My Friend Pracha
I am not mourning the passing of a man so much as I am mourning the passing of a great example of the human spirit. Pracha died yesterday. It was unexpected, although he had high blood pressure. They found him in his bed, having died in his sleep.
Two types of people change our lives. The first are the people who have an impact on us of which we are well aware. Parents, siblings, best friends and teachers change our lives and shape our futures. And when we arrive at our destinies and milestones, we can look back and see a clear trace of their influence on our traveled paths.
But then there are those people whose fingerprints are all over our lives, people who impacted us and changed us forever, but we were never aware of their life-altering presence. They may not be the overwhelming catalyst that pushed us towards the destination, but they definitely made the journey worthwhile and memorable. It seems as though when these people pass, the sting is that much harder.
Fortunately, Pracha was one of the former. Unfortunately, he should have been one of the latter.
Pracha was middle-aged, from Thailand. He was a waiter. He was a friend. He worked hard by working smart. He did what was asked of him with smiles and no complaints. When things got hectic, he made a joke, usually about himself.
He had a long journey from Thailand to Nashville, and I only knew a fraction of his story. He once showed me a letter of recommendation, almost thirty years old. It was from the president of the Tupperware Company of Thailand. It had been written on a typewriter, and Pracha carried it in a plastic sleeve. The letter went with him everywhere, from Asia to America. It was with him when he ran beverages to the foyer, and when he took trays to the kitchen. It got him job after job, including his server position at the Marriott.
One time, when we were setting the tables for a group lunch, he told me he was impressed with the background music that was playing overhead. It was the typical instrumental Muzak versions of popular songs. On many a slow day I wander through the lobby, trying to figure out what popular song has been transformed into 'elevator music' by means of saxophone and piano. Honestly, I find the game amusing, but the music annoying. But Pracha said he liked it. It calmed him down. He didn't like the loud stuff that plays on most radio stations today. "This type of music should be played at work," he told me. "It calms people down so they don't yell at each other and everyone can work together." I told him I would keep the radio set to this station.
Pracha embodied how that music made him feel. He was always there, in the background, only noticed by the particularly observant eye. Like the music, he soothed others. His smile was contagious, and his laugh was beautiful. He made everyone feel at home, no matter where they were from, no matter what they were doing or feeling.
And this is why he will be missed. While other lives will directly impact us through financial means, wise advice, monumental decisions, or courageous inspiration, an untold number of others will change our days and attitudes with smiles, handshakes, laughs, tears, musings, and stories.
The last time I saw him, I said hello as I always did by yelling his name and asking him how he was. It was a normal exchange; nothing about it was out of the ordinary. This is how I will always remember him because this is how he became my friend and covertly changed my life. In the ordinariness that forms the core of my life, Pracha stepped in and lived his ordinary life. And the two ordinaries came together to form something that seemed so basic until it was gone, forcing me to realize the extraordinariness of it all.
Pracha celebrated five years with the Marriott last month. No doubt his impact on lives, especially mine, will last much longer. In memory of him, I encourage my readers to listen to the story of everyone around you, and to tell yours, too. Lives will change forever because of your ordinariness. Just like my friend Pracha.
Two types of people change our lives. The first are the people who have an impact on us of which we are well aware. Parents, siblings, best friends and teachers change our lives and shape our futures. And when we arrive at our destinies and milestones, we can look back and see a clear trace of their influence on our traveled paths.
But then there are those people whose fingerprints are all over our lives, people who impacted us and changed us forever, but we were never aware of their life-altering presence. They may not be the overwhelming catalyst that pushed us towards the destination, but they definitely made the journey worthwhile and memorable. It seems as though when these people pass, the sting is that much harder.
Fortunately, Pracha was one of the former. Unfortunately, he should have been one of the latter.
Pracha was middle-aged, from Thailand. He was a waiter. He was a friend. He worked hard by working smart. He did what was asked of him with smiles and no complaints. When things got hectic, he made a joke, usually about himself.
He had a long journey from Thailand to Nashville, and I only knew a fraction of his story. He once showed me a letter of recommendation, almost thirty years old. It was from the president of the Tupperware Company of Thailand. It had been written on a typewriter, and Pracha carried it in a plastic sleeve. The letter went with him everywhere, from Asia to America. It was with him when he ran beverages to the foyer, and when he took trays to the kitchen. It got him job after job, including his server position at the Marriott.
One time, when we were setting the tables for a group lunch, he told me he was impressed with the background music that was playing overhead. It was the typical instrumental Muzak versions of popular songs. On many a slow day I wander through the lobby, trying to figure out what popular song has been transformed into 'elevator music' by means of saxophone and piano. Honestly, I find the game amusing, but the music annoying. But Pracha said he liked it. It calmed him down. He didn't like the loud stuff that plays on most radio stations today. "This type of music should be played at work," he told me. "It calms people down so they don't yell at each other and everyone can work together." I told him I would keep the radio set to this station.
Pracha embodied how that music made him feel. He was always there, in the background, only noticed by the particularly observant eye. Like the music, he soothed others. His smile was contagious, and his laugh was beautiful. He made everyone feel at home, no matter where they were from, no matter what they were doing or feeling.
And this is why he will be missed. While other lives will directly impact us through financial means, wise advice, monumental decisions, or courageous inspiration, an untold number of others will change our days and attitudes with smiles, handshakes, laughs, tears, musings, and stories.
The last time I saw him, I said hello as I always did by yelling his name and asking him how he was. It was a normal exchange; nothing about it was out of the ordinary. This is how I will always remember him because this is how he became my friend and covertly changed my life. In the ordinariness that forms the core of my life, Pracha stepped in and lived his ordinary life. And the two ordinaries came together to form something that seemed so basic until it was gone, forcing me to realize the extraordinariness of it all.
Pracha celebrated five years with the Marriott last month. No doubt his impact on lives, especially mine, will last much longer. In memory of him, I encourage my readers to listen to the story of everyone around you, and to tell yours, too. Lives will change forever because of your ordinariness. Just like my friend Pracha.
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