I’m just a Smith.

Note: To appreciate this article, you should listen to the This American Life episode, “The Life of John Smith”.  Better yet, watch it via Netflix or whatever channel you choose.

When the roomie told me to watch this episode, I knew it would be moving, because of her rave reviews.  Now, she classically reacts stronger to stories, humor, or pretty much anything, than I do.  Hey, that’s just me.  But still, when I finally sat down to watch it, I didn’t know if I was prepared to be moved, to appreciate a human story.  When those 50 minutes were up, I was crying.  If you know me, you know how often that happens–never.  In fact, ask yourself if you’ve ever seen it.

John Smith, Age 46 has the same look in his eye as my dad.  Jovial, smart, wise, and desperate to make it all work, to make sure I didn’t do what he did, to make a connection.

John Smith, 2 months, with eons of expectations poured upon him by family that has been trapped in the same slick mud that their families were born into, with one goal: get out and do better, for us all.

John Smith, Age 70, as hard working, caring, driven, stubborn, and entrenched in his era as so many I’ve known.  As so many I’ve watched grow old.  Some become bastions, some disconnected, all walking the tightrope of harmony in a life that is more difficult and joyful than they ever expected.

I’ve stood over too many gravestones.

John Smith, Age 79: Just like Papa.  Talking to a man who could only blink his responses to us because the rest of his body was paralyzed.  Remembering the rough times with him.  Remembering the happy times.  Watching him sit at the head of the dinner table, grumpy, knowing that somewhere he cared.  Watching him slowly deteriorate, visit by visit.

There’s woe enough to go around.

John Smith, Age 36:  Living that expectation.  Filling the holes in himself.  Steering the ship, regardless of how steady he feels behind the wheel.

John Smith, Age 23:  How many of you have I known?  How many of you have I grown up with, or seen at family reunions?  What is it that breaks the chains off our tires when we’re in the snow?

We spend so much time as children, if we’re lucky, being told that we’re special.  We teach our children this, that we’re all special.  Yet the hidden sages of our day would say that this is the root of our society’s problems–how can each and every single person be special?  Doesn’t the definition of the term mean different from everything else in a group?  We’re all a bunch of people, just the same, thinking we’re all special.

I personally have always been told that I’m special, and at the same time recognized the uniqueness of every, and all their strengths.  The fact is, I’m just a Smith. It’s one of the most humbling experiences in the world to realize that you’re just like everybody else, and to accept that truth–you’re not a President-to-be, a CEO, an actor, whatever.  You are just a person, like all the other people around you. Your destiny isn’t greater or lesser than any other.  You’re simply a Smith.  And that, in and of itself, is story enough.