It's a mystery to me why someone who experiences difficulty and obstacles in clearly communicating thoughts, ideas, speculations and other notions would even bother considering studying or even majoring in Communications. But yet, here I am, a student earning a bachelors degree in Communications, watching various dialogue between specific parties suffer because of a lack of clear communication.
A specific family that I am observing is undergoing such a metamorphisis, one that is painful not only to those involved, but also to the individuals the family employs, as they become an unwilling audience during the communication lapses.
I introduce to you a local business with proprietors named George, Glenn, Gary and Curt. This 90-year-old business, whose foundation was originally established on motor vehicle inspection and repairs, has also developed to include the transportation business as the sole provider of transporting students to public school in a small school district.
I did not know the original proprietor, George, but I came to know his grandson, Gary, as the main school bus driver I had when I was a child. Because it is a family business, Gary's brother, sister, son and wife also work there, forgoing any personal, individual dreams they may have held as a teen to help run the family business.Occasionally, I came into contact with Gary's father, Glenn, who would have to drive the bus route as a substitute. A man of general build, he seemed threatening as my siblings and I boarded the bus, the stub of a cigarette clenched between his lips; the stench of burning tobacco leaves permeating the bus cavity and latching on to all who stepped inside. His dark hair was slicked back and revealed penetrating black eyes, almost shark-like in nature. He rarely spoke, but when he did, he growled orders.
Once children entered the zone at the top of the steps, Glenn snapped the bus doors shut and threw the bus into gear in one fluid motion, propelling children down the aisle with centrifugal energy. We fought against the forces to find a seat--perhaps for safety or simply to be anchored from being tossed around like rocks inside a tin can.
In the winter, country roads can be extra slippery. The grandfather knew no fear in this, however, and rounded each downhill twisted turn while rarely applying brakes. To the right, a plunging bank over 100 foot straight down lured the bus; children gripped the window sill frames in terror, leaving knuckle marks in the condensated window.
Less gruffer in nature, son Gary was more amiable and friendly; we didn't need to fight gravity in order to find a seat. George and Glenn have since passed away, and Gary has been operating the business for the last 30 years or so, raising his own son, Curt as heir apparent to the business.
Now I am employed by Gary, and observing what must be decades of communication that have been considered ordinary being exhibited between the father and son. I wonder if George, patriarch of the clan, had established the yelling tactics rather than developing calm, fluid lines of dialogue with his son, Glenn.
I wonder if Glenn had sneered all over Gary's ideas during arguments. Had he thrown sarcastic comments at Gary, and forced him flailing down the communication aisle? In repsonse, did Gary roll his eyes, rake his hair and need to leave the room, yet continue to yell through the walls in order to be heard?
A close likeness to his grandfather, Curt's dark eyes blaze when being argued with; his black hair cropped close to his scalp, revealing flushed skin underneath; the curl of his lips turning into a sneer at a business decision his father Gary has made--one that will affect Curt's future.
I don't wonder if the business will survive when it's turned over to Curt. Instead, I wonder if the communication lines will have collapsed, leaving a family unable to transmit anything but contention.
