When I was 22, I had a unique opportunity to study abroad for a brief time in Moscow, Russia. For those human abacuses out there who can quickly calculate my age, it was March of 1987.
I happened to be there at a pivotal moment in world history. The Soviet Union was beginning to change, and I had a front-row seat to some remarkable events. But the biggest change I experienced had nothing to do with the Soviet Union. It happened during a card game in a hotel room. I had hosted a few English-speaking Russian students, and one of them brought his mother along.
She sat quietly in the corner for most of the evening, smiling and nodding politely. I offered her something to drink several times.She politely declined each offer. That brings me to the first lesson I learned that night: those little “V-8-sized” cans of Russian beer apparently contained considerably more alcohol than their American counterparts. I also discovered that, although I had never developed much of a taste for it, I apparently enjoyed lemon vodka. And I smoked a cigar one of the students told me had been laced with cow manure. As a Vermont farm kid, I thought that was oddly ironic. I hadn't tried that before.
Eventually, the cards came out. We talked about politics, world events, and pretty much everything else young people talk about when they are drinking too much vodka and beer. At some point, I decided the quiet woman sitting in the corner needed to be included. In my increasingly intoxicated wisdom, I said to her: “Why don't you come over here? We'll deal you in for a hand of cards.”
She, again, politely waved her hand and shook her head. I persisted. Eventually, wearing her down, she reluctantly pulled up a chair. She was a very slight, older woman. In retrospect, she was probably about my age now. She was quiet, but she had a warm smile and wonderful eyes. We started playing. And then, in my intoxicated brilliance, I asked her a question.
“So tell me. What do you bring to society?”
She sat up a little straighter. Then, in clear English, she answered:
“I wash buildings in Moscow”
Nearly 40 years later, I still can't tell you why I said what I said next. But I did.
“Oh, wow. That's fascinating. I can see why your family probably can't stop bragging about you at parties.”
She sat even more upright in her chair. I remember thinking she looked like a little rooster. Then she looked at me and with a bigger smile and pride said:
“They should. My buildings are the cleanest in Moscow.”
Boom. Instantly, even through the alcohol haze, I realized I had just been humbled by someone who was far more experienced in life than I was.
I was a 22-year-old American kid on the rise. I was sure I was going to play professional baseball, become a lawyer, maybe a congressman, hell, perhaps even President of the United States. And this frail, diminutive woman had taken me down with one sentence. Thousands of miles away, inside my head, I could practically hear my parents.“What the hell is wrong with you? Apologize!”
So I did. Immediately. I told her I was embarrassed by what I had said and apologized. She smiled politely, waved her hand as if to say it was all right, and we went back to playing cards. But that moment stuck with me. Over the next couple of days, I spoke with her son two or three times. “Let me send your mother flowers. What does she like?” He replied,“No?” I persisted, “I'll take her to dinner.” He repeatedly replied, “Forget it. She's okay. You don't need to do anything.” But I kept after him. Eventually, as my time in Moscow was coming to an end, I said:“Before I leave, please tell her I want to wash a building with her.” He laughed. I persisted. Finally, he asked her.
And after a week of consideration, once again reluctantly, she agreed. Before I left Moscow to return to the University of Maine at Orono, I climbed a ladder beside that small Russian woman. I had a large bucket filled with lime and whatever cleaning materials we were using, along with a couple of brushes. She showed me exactly how to scrub the stone clean. And I have to tell you something: It was one of the harder days of work I'd ever experienced.It was also one of the proudest. Because at the end of that day, I could honestly say that I had helped create one of the cleanest buildings in Moscow.
Years later, I told Kim that story. One of Kim's favorite sayings was: “Watch what people do, not just what they say.” She believed it was important to listen to what people said. But she also understood that the people closest to us often know exactly what we want to hear. “They don't necessarily say those things to deliberately use them to their advantage,” she would tell me. “Sometimes it just happens.” Then she would remind me:“Words are easy. What matters is whether their actions support their words.”
I've heard variations of that sentiment attributed to Morgan Freeman and plenty of other people over the years. But Kim was the original source I heard it from, and it stuck with me. When I told her about the small Russian woman, Kim absolutely loved the story.“That,” she said, “This is exactly what I mean.” Then she added another Kim-ism.“You should have apologized to her. ”I replied, “I did.” Quickly, she said, “You should have apologized twice.” I looked at her. She explained that apologizing over and over can sometimes come across as weakness, as though you don't have confidence in what you believe. And whether you intend it or not, she said, that can sometimes be manipulated later. But that's a Kim-ism for another time.
Then she asked me what month the story had happened. “March.” Kim started laughing. "On a ladder. In March. In Moscow?” She shook her head. “You must have frozen your ass off.” She was probably right. Then she smiled. “But I'm proud of you. ”She told me that I had done something she always encouraged people to do. I hadn't simply said the words. I backed them up.
There is one final part of this story that has stayed with me. Years ago, I was paging through a children's book. I don't remember the name of it, but I remember buying it for the artwork. Near the end, I read an epilogue that contained a line I have never forgotten. I remember it something like this:
“Surely wisdom is granted to all living things, and the smallest of creatures can be teachers of kings.”
Yes. She was frail. She was small. And despite what I thought of myself, I certainly was no king. But nearly 40 years later, I can still see her sitting at that card table. I can still hear her say: “They should. My buildings are the cleanest in Moscow.” That night, she was my teacher. And I was her student. She taught me a lesson in humility that I have never forgotten. More importantly, she taught me that when you realize you've been wrong, saying you're sorry is only the beginning.
Sometimes, you have to climb the ladder. And scrub the damn building. Kim was right. Words matter. But what we do with them matters a whole lot more.