Does every last person you’ve met in your life understand you perfectly?

I didn’t think so.

It’s a verified, clinical fact that to be alive is to be misunderstood. Come to think of it, to be dead is also to be misunderstood.

Needless to say, if people—many people, most people, almost all people!—misunderstand you, it’s likely that you, too, misunderstand other people, at least some of the time. Misunderstanding is give-and-take, his-and-hers, eat-all-you-can.

Your take on life is subjective. What you think and feel comes from, let’s say, your heart—that thing that beats faster or slower depending on the weather, caffeine, childhood memories, the Zodiac, a pretty girl winking at you, and a thousand other psycho-chemicals. You look at me with your heart, and this means you don’t see me as I am . . . because your heartbeat distracts you. Ka-da-boing, ka-da-boing, ka-da-boing. Sometimes kadakada-boing. If it’s KAKAKAKA-boing, you need to see a doctor ASAP.

I wish I knew what I was talking about, but misunderstanding is oh-so-difficult to explain!

Life being complicated, we try to simplify it by creating categories and compartments. Here’s a category: “Brazilian.” “You’re Brazilian! You just love Carnival, the samba, hot weather! You’re a soccer fanatic!” No, no, no, no. I can’t stand hot weather. I’m a hypersensitive intellectual introvert snob. I hate Carnival and noise and crowds. “But you’re Brazilian! You party night and day!” Nonononono. “But you’re Braz-IL-ian!”

Facts don’t solve misunderstandings. Poor little facts. They don’t stand a chance against the kakakaka-boing.

Misunderstandings come as compliments and as insults. A musician I know is forever telling me marvelous things about myself. “You’re such a successful performer!” (I only perform three or four times a year.) “You must have a great manager!” (Whaaat?) “You should invest in real estate, with all the money you must make performing!” (Whaaaaaaat?) “I searched for you online and I saw a performance of yours in front of an adoring all-female crowd!” (Whaaaaaaaaaaaat?) This fellow likes thinking these thoughts about me, and he’s gracious and tender whenever he tells me about who I am and what I do. We get along fine, despite the misunderstandings.

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Years ago, a different fellow told me one day that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. The evidence? I was wearing an old hand-me-down cashmere sweater. It didn’t matter to him that it was an old hand-me-down, it mattered that it was cashmere. As we all know, only the rich can afford cashmere. Ergo! Bingo! Voilà! Ultimately, his thoughts weren’t really about me at all, but about something in himself. And this is how it works among human beings. Among dogs, too. Cats, not so much.

Misunderstandings come from taking things for granted. I have some dear friends who never ask me anything about my teaching or my writings or my travels. One of these friends assumes that I teach “posture,” and— “That’s what you do. Posture. You show people how to sit straight.” No, no, no! Kakakaka-boing! He’s a generous friend, and I love him to bits. I probably misunderstand his every breath, but that’s the give-and-take of friendship.

God whispers in your ears, and Ze says, “Hey, I’m sending you a gift, but you have to choose from these two fine options: Either everyone will understand you perfectly, or you’ll have creative tools to handle being misunderstood by everyone.” God has a sense of humor, doesn’t Ze? The choice is obvious! Who on Earth would ever choose to be perfectly understood? (Incidentally, “ze” means “soul” or “voice” in Albanian.)

Next time you see me dancing the Carnival in the height of summer, be a good Samaritan and shoot me dead. You’ll save me from being a stereotype. Then I can ascend to Heaven and meet God in person.

“Hi, God.”

“Pedro! What you’re doing here, right in the middle of Carnival???? Go back down to where you belong!”

And that’s why I keep getting reincarnated as a samba dancer: a simple but woeful misunderstanding.

I recently attended a conference in Malta, a marvelous island country smack in the middle of the Mediterranean, not far from Sicily and not far from the coast of North Africa. Because of its strategic importance, over the millennia Malta has known war, strife, occupation, depredations and glories galore.

Malta is very beautiful, thought-provoking and sensation-inducing.

Heading out one night to a concert by one of the conference’s participants, I had a little spare time and decided to enter the Church of St. Publius, the patron saint of Floriana, a town adjacent to the capital Valletta. Publius is a big deal; according to tradition, he received Paul (the apostle) when the latter survived a shipwreck in Malta roughly two thousand years ago.

The Church of St. Publius was built in stages over several centuries. What, exactly, is its style? I think that’s the wrong question. A better one is, “How do you feel when you enter the church? Where are you? What’s going on? What are they saying? What’s it all about?”

The church was nearly full, most people in the congregation dressed for a sober occasion. A priest said Mass. Maltese is a strange and fascinating language. Derived from Siculo-Arabic, a now-dead form of Arabic spoken in Sicily a thousand years ago, Maltese is unique among languages; simplifying it, we'll call it a Latinized Semitic language. If you speak Italian, you’ll recognize words in Maltese; if you speak Arabic, you’ll also recognize words in Maltese; if you speak English, you’ll have a head trip and enjoy the swing of an incomprehensible language. Listening to Maltese is like having a dream where someone is telling you something important concerning your future. You’re desperately trying to understand it all, and at the same time you feel as if you’re unworthy of being told the secret of life.

I recorded a little snippet from the Mass. I added a few photos from the church interiors. For good measure, I added background bells that I recorded at a different church (there are many churches in Malta!).

Listening to Mass in Maltese, in a church built over several centuries and bedecked in extravagant finery, I was transported to the “Land of Non-understanding,” or as we say in Maltese, “Art ta ‘nuqqas ta’ fehim.” I mean, I didn’t have any idea what the priest was talking about; and I also didn’t have a good idea as to what all the art works and decorations in the church represented; and I also didn’t know what was happening, socially and culturally and historically, within the congregation.

I grew up with Catholicism in Brazil, though it didn’t really “take.” My catechism teacher once told my mother, with a heavy heart, “Pedro could become a Protestant pastor one day.” (I was ten years old.) But that’s a whole other story; this one is about understanding and not understanding, and let’s say that my background in Brazil half a century ago may have helped or hindered my understanding of what was happening at the Church of St. Publius in Floriana, Malta, in April, 2018.

My theory is that most of the time and in most places, most of us don’t truly understand what’s going on. Or, rather, we have our own subjective understanding of what we see, read, and hear; and by “subjective” I mean “filtered, biased, wobbly, unreliable, incoherent, potentially destructive, potentially constructive.” And I think this is inevitable, for the simple reason that we’re human. My suggestion is that we accept and embrace the reality of not understanding reality.

This is as true of a Brazilian attending Mass in Maltese as it is of the same Brazilian listening to his wife, whom he’s known for more than twenty years and whom he loves dearly. Yes, my wife speaks Maltese to me! And I to her, though we speak mutually incomprehensible versions of Maltese, and both versions are called “English.” How confusing is that?

Thinking processes, deeply infused with sensations and emotions, are authentically subjective. Understanding is necessarily subjective, emotive, and “sensational,” to mis-employ a word. How much of Malta did I really understand? Its streets are crowded with icons, statues big and small, banners, and all sorts of religiabilia. (Made-up vocabulary enhances mis-understandability, although common words are just as easy to mis-use and mis-understand.) Do I really understand how the Maltese celebrate the Divine? Are they even celebrating the Divine? What, exactly, is the Divine?

It’s foolish to make assumptions about anything, and it’s very foolish to make assumptions about how much you understand the Other, and how much the Other understands you. Understanding is a dog with three heads and five tails. Don't let it bite you!

I had a wonderful time in Malta, a wonderful time interacting with my colleagues at the conference, and a wonderful time expressing myself verbally and otherwise in front of a hundred puzzled listeners. We mis-understood one another perfectly.