POST by JED: Con-fron-ta-tion, Confrontation Now Begins, Keep the Rhythm...

The glass had grubby little finger prints all over it. The air was cool as I stretched out my arm and placed the 15 Paddle Pops, which I had retrieved from the commercially grandiose 70s style freezer, down on the counter. I nervously placed a crisp, orange $20 bill down as well.

I was buying Paddle Pops to increase my popularity on our "block" and I truly believed that this deal was going to send me through the recognition roof! I was going to be the coolest, most handsome, awesomest kid, and the girls would all want to sit next to me around my family's sandbox.

Now for those of you who don't know, Paddle Pops are a delicious ice cream, and at 4 years old they're worth dying for. They come in an array of flavours, from chocolate, to banana, rainbow and vanilla. When I was 4 years old, they cost just 15 cents and were worth every bit of it.  

My eyes darted impatiently around the small corner store. I was almost there, ALMOST there... But then it happened, my bald, trim, man-of-the-cloth, dog collared father arrived. My pulse quickened and I started to think. However, for me, it's always these moments that my brain refuses to cooperate, even at such a wee age. And so I stood there, mouth open and palms getting stickier all-the-while. (...and not from the sweet nector of runaway ice cream either)

The counter was in the middle of the shop and once my holy father had chosen his path to access me, well I quickly raced in the opposite direction, leaving him stranded and with a mountain of Paddle Pops to pay for. (...and change to receive)

Well that's what I thought I had done. But alas, due to the confusing collage of mirrors, I was actually running towards my father and not away from him. As I looked back over my shoulder, giggling with glee, although I could see him behind me, he was suddenly in front of me!

I let out a gigantic boy-squeal and then collapsed on the floor. (I was a drama - you know, back in those days...) I wriggled and writhed, but there was just no passage to freedom - I was sprung, caught, ruined.

My friends all looked dismissingly at me, but I became a motionless creature, much like one of those self-consumed celebrity stars who sit with Oprah and look all sad, sullen and sultry at the camera, like they're the only ones in the World who weren't ever breast-fed. ("Nursed", for you North Americans...)

My father explained in simplistic terms, in words that would ring in my ears for at least a  fortnight, just how wrong I had been to climb the 10 foot tall book case and take money from the ethnic, tribal, wooden-jar-thingy on top.

I had longed to go on a frivolous spending spree with my friends, I just didn't realise that it would be at the expense of poor missionaries in third world countries. (The money I was stealing was my parent's tithe money...)  

My father was not impressed, though I know he found it difficult not to laugh on the way home. Why? Well because when we finally arrived home I gave him a pout or two whilst he swung his hand furiously trying to belt my behind, laughing all the while (he and me).

My mother arrived on the scene and was far more calculated in her approach to discipline. She aimed, swung and connected - I was unable to pout as there was no time, the pain was too intense, and my mouth was open way too wide in order to let out the almost primal screams that came from my inner most depths... 


I tell you, when it comes to confrontation, my mother takes the cake and smacks it in the face of her opponent. No speculating. No debriefing. She was the inventor of Guantanamo styled questioning...

It was 8am and the real passengers, the ones who go to Sydney for the day on business, had already been through. The only problems I'd encountered were the usual infrequent international holiday travellers who'd:

A.) Forgotten their passports because they were "only travelling to New Zealand" (I myself have trouble remembering if the Land-of-the-White-Long-Cloud isn't just a territory of Tasmania...);

B.) Had very cleverly booked their flights on the internet in reverse order so that they were arriving at their point of departure, instead of the other way around;

C.) Were "late" because of "traffic" (...as they stood there in front of me with rogue curlers still in hair, clothes on inside out, lipstick marks from lip-to-nose (making them look like a tranny version of Ronald McDonald) and skirts hitched in the underwear region.

I sipped my strong black coffee and did the usual checks for seating issues, travel agent errors and unaccompanied minors that needed paperwork to be completed. On this morning I was alone in the ticketing office, which was why I didn't like ticketing in the first place - People were either screaming at you or you'd just sit there all by yourself looking like a "monga".

Actually, in all honesty, I preferred people screaming at me. There were times I could have kissed these angry breed of travellers, just because I was so excited to be relating with someone. Shame they wanted to punch me... Those kind of relationships were always doomed to failure.

In any case, along strolled Mr. YUP. (Young Unmarried Professional) You could tell he was a YUP because he wore a suit, grinned too much and had a skateboard under his arm. He casually approached the ticketing counter and I did my usual "Good morning, how are you today?" greeting - which was a load of codswallop, because I knew what was coming next.

"They won't let me take my skateboard on the plane!" The dude looked close to tears, but it was definitely another case of bed-head, teeth being brushed whilst driving, kind of passenger. "Won't they?" Stalling... Trying to think of something, anything... but Nothing! "Right, well perhaps you should try to just zip through security and see if they notice..." And off he marched. "Great, he fell for it! But he will be back as quick-as-a-jiffy so what can I do? Nothing, I've got absolutely nothing..." I thought to myself.

"Okay, so these are your options." He was back again."You can either pop it over there in the bin (trash) and jump on the plane, or you can catch the next flight. I'll be more than happy to change your flight, free-of-charge, and you can check the skateboard in as checked baggage." I cheerfully suggested. His response was less than pleasant "You m!@#$%^&*" (he said, clearly unimpressed with the outcome of my problem solving...)     

He stormed away. You could tell he'd already boarded the plane, the plane for doo-lalley. The guy had turned into one of those passengers that just slips over the edge into the abyss of lunacy. I've been there a few times myself.

I'd arrived in San Francisco, and I was pooped. It's a 14 hour flight from Sydney to San Fran, and an hour on top of that from Canberra to Sydney. Add 2 hours in each airport and you have yourself a full day. BUT, you arrive in the US at the beginning of THEIR day and have to fly a further 5-6 hours with another airport in the middle. (usually Chicago) 


Add in the fact that you change over from Qantas Airways to United Airlines, American Airlines, Jetblue, or Delta, and you have yourself a recipe for disaster... (Bags missing, cranky 60yo flight attendents, a network affected by weather issues such as freezing rain, hurricanes, and hence loooong delays, etc.)

It was 2001. We had been in New York for September 11, which was a horrendous ordeal for the US and ultimately the "West". However, the day before we flew from New York back to Australia, an American Airlines flight, bound for the Dominican Republic had gone down in Queens (NYC area). We were nervous to fly with our 2 little darlings. Home sickness made the boarding easier and we were back in Australia as quick as could be. (but we did suspend our journey for a day at Disneyland and some time in the OC - highly overrated in my opinion...)

However, I had needed to return to the US to finish my exams and complete several assignments. I was back at Sydney's Kingsford Smith within a week and unfortunately didn't bother to show them my American immigration papers. I left that little surprise for my arrival in San Fran. 


The mustached-up Mexican behind the immigration desk didn't talk to me. I know they have a painful job, those immigration officers, and after my experiences over the previous months, small-talk wasn't a high priority for me either.

He began to frown. "This isn't good", I thought to myself. "You need to go with the gentleman who is standing behind you", he said. "Eeer, what?" I was confused. I'd never had concierge collect me and my bags from the immigration hall before. I spun around. A rather overweight Asian man stood before me. I hadn't even been offered the chance to describe the colour and size of my bags before he'd asked me to follow him as he spun on his heel. I... Was VERY unimpressed.

"Why are you in the US?" he asked, trying to make it seem like he was making "small talk" on our way back to airport prison. "I'm here to complete my university studies", I responded, becoming a little agitated by this inconvenience, especially as I now sensed my flight bound for New York would be leaving without me and I'd be sleeping on the airport floor with other alien folk (see how the Yanks can do that? Add an awful word like "alien" to a nice word like "folk" to say "lovely people who we don't really respect").

So where was I? Oh yes, "I'm here, to finish my studies as I'm a student at the University of New York". The response "riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight..." I must admit, at this point it really didn't help that in my visa photograph I looked like Usama Bin Laden.

Well, long-story-short, I waited ALL day, and then night, and then day again. I was finally released and trotted off to United Airlines for my trans-continental flight. Unfortunately, I had taken extra baggage for my sister in-law, Katie, who was living in Brooklyn. I had been given the extra baggage by her mother, and whilst I was within my baggage limits for an international journey, I wasn't for a domestic.

My bags had been tagged all the way from Sydney through to my final destination. However, due to my continental US flight leaving without me, I had to re-check them and this is where my brain derailed and I went a little bit nUTzo. "

Hello" I said, cordially. "SOoooo you mean to tell me that I can't check my bags in because, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah!?!?!?" "Correct" was the response. "Well, I want to speak with your manager." They're very well trained at reasoning with nutbags in the US. Oftentimes their customer service is the BEST in the World. But not when a tip isn't involved, and in SFO, and just a few months after September 11, at an airport, I had buckleys and none...   

So I spoke to the manager. Nothing! I spoke to the manager's manager. Nothing!!! I spoke to the manager's manager's manager. Still... Nothing... So finally, I walked around the corner and unpacked the smaller of my two suitcases. I had pillows, blankets, clothing, etc. I put it all on.

That's when you know a traveler has lost it. They do something odd to sort out a perfectly resolvable situation. I walked back around the corner with my pillow up my t-shirt, with sheets wrapped around me and with 35 shirts, jumpers (sweaters), and jackets on my top half and 10 pairs of underwear, shorts, and jeans covering my bottom half. I looked like the Goodyear blimp! My arms couldn't even be brought down to my sides!!!

And so I went back to the check-in, with one bag full, inside the other bag, and checked my bag(s) in. I don't think they'd ever seen anything like it in their lives. There was an array of responses, from the usual jaw-dropping and gasps, to comments like "he did not!" and "what an idiot", and giggles, and "humphs", etc. That was one of the most frazzling moments of my life.

And so, as quickly as he'd stormed away, he returned and said "I have to be at a meeting in Melbourne in two hours. You just got yourself a skateboard". Now he was fairly chuffed with his act of generosity, but anyone who knows me knows that this offer of kindness is akin to my wife wanting to squeeze a blackhead from my back. "Oh. How kind.  Thank you. I'm. Completely speechless..."

The very next day, at the same bat-time, in the same batty-place, I was serving a bunch of nutbaggy customers and I noticed my loon enter the rear of the queue. Immediately I alerted police and continued to serve the passengers in my queue. "Yes, your bags will definitely get there" I said to the customer, as I secretly thought to myself "not a chance".

"Hello, how can I help you today?" I said, through my teeth, whilst gesturing to the police to move on in. "I want my skateboard back!" he said. "Oh, I discarded that yesterday" was my brisk and firm response. His girlfriend, who must have been using the lavatory or something whilst her knight in shining bling had been in the queue, joined him and proceeded to badger me also.

"Look, I don't have your skateboard! It has been disposed of! You were advised of 2 options when you were unable to board your flight because of the equipment you were carrying. You chose to throw your skateboard away! Now, if you have no further business I'm going to have to ask you to leave the airport immediately." He looked at me like "????? Leave? Immediately??? " The police then patronisingly took him by the elbow and led him out of the terminal. Oh yes, I've had plenty of practice with confrontation.

Another time, when I was the manager of a travel agency, I had a lady working for me who was fraught with issues.

One day, I was working beside her, and a woman barged through the doors, handed my staff member some bills, and proceeded to rant and rave about what a disaster my employee was and how she should be ashamed of herself. The woman then listed all of her faults, in front of myself, her colleagues, and our customers, and then swanned out the door, without so much as one brochure for Kota Kinabalu.

This woman was a disaster. I don't know why, she just was. It was clear to me that she had received many terrible blows in her life, but her choices continually surprised me, and it was clear that she would never "work out" in our organisation. I tried to tactfully suggest appropriate decisions and behaviours. She'd always brush off my gentle persuasions with excuses and reasons why my suggestions wouldn't work.

It got to the point where I had to give very clear guidelines and make elements of her work mandatory. She didn't mind this and worked well alongside me, within a framework, but continued to make serious errors and her personal life took a nose dive. The personal life part would have been fine if it didn't interfere with her professional life, but it did.

(And whilst saying that, I really think the whole "personal"/"professional" thing is a bit of a farce and completely disconnected to how we are wired as human beings. It's a tool of capitalism to squeeze the most out of us and bottle the weaknesses of our humanity, until there is such a time where we are no longer needed. And that day comes to us all... Oh pooh, aye?!)

But, for the purposes of our agency, slowly but surely the woman fell apart. I had to start the process of documenting serious performance failures and commence the procedure of terminating employment. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeek, not me! Just give me the free cruises and business class flights to Hong Kong...

We had many lengthy meetings. She cried through all of them. Anyone who knows me, knows that I have to throw my arms around anyone who cries. I couldn't. I didn't. I drove her home countless times to her drunk/abusive boyfriend. I sat next to her on Saturday mornings when she was wearing her dark glasses, complaining of headaches, and wreaking of alcohol. I listened to stories of how the World had treated her badly. I sat and supported, but at the end of the day I had to say "goodbye".

Confrontation is no easy task. We all experience it in our lifetime. I have learnt to confront. I have had plenty of practice. I also know what it's like to be confronted. Some people are great at being confronted and confronting others, whilst others aren't.

I've been re-reading a LOT of my notes from university days about p-time cultures. They don't generally like confrontation. It's funny, cause in Australia we often think of Latinos as big-mouthed, highly emotional, argumentative types. I can honestly say that they're not. In fact, they are the opposite of those things.

However, things don't always "gel" the way we'd like, or feel is appropriate. And so, even cross-culturally, the times arise when we have to draw lines in the sand and say "which side are you on?"

This is no easy task. Please pray for the team at Capital on the Edge. There have already been significant rough patches and only the Lord knows the hearts of men. And so, we push on, ever-confident that he will guide and protect us as we forge into a future found in he who is full of compassion, mercy and love.