We are the sum of our experiences, shaded and sculpted by our environment.

Here's to looking at another's.... shoes.

At the age of sixteen I lied about my age and became certified as an EMT. By the time I was a senior in High School I was the assistant chief of our local Volunteer Ambulance Corps. Later, in my late teens, I had the fortunate ability to become a Paramedic and work in an advanced level with the Fire Department. As you can imagine, it was commonplace to see people at their worst and deal with life threatening issues. These patients presented with a wide variety of illnesses and injures requiring our full attention; giving us little time to stop and absorb the gravity of what was occurring at any given place or time. Most of the time, we worked frantically on a scene, packaged the victim and loaded them into the ambulance for transportation to the closest hospital. During that time our hands moved as fast as possible. Time was our enemy and we knew it. We worked in a fluid motion, applying more bandages or starting IV’s. Sometimes breathing tubes were installed as other situations required electrical shocks to correct life threatening heart rhythms. This was done, the whole time trying to balance as our ride, a brightly colored box on wheels, sped through rush hour traffic with flashing lights and a blaring siren. As soon as we backed up to the Emergency-Room entrance, the truck’s back doors flew open and the patient, our patient, rolled out to awaiting nurses and doctors who continued the care.

During this next phase we would cool down, get something to drink or eat and let the adrenalin flow out of our systems. As we would go back to our truck - to the mess we left behind - the reflection of what we had encountered would set in. We would stand at those open truck doors and stare; sometimes for minutes on end. There was no forgetting what had just happened. Every piece of trash told a small part of the story. And, to add to the chaos of clutter, what the patient left behind told part of the tale also. Things like bloody towels, torn clothing, black-charred gloves, a baby’s diaper saturated with chlorinated water from a swimming pool, or a damaged motorcycle helmet. Of all the items left behind, the things that got to me the most though ware the shoes. A can’t think of a single object that expresses a human’s vulnerability more, or represents a bigger message.

Now this may seem strange, but to this day, when I’m dealing with someone who I don’t particularly like or agree with, I imagine that I'm talking to his or her shoes. Reducing them, in my mind, to that which is vulnerable. Respect, after all, is a commodity in short supply when we start to debate the issues that are really passionate to us. If we could only figure out how to wear their shoes for a while and feel what they feel, maybe we would understand more - respect more - learn more.