The Complaint Department
A Belated Mother's Day Tale
“Whoever told you life was fair?” my mother asked, standing in the kitchen of our 1970s ranch-style home on the outskirts of Denver.
I was only 8, but I remember this moment vividly.
The single fixture over the sink, lighting her face. The smell and sound of dinner, hamburger meat, sizzling in a nearby skillet. The sound of cabinet doors as she reached for spices. And my younger brother down the hall, unfairly and loudly helping himself to my toys without asking.
“Whattaya mean?” I asked. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand what?” she replied, continuing to fix dinner.
“No one told me,” I said.
She paused and looked down at me. “No one told you what?”
“No one told me that life is fair.”
For a second, she looked puzzled.
“I mean, you asked me, ‘Whoever told you life was fair?’ And no one told me. Was someone supposed to tell me?” I asked.
“No, Hal, no one was supposed to tell you.”
“Then why’d you ask me that?”
“It’s just an expression, honey,” she said, quickly grabbing the skillet off the burner.
“What? Why?”
She stirred the meat, and then paused and turned to me. “Because often things just aren’t fair.”
“Really?
“Well, it’s not that simple, really, but also, it just kinda is.”
“Then what’s the point of doing the right thing?” I asked.
“Because you know it’s right, and the right thing’s worth fighting for,” she said, pausing for adding, “and sometimes the right thing wins.”
“So sometimes it is fair?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Sometimes. It sounds like you have a specific complaint about something being unfair.”
I nodded. “Yes!”
“Well, then, maybe you should file a complaint with the complaint department,” she said, her tone quite serious.
“How do you do that?” I asked, immediately liking the official sound of it.
“Write it up,” my mother explained. “Like a report for school. Get down all the details, everything. And bring it to me when you’re done, and I’ll tell you what to do next,” she said.
Sequestering myself in my room, I filled pages with explicit details of how I’d been wronged, how it wasn’t fair, and how justice was required. I read over it, erased, and revised. Then, I read it aloud several more times, making more changes. I imagined the people in the complaint department reading it. I knew they would see things my way.
Finding my mother in the den, reading on the sofa, I proudly handed her my complaint. She put down her book and read over my words, gently nodding. “Wow. You’ve done quite a good job,” she said.
“Is it ready to be filed?” I replied.
She nodded. “Most definitely. You can file it yourself.”
A smile crept across my face. “Okay,” I said.
“Just take it up to the sixth floor,” she said, handing my papers back. “That’s where the complaint department is. Sixth floor. You can file it there.” She then nonchalantly picked up her book and continued reading.
For a good minute, I stood there in silence, thinking. Then, I finally blurted out, “What sixth floor?”
My mother looked up from her book. “The one where the complaint department is, I just told you, you can file it there.”
“But wait…”
“What?”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where is the sixth floor?”
“Usually above the fifth,” she said. “Now, please, I’m trying to read.”
“But wait…”
“What?”
“Here? In our house? It’s here?”
“Should be, yes.”
I thought really hard before opening my mouth again. Was there a secret stairway or elevator? “But we only have one floor,” I said, “and the basement. So…I don’t understand…”
My mother pondered this for a moment, nodding. “Hmm,” she uttered. “True.”
“So there is no complaint department?” I asked, feeling suddenly very defeated.
“No, Hal, there’s not,” she said.
I asked her why she had me write up the complaint. What was the point? She asked me if I felt better getting it out on paper. “Sort of, yes,” I said. That was part of the reason, she explained. To give me a place to vent, and writing is good for that, she explained.
“Sometimes you write complaints that don’t get filed,” she added. “Because the world, Hal, doesn’t like complainers and whiners. Not that you shouldn’t ever complain because you should, but only for the most important things. You know what the world does like?” she asked.
“What?” I replied.
“People who instead of complaining look at every situation and see what they can do to make it better, improve it, change it. If you see something broken, instead of complaining, maybe just fix it. That’s what the world needs more of, son, and that’s what the world will welcome. Be a fixer—not a complainer.”
My mother was right. And as such, quietly doing the work of fixing and not complaining became a core foundational theme of growing up in our home. As a result, my parents raised three fixers, and as anyone who knows my siblings will attest to, they are neither complainers nor whiners, but powerful doers who see problems and tackle them—often with extraordinary results. The same can be said of their chosen spouses.
So on this Mother’s Day (okay, a day late), I’d like to say thank you to the one who taught us this principle. For indeed, untold many have reaped its rewards. It’s an exponential thing, kind of like an ACT or SAT Math question—a really good one.
Thanks, Mom. Happy Belated Mother’s Day. I love you. -Hal