My grandson and I were pulling into a parking spot at the grocery store, casually chatting. I glanced over and a tall, muscular man was running through the lot. He was dressed in raggedy shorts and a ripped shirt.

His legs, neck, and arms were covered in tattoos. Without thinking, I made a derogatory remark about the man’s tattoos. My grandson looked at me in surprise since he hadn’t heard something like that come out of my mouth.

Instantly, I was ashamed.

I’d judged this man by his tattoos and the clothes he was wearing.

I had no way of knowing what line of work he was in, his background or who he was.

I made a judgmental decision based only on how he looked.

Shame on me.

Double shame on me for making a flippant remark like that in front of my grandson.

I apologized over and over for what I’d said, but the feeling of shame and guilt hasn’t gone away.

Over the years, I’ve made snap judgments based on surface facts. I remember looking at people when I was a young woman and admiring their bravery in dressing differently or when their hair was a rainbow of colors or they wore whatever they wanted.

Somewhere along the line, my tolerance faded.

I was at a funeral recently, and some people came in wearing blue jeans. My first impulse was to shake my head in disgust and wonder what happened to dressing appropriately for the occasion.

My second thought was a mental slap. Perhaps that’s the best clothes they could afford. Maybe to them, dressing up meant a nice pair of jeans and a shirt.

Who was I to judge them?

Apparently, I’d found myself qualified to be the judge, jury and executioner.

Before I had children, if I saw a parent lose his or her cool in the store, I’d haughtily say that would never be me.

After my third and wild child threw some Oscar-worthy tantrums in public, I was ashamed I’d judged those parents without having walked in their shoes.

Now when I see a frustrated parent, I tell them not to worry about other people judging them. Those of us who had children totally get it and these kids will grow up.

The first time I saw a woman with a cardboard sign asking for food, the sight tugged at my heart because she had a child with her. My granddaughter and I went to a fast-food place around the corner, picked up food and brought it back to them.

They didn’t want the food. They wanted money.

Now whenever I see a person and children at a corner, I’m angry and judgmental. How can a parent put their child out there while they beg strangers for money? There’s agencies that offer food, shelter, and clothing.

But wait a minute, I’m starting to think. Those people could honestly be so down on their luck, they’re reduced to begging on the streets. They could be shysters but they could be desperate.

I see someone dressed in expensive clothes in the store and I think they’re blissfully happy. They have it all – money, jewelry, clothes. Looks, I remind myself, are deceiving. Just because someone looks like they have it all doesn’t mean they have everything.

There was a woman in the mall recently, and I thought she was down on her luck. Then some children and another adult came running up to her, with hugs and laughter.

What she was wearing or the amount of money in her wallet didn’t matter. This woman was surrounded by love, and the happiness on her face was quite evident.

I like to think I’ve got my temper under control, but I lose my cool more than I’d like.

I want to think I’m calm and cool in tough situations, but I’ll often have a meltdown instead of thinking rationally through the problem.

I want to think I’m showing my grandson to look beyond the outside and, instead, pay close attention to what’s inside a person’s heart.

I want to believe I’m better than I really am.

The truth is, I’ve got a very long ways to go.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.