Earnestness and honesty during an encounter on the street

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Conversations we would rather not have can take us to places we want to go. I had such a conversation recently with a stranger, a man I'll call DeShawn because I don't know his name. DeShawn watched from the sidewalk as I parked my car in a narrow space between two cars. Parallel parking is a challenge I accept with gritted teeth. If I had spotted DeShawn watching me, I might have circled the block.

The first maneuver ended with a light bump on the fender of the forward car. I stopped, slowly retreated and cut the angle more sharply. The second try was silent, and I eased the car into the space. When I exited the car, DeShawn spoke to me.

"I want you to notice something," he said. "You hit this car and damaged the paint." His voice had an edge, but was earnest. I looked him in the eye.

"I see it," I said. It was just me and DeShawn. He spoke the truth.

"Now, they can buff that out. It's not bad. The same with your car. See how you scuffed the paint on your car. It's a little worse. But a good body guy could fix it, too."

DeShawn waited for my reply.

"You are right," I said. I wondered if DeShawn was a good body guy.

"I just wanted you to see the damage you did," DeShawn said. "Next time be just a little more careful. That's my point."

I thanked DeShawn for his advice. I said I would think of him the next time I parked my car. He nodded his head and walked away.

When we make an error and a witness points it out, the conversation can easily become unpleasant. But DeShawn was right. I accepted his factual statement, plain and simple. I didn't offer an excuse, didn't object to his account. I didn't defend myself.

Affirming the factual statement of a "neutral" witness isn't what lawyers advise you to do. When I accepted the truth of his statement, I didn't think about the consequences. I didn't strategize or weigh several options before replying. He was right, but he was not attacking me with the truth. He offered it and awaited my reply. Because his statements were accurate, I affirmed them.

When I got out of my car, I didn't notice the damage; the truth is, I didn't look for it. That's what prompted DeShawn to speak with me. He didn't want me to ignore damage I did, even if it was minimal. He wanted me to see the scuffed paint on the fenders. He wanted me to learn from my mistake, to be more careful next time.

DeShawn and I shared a disarming conversation. We saw the same damage, agreed that it was minor and that I had caused it. There was no accusation or defense, no dispute. We disarmed ourselves when we realized that we shared a regard for the truth.

Honesty about the damage we inflict upon those we don't intend to harm propels these conversations. When we find truths we share, we draw a little closer to each other.

DeShawn engaged me because he believed his words might alter my thinking and future behavior. He was right. Our conversation was not about race, but about carelessness as we interact with each other, as we park our cars in close proximity to the cars of others. The importance of being careful with each other is something DeShawn and I agree on.

Now I wish I had asked DeShawn his name. He invested time and care in our conversation. He made it a poignant exchange. DeShawn's care in approaching me encourages me to take similar care with strangers.

The simple, disarming words we speak to each other can enrich us. A Black man can speak the truth to a white woman about damage she inflicts on others. We can share the truth without activating blame or defense. When DeShawn spoke to me, I felt that he cared about me. He thought I would want to know what I had done and to receive his encouragement. He addressed me as a familiar, as someone he respected.

Later, I thought about my dad. He taught me to listen to people who speak to me as DeShawn did, with an aim of improvement, based on honest comprehension of a truth we share. Dad would have had this conversation with me. Dad and DeShawn both believe that harm can be inflicted without malice, through inattention or accident.

DeShawn registered me as a white woman. But he didn't speak to me as a type, a category. He spoke to me as Dad might have, earnestly but calmly. He didn't assume I would take offense or tune him out. I listened to him in the same spirit he spoke to me. Because he cared that I listened, cared that I would be more careful. I was redeemable in his eyes, not some clueless woman, but a woman who wanted to know the truth about my own actions and the damage they had done. Isn't that what it means to be human? To care how others can be or are hurt by what we do and to take pains to prevent harm.

Helen Warren lives in St. Paul.