Trust Me

When I was 21 years old, I was sitting next to a 40-something diplomat in the bar of the American Embassy in Belgrade (former Yugoslavia.) While we drank our gin and tonics, he leaned in and whispered in my ear, “trust me…” Whatever advice followed fell upon deaf ears because I already knew at that relatively young age to never trust anyone who starts their sentence with “trust me.”

Perhaps it’s because I’m a jaded native New Yorker that I learned to distrust humanity. Or perhaps I’m just human. I don’t know. But I do know that it is not the most comfortable position to be in.  I was reminded of that today as two burly men – neither of whom shared my race – came to re-install my repaired air conditioner in my bedroom. The office said they’d be there between 12  noon and 1 pm so, of course, they came at 11:15 as I was exiting the shower and Steve and Rollo were out on one of their endless adventures along the Hudson.

Steve – also a native New Yorker, and former law enforcement professional – had cautioned me (for the hundredth time) that if they came when he wasn't there to watch them every moment.  So I threw on some clothes and let them in and followed them into my bedroom. It’s not that I feared that I’d be raped at any second, but that thought rested somewhere in the back of my brain just a tad behind what I wanted for breakfast. I did actively worry about any jewelry that might be lying around and quickly slipped on my engagement ring and wedding band. 

The Price of My Distrust

My misgivings do have a pseudo realistic root. A few years ago, I noticed a chunky gold necklace (purchased in the 90s when the price of gold per ounce was much, much cheaper) missing some time after our window washers had serviced us. I will never know if one of them grabbed it off my dresser as he exited or if it’s in some crevice of my apartment I somehow missed in my dozens of frenzied searches.  Further, I have a friend whose engagement ring was stolen by California Closet installers who sent her on an errand to buy some screws or something. And of course, there’s my former kitchen renovation contractor – possibly still serving time for grand theft auto – who stole cash from my wallet on not one, but two separate occasions before Steve and I gave him the heave ho .  So I feel slightly justified in my continued suspicion that this is how repair and service people may supplement their income.

The air conditioner repairmen were in and out in a matter of minutes and I watched them vigilantly every second. And every second I felt guilty and queasy about it. I even had the urge to sputter out something like, “I want to see what you guys are doing so I understand how to repair my unit,”  But I knew that it sounded like baloney – which it was, of course -- and it would just shine a brighter light on my lack of faith.  I desperately wanted them to understand that it wasn't their ethnicity, gender, or their socio-economic status that was the cause of my distrust – but was that the truth?

As a child growing up in the 70s I witnessed the civil rights movement with awe and confusion. I literally couldn't understand racism. Why, I thought, would anyone care about the color of another person’s skin? Today, I see that there are countless facets – economic, cultural, social justice , historical -- to the issue and this makes my heart heavy.  I fight against the urge to buy into any stereotype and I usually win.  I embrace friendships with people of all genders, sexual orientation/identification, colors, ages, religions, and backgrounds. But by the time I was an adventurous 21 year old drinking in a foreign city, I had witnessed violence, been the victim of crime and deceit, and allowed my kind heart to be broken by unreliable, selfish people close to me. My heart was no longer pure. 

I sometimes wish I could crawl into my idealistic five-year old skin and live there instead of in the world in which I remember to lock my doors as we drive through the south Bronx instead of the Upper East Side. But on the flip side, I don’t want to lose any more necklaces that are too expensive to replace.  

I do believe that any stranger in my home would make me feel equally uneasy, whether they were a hulking foreign man or a tiny old woman.  Although the tiny old woman would probably not be able to rape me…so…maybe that last statement is false.

this to me says, "go ahead, take it."

You see what lack of trust does? I don’t even trust what I write.  So what’s a women, a New Yorker and a die-hard liberal to do?  Do my smiles and gratitude for a job well-done make up for watching workmen like a prison guard? Would I be a more relaxed happier person if I let my handbag hang from a chair in an outdoor café like some unsuspecting tourist?  I think not.

I do know that any time I feel like I've been ripped off – whether it’s perpetrated by my health insurance company or a Roman cab driver --  my self-esteem plummets and it takes months to forgive myself.  The most recent time involved our fast-talking, flattery-spewing condo manager who temporarily convinced us not to proceed with our claim against the condo for our broken floors. When I took my rage against myself for being duped into complicity to therapy, my therapist asked, “well, Karen, what’s the alternative? Would you rather not be a gentle, soft, trusting human being?”  I answered, honestly, “Yes. I’d rather not.”  Sad, but for this New Yorker, true.