Today I was awakened by a knock at the door from a Jehovah’s Witness. They usually arrive in small groups, but this divinely appointed ambassador was by himself. He was a portly middle-aged man with a wide mustache, wearing a bright clean jacket, white shirt, and tie. (The JWs always dress to the nines, don’t they?) He held out a pamphlet and said very deferentially, “Hi. We’re here this morning giving these out to you and your neighbors—”
I interrupted him and snapped (truthfully), “I’ve asked the Jehovah’s Witnesses repeatedly not to bother me!” and I shut the door briskly in his face. I saw, through the glass in the top half of my door, that he looked forlorn.
I think it is hugely important to be nice and that it makes a significant difference in the world. “Nice” has acquired connotations over the years of superficiality or even phoniness, but I like it because it’s a simple, unpretentious word. “Nice” simply means being pleasant. The more respectable term today is “kind,” but to me “kind” sounds a little inflated when we’re talking about, say, tipping well or just being polite to various strangers and service people. But niceness is kind, and it’s important.
That said, as I demonstrated this morning to the Jehovah’s Witness at my door, I’m not always nice. There are certain common exceptions to my policy of niceness. For example, like many people, I can be an impatient asshole behind the wheel of a car. If I’m on a two-lane road, and the person ahead of me is driving 10 miles below the speed limit and I cannot pass them due to the blind curves up ahead (this happens a lot in Sonoma County) I often honk my horn, especially if the road has a shoulder where they could easily pull aside to let me pass. At night, I’ll occasionally drive close behind the slowpoke with my brights on (and I might also honk).
I am not nice to phone solicitors. Here is how I handle them. I pick up the phone (I don’t have caller ID) and say, “Hello?” And the voice at the other end says, “Uh, I’m calling for Marc Polonsky.” I say, “That’s me.” The voice says, “Hello, Mr. Polonsky, my name is ______ and I’m calling from ______. How are you this evening, sir?” I say, “Don’t call back,” and I hang up. (It works. They don’t.)
There are also more specific exceptions to my niceness. Probably lots of them and I cannot even recall them all, nor would I enumerate them here if I could.
I’m not saying my (or anyone else’s) lack of courtesy is justified (or not justified). For now, I’m merely acknowledging it, in the context of having begun my day today by being distinctly discourteous, face to face, to someone.
Jehovah’s Witnesses have bugged me for years. I want to throw a bucket of water on them (or worse) when they come to my door in their Sunday best. Back when I lived in Oakland, I put a No Soliciting sign on my door and the JWs rang the bell anyway. When I pointed to the sign, one of them said huffily, “We are not solicitors!” Oof.
But I understand that their motives are not so terrible really. They don’t want my money. They just want to rescue me from being tortured in Hell forever. I think part of what pisses me off about them is that they’re a little smug, at least in their existential view of things, so secure in their uncomplicated universe. Statistically speaking, at least some of them must be (forgive the term) blessed with native intelligence but (to my view) they don’t make a habit of using their brains, and that annoys me.
That said, the man at my door today was not uncomplicated. I don’t know the first thing about him, but I know this much: He had an intelligent face, a soft and gracious manner, and emotional sensitivity—his feelings were hurt when I spoke harshly and then abruptly shut the door in his face. If he came back again (which he won’t of course) I might take the time to debate religion with him, and question the fairness of the God to whom he devotes his Sunday mornings (and probably his life), this God who abandons so many souls to eternal anguish, and for what? I might probe his concept of sin. It might even be interesting.
Then again, maybe I could just ask him never to come back, but do it more politely, and he wouldn’t have to have his feelings hurt at this particular stop on his journey to the Lord’s kingdom.