Chapter 1: A Reunion with Dorothy

Recently, I caught up with my friend Dorothy after several years apart. Though she hails from Scotland, I can overlook that—everyone has their quirks. Our conversation quickly turned philosophical, as it often does. She shared a story about a friend of hers, a long-time air stewardess.

One day, a man boarded the business class section, visibly irritated. He slammed his overhead compartment, demanded champagne, and complained about everything from legroom to the temperature. As the air steward watched, the man continued to display his frustrations. When it was time for take-off, he slammed his tray table and glared around him.

Then, the air steward approached him, knelt down, and gently inquired, “Sir, you seem upset. Is there anything I can assist you with?” In an instant, the man’s bravado faded. He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and revealed that he had lost a business deal he had been counting on. As he shared his worries, he transformed from agitated to calm and weary.

This story lingered in my mind, illustrating the profound impact of empathy over judgment. Naturally, as a vegan with a name that embodies compassion, I felt a sense of pride, believing myself to be like that air steward.

Chapter 2: A Morning in the Café

Fast forward to this week when Dorothy and I decided to enjoy breakfast at a charming conservatory café in a local park. I went up to place our order, where two young men, likely builders based on their hefty egg orders, were ahead of me. Nearby, I noticed an older gentleman, perhaps a dog walker.

Once the builders finished ordering and stepped aside, I asked the older man, “Were you next?” He looked annoyed and replied, “I don’t know,” then proceeded to order a latte and an Americano without a glance in my direction.

In that moment, I felt a surge of hatred towards him. Yes, hatred. He had ignored the usual social courtesies, stepping in front of me without hesitation or acknowledgment, making me feel invisible.

After he placed his order, I moved up to the counter and greeted the young woman, who shifted from her automatic routine to a more engaged state, her smile brightening the atmosphere. I placed our orders, and she asked if my friend wanted butter on her toast.

“My friend will have butter; she’s not a vegan; she’s normal,” I replied with a chuckle, which drew a look of disapproval from the man. Was it my friendliness, or my vegan status that irked him?

I returned to the table without mentioning the older man to Dorothy, aiming to keep our morning light. However, I later pondered how fragile our egos can be. It struck me how easily our good intentions can evaporate.

The man could be dealing with any number of personal struggles—gout, a dental issue, or even disappointment in a competition. We often fail to consider the hidden battles others face, focusing only on how they affect us. Instead of setting aside our own feelings, we succumb to judgment, treating others as if they are weak or trivial.

My quick descent into judgment, despite my self-image as compassionate, was humbling. It made me realize that, regardless of my vegan identity or my desire to be above the fray, I too am merely human—flawed, pitiable, and awkward, just like everyone else.

I, too, carry the burden of normality.