‘The only thing I owe you is my utter indifference.’ 

I heard Dennis Miller say that on his show, years ago. It stuck with me, and in the last few weeks it’s come back into my memory. Recent events in my life have made me think long and hard about who I am, what I am, and how I am. Let me explain.

I don’t care what color you are. I don’t care who you love. I don’t care what beliefs help you get through the day. I don’t care if you are skinny, fat, old, young, rich, poor, feeble, or sharp. I don’t care what you studied, where you studied, why you studied, or IF you studied. I’m indifferent to these things because they don’t—matter.

Here’s what I do care about.

Kindness. Your ability and willingness to engage with others. Your level of curiosity (more is better). Your interest in things outside yourself. Your story. Your family. The things that make you laugh, smile, cry, and despair. These are the things that make you human.

Let me tell you a story. When I was 13 years old, my family moved to Spain, thanks to a job transfer. Considering that we moved to cosmopolitan, European Madrid from Midland, Texas, in the heart of the oil (and prejudice)-soaked Permian Basin, the adjustment was—jarring. But I dealt with it—I adjusted—I went native, as seasoned (and, perhaps, jaundiced) expats say. But it didn’t happen without help. 

We rented a house in a small village a few miles west of downtown Madrid, a cozy little pueblo called Aravaca. To call it a house was a gross understatement: it was a house in the same way that Costco is a ‘shop.’ It had nine bedrooms, five bathrooms, a beautiful garden with a pool, two kitchens, and Loli.

Loli worked for the family that preceded us in the house as a domestic—a maid, I suppose—and she saved us. When we rented the house, it was just assumed that she was part of the package, and thankfully, she was. That was 50 years ago; I still see Loli every time I go to Spain on business. She’s a few years older than I am, and as much a part of my family to me as my parents and brothers are. She’s my sister.

One winter day, we accepted an invitation from Loli to join her at her parent’s home for coffee and dessert. They lived in an even tinier town beyond ours called Majadahonda, a scrubby little pueblo that looked like a Star Wars outpost town—no paved streets, cattle and sheep running around, ancient Spanish women dressed all in black, the sign of a lost husband. Light snow was falling; it was December, and it was very cold.

We parked the car and climbed a half-completed brick staircase on the outside of an equally incomplete building that led to their home. It comprised two rooms: a kitchen and dining room about eight feet on a side, and a bedroom and bath about the same size. In the center of the kitchen was a small round table with a heavy felt table cloth that reached all the way to the floor. Under the table was a heavy metal brazier, filled with burning coal; this was what heated the home. We were instructed to sit at the table, and wrap the table cloth around our legs to stay warm.

My prejudices began to surface—I felt them rise, like the tide. These people were so poor—they had nothing. The only things hanging on their bare, whitewashed walls were a large crucifix, and a slightly crooked photograph of Generalísimo Franco. I felt embarrassed, awkward, out-of-place. I didn’t know how to—BE.

We spoke enough Spanish to carry on a halting conversation with our hosts, but most of what we exchanged were smiles, and hand gestures, and a tremendous amount of laughter. I had no idea what they were talking about most of the time, but I don’t think I’ve ever in my life had a more fun day. These people were poor, they spoke no English, but they were kind, and they were inclusive.

Soon, neighbors began to arrive because they wanted to meet us, and with them, a cornucopia of food. An entire Serrano ham came through the door, the entire leg of a pig, air cured, strongly flavored, delicious. Strings of chorizo and lomo and morcilla and salchichón sausages, rich with paprika and garlic and savory fat. Bowls of fried and marinated anchovies. Olives and peppers. Mushrooms, sautéed in olive oil and garlic. Bags of French bread, torn apart to soak up the leavings on the plate. And a universe of cheeses from all corners of Spain. 

We ate until we were full, and then we ate some more. Desserts arrived, mysterious and unknown and incredibly tasty. And then, the music started.

Spain is a musical country. Spaniards are wired with arpeggios; 16^th notes flow through their veins, and their hearts beat to the staccato attack of a Flamenco dancer’s shoes. And so it was that spontaneous singing began to break out. One person would begin to wail, that sad, lonely sound that makes me think of foghorns and that is completely unique to Spanish love songs, and everyone else would join in, clapping in syncopated rhythm as the music progressed. As each song approached its final chorus, a voice would begin a different song, and the group would switch over, seamlessly. I did not understand the words, but the music, the rhythm, the emotion, spoke to me. I was entranced.

And it was at that moment that I became aware of a deep shifting in my heart, or perhaps in my soul, a feeling that I can recall to this day, with crystalline clarity. I was changing, fundamentally. My preconceptions about poverty and the measure of a person’s worth shattered, and were remade that day. Our nine-bedroom house, with its landscaped garden and pool that I had bragged about to my friends in letters, was meaningless. These people, these wonderful, warm, giving, caring, connected people, were far richer than I would ever be. 

The Dalai Lama once said, ‘My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness.’ That’s the most profound thing I’ve ever heard a religious figure say.

So, let me go back to my original thought, the one that transported us to a family gathering in Majadahonda. That experience, and countless others that I was honored to be part of during my time in Spain, changed the way I look at the world. I don’t care about those superficial, unimportant, physical and metaphysical things that surround you, and I expect the same indifference of you. But: I also expect you to seek kindness in me, and to expect my interest in those deeply human things that truly make you who you are.

Look, I’m not naïve. I’ve been around long enough to have witnessed acts of human cruelty that defy my ability to rationalize them. I watch, as more and more people in the world today try to define themselves by the things that they surround themselves with, rather than by the things that lie inside them. I shake my head as we glorify actors and sports figures and call them society’s game changers, yet we pay little attention to teachers, scientists, activists, aid workers, and artists, the REAL game changers.

On the other hand, I’ve also seen breathtaking examples of human kindness. I’ve seen ordinary people engage in acts of bravery that, in wartime, would have earned them a medal. I’ve seen art and listened to music and read literature that made me cry with unfettered emotion, and that made me feel that we humans, for all our faults, still have redeeming qualities.

So, this is my pledge, to myself as much as to others. I will strive to be more aware. I will think before I open my mouth. And I will try, very hard, to understand that the way I experience the world is vastly different than the way many others do.