The point of shutting your mouth

I just took an Uber home from my gym. My driver, H, had a story to tell.

When he was 18, he joined the Army – the Iranian Army – and was assigned to guard the Shah’s palace. For four years. In those four years, he never got a night’s sleep.

His duty was two hours on, two hours off, 24 hours a day. Catnaps were all he ever got. On “weekends”, waking hours were spent listening to indoctrinations. He was 18 years old, sure, but even 18-year-olds get worn down after a while. And H was a person of rank -- a sergeant, a leader. He couldn’t let down his men.

H also happened to be well connected -- extremely so. His mother’s close friend was married to the chief of the Army. His uncle was head of Savak, the Shah’s feared secret police. H asked did I know what Savak was. I said I thought so: the most powerful organization in pre-revolutionary Iran. H nodded. That’s because Savak’s power came directly from the all-powerful Shah, he said.

“Not many people know about the Savak,” H added in a tone of some wonder. I could have told him how well-informed I am, reading the New York Times and the Washington Post and the Wall Street Journal and listening to NPR, but I didn’t. I just made some throwaway reply. After all, this was about H, not me.

Then came the revolution, H went on. He remembers folks shooting guns into the air and thinking that what goes up must come down, that soon it’d be raining bullets. On the second day, the revolution murdered H’s uncle, the Savak boss. Shortly thereafter, H was on a plane to the United States.

H let me off 10 minutes later. I thanked him for his story and wished him a happy New Year. He reciprocated, calling me “brother.” I gave him a five-star rating and tipped $2 on a $6 fare.

Normally it’s $10 from the gym to my home. It would have been $10 on Lyft but Uber apparently was having a sale. Good thing I went for the sale. I wouldn’t have heard H’s story.

The time we went to Dulles Airport in the car of a refugee from North Korea, it might have been Uber or Lyft. I don’t remember. What I do remember was our driver telling us his story in a difficult accent … for the entire half hour.

I wish I recalled more details but this trip was a year or so ago. What I do remember thinking was how hard it is to flee North Korea and how few people do so without getting killed.

North Korea is a prison from which no one escapes. Learn about it in one of the most gripping novels I've ever read. Winner of the Pulitzer Prize.

I remember too that our driver is now a journalist with a connection to, I think, CNN, specializing in North Korea. That specialty must be pretty rare too. But it’s not too surprising here in the Nation’s Capitol. We don’t have many punch press operators but we do have lots of political refugees, plus people to tell their stories.

Everyone though, punch press operators included, has a story to tell.

I used to be one of those whose job was to tell such stories. For much of my career, I worked as a journalist with organizations including the Washington Post and The Associated Press. There I discovered the way to get a good story is to keep your ears open and your mouth shut.

Years ago I found myself on a cross-country Amtrak train where one of my dining-car seatmates was a pilot in the Saudi air force. Not “had been” – was, active duty. He was visiting the U.S. to see his daughter in Texas but he was in no rush. First he meant to see our country and what better way than on the train? When we connected, he’d been riding the rails for weeks.

I remember a sharp-looking guy in his 40s who spoke with a light accent and didn’t look like me. We began to talk. That took care of dinner. When our two other seatmates excused themselves and the dining car cleared out, he and I were still at it.

He told me of his life, a privileged one. He told me what sort of place Saudi Arabia was at that time. He told me what he’d seen of America and how much he likes it. He talked with love of the daughter in Texas he was soon to see.

As you know if you’ve read these essays a while, I am a Jew. As you probably suspect (I did), my dinner companion almost certainly was a Muslim. And as you may have heard, there’s a degree of historical animosity between these two religious factions.

As we talked, I wondered about bringing this up. I never did. I couldn’t see the point. And I didn’t want to interrupt the flow.

We wound up in his compartment, not drinking, just talking. Eventually I started getting drowsy and took my leave. I forget most details of what we said; I know it was more about him than about me. I forget his name; but I will never forget him.

Back when I was a kid in the Chicago bureau of The AP, I had a mentor, the late W. Joseph “Joe” Dill. Joe was my editor and my friend. Joe was my teacher too; I learned more about the art and craft of journalism from him than anyone else. Joe died young -- 63 – of a heart attack. I’ll never forget him either.

But one big thing I learned at The AP was more from trial and error than from Joe or anyone: how to interview. It’s easy to figure out – ears open mouth shut – but hard to do.

When you do open your mouth, ask questions. Useful ones, questions that elicit interesting answers. Asking such questions on the fly is an art in itself and takes lots of practice. But it must be done, on the principle of garbage in garbage out: bad questions = dull stories.

And never … never … never … talk about yourself. That’s the hardest part.

Because it is a truth universally acknowledged that the most interesting subject to you is … you. You’d yammer on all day about yourself if others would let you. I know I would.

Well, others will put up with a degree of it, out of politeness. But as you talk, they’re mentally filing you under “boring.”

And worse, you won’t hear great stories.

Because everyone has a story to tell. Everyone. Park your preconceptions and your prejudices … look at the other as a fellow human trying to get along as best he/she can … keep ears open and mouth shut long enough … and you will hear it.

Frank S Joseph Author

P.S. Happy New Year!