Dad was at my Aunt Sue's house with a few people, talking about sitting in traffic. No one likes sitting in traffic. That's a given. It's on par with having your flight delayed or sitting at the DMV anxiously waiting for your number to be called.
Dad, however, has a different perspective. He said that it's not so bad. You have your air conditioning, the radio, and a comfortable chair. It's really not that bad. Sometimes, he even enjoys it. Because he's the most reasonable person alive.
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| This photo is from 6 years ago, but it's the only one I have on hand. |
While I was [ahem] between jobs, I worked in his law office doing tedious paperwork and screening calls from potential clients. Attorney's offices are where indignant Americans go to get revenge on any Tom, Dick, or Harry who swindled them out of a few dollars or said something they think is defamation of character. My main purpose was to tell them they didn't have a case without using profanity.
When there was an especially persistent and difficult caller, Dad would take the call and explain in his even tone why not only he, but no lawyer worth their dime would take the case. He said he's been hung-up on a few times, probably to make me feel a better about my first yell-and-hand-up-call. But as far as I could tell, every person ended the call thinking Doug Meier was the most logical person in the world.
In addition, he's one of only a handful of lawyers who will answer inmate letters. That was another one of my duties. Every single letter goes answered, usually with a piece of legal advice, even if there's nothing he can do to help them. When word got out there's a lawyer who answers letters, prison mail started coming to his office in droves. All of them get a reply. He said that most inmates just want to know someone is listening.
I've always thought he'd make a great judge. If he were to teach, he'd be every law student's favorite lecturer. But he chooses to work hundred hour weeks, suing insurance companies and other lawyers whose incompetence ruined someone's life. His profession has been so ingrained in our lives, that as children, we'd play a game called Judge for Yourself. You read real court cases and have to figure out how the jury or judge voted. I never knew that was strange until my friends said they mostly played Candyland.
His success as a lawyer comes from two philosophies that he repeats to me several times a month:
- It's not about what you say, but how you say it.
- It's easier to put out a fire with water than gasoline.
Dad credits his level head to a few things. One is his upbringing. I don't know what my grandparents were like in the 60's, but Dad's side of the family (two parents and six children) is probably the only one in the modern world that doesn't fight with each other. No one ever gets mad and holds a grudge or displays passive aggressive tendencies. I'm not saying they're saints, but the ruffled feathers come from those who married in.
His other reason is that he lived in developing countries for the better part of his twenties -- Thailand, Bangladesh, and Somalia. He worked for NGOs that were positioned in refugee camps (which is how I was eventually born).
It's those experiences that gave him wisdom and insight into my frustration with Cambodia. He's talked me down from countless ledges because working here is grinding. It's that insane degree of difficulty that gave him the patience to own a business in the United States. When you have to bribe a government official, drive around all day to find stuff that's neatly consolidated in a Target or Walmart, or use Google as a trusted pediatrician, all the things you thought were difficult at home are put into perspective.
Dad would never try to make his life sound poetic. He would probably just say he gets paid to do his job and his kids made it to adulthood without any major injuries. To me, he couldn't handle his day-to-day without knowing another life. A life where everything is much worse than an extra hour in traffic.
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