a blackberry field. During berry season, Jenny, my friend and next-door neighbor, and I would rush out the door every afternoon to pick the abundant fruit. We wore oversized t-shirts in order to store the blackberries in the generous flap of material we stretched and scooped out in front of us, makeshift bowls for our adventure. Why we didn’t bring a bucket makes no sense to me now. I think it made us feel more Huck Finnish.
That was the life.
Until the neighborhood bully and his Tony Soprano wannabe buddies staked the field as their own.
One day, “Tony” and his gang informed us of his territorial rights to the berries. No legal document or zone ordinance was presented, but the message was clear—leave and don’t come back. Jenny and I looked at one another in our berry-stained shirts and did what any other young heroes would do—we dropped the berries, ran back home, and cried to my mother.
Rather than support our emotional distress by offering cookies, milk, and maternal consolation, Mom did something contrary to my expectations. She told us to go back and tell Tony the field was for all of us. (Which, upon further thought, probably wasn’t true since the property was privately owned, but score one for Mom for her democratic intention!) After much coaxing, Jenny and I returned to the field, certain of impending death, and began picking berries.
Tony and his friends approached us and repeated their declaration of doom if we didn’t stop. Thinking the pain would probably be quick if he punched me, I stood from my picking position. I told Tony we were staying but that he was more than welcome to join us. Tony repeated the threat, this time with a sense of urgency. I grabbed Jennie’s hand, clammy and shaky, and recited the script carefully crafted by Mom, who, unbeknownst to me at the time, was peering out the window with a broomstick in her hand, ready for a surprise attack, if need be.
After all these years, I’m still amazed by what happened next.
My adversary shouted a few more disparaging remarks and… just walked away. I looked at Jenny, white as a sheet, as we stood like stone for a few more minutes, grateful we would live to see another day. Then, in silence, we picked some berries and ate them right off the bush. The sweet nectar of victory and survival never tasted so good. A few days later, Tony returned—this time, to pick berries with us.
Perhaps this virtue has some value for our city council, which currently faces a pivotal crossroad in leadership. Talking to and with others accomplishes a lot more than talking at someone.
Mom was right all along. Picking berries together makes a lot more sense than throwing them.