Front of the House ~ Back of the House

It’s a curiosity to me that I love to write while I’m on an airplane. Since I don’t like flying much, it’s odd that I am so comfortable writing at 30,000 feet in the air. It’s the in-betweenness I like, the liminal quality of being neither here nor there. It’s like traveling through ambiguity.

Today I am on a flight somewhere between Minnesota and Arizona. I’m seated where I can easily see the flight attendants in the tiny galley kitchen, working like bees in a hive, each with a job, done in an order they all know, like choreography in a closet. I hear them whispering about the cabin crew on yesterday’s flight, how they were all “newbies.” One of them groans slightly, while another rolls her eyes. Then their voices go so low I can’t make out what they are talking about, but the cadence makes me know the conversation has turned to gossip. A passenger approaches them on his way to the bathroom and their tones change suddenly, like a musical instrument modulating from a minor to a major key. They instantly sound like Delta chatbots. One of them smiles perfectly revealing the whitest and straightest teeth I have ever seen; I imagine she models for a dentist’s practice in her spare time. Another grins as she puts a tray of soda cans and juices on the little metal counter. And the third one points gracefully to the lavatory as though the passenger could possibly get lost in this 25 square foot space.

I am reminded of a psychotherapy client I had years ago. He was a sous-chef at an upscale restaurant. He taught me about the reality of the restaurant world: that in every food establishment, there is a front of the house (the dining room, patio, bar, restrooms) and the back of the house (the kitchen, including prep areas, dishwashing stations, storage rooms, freezers). The chef, food workers and dishwashers in the back of the house do not generally interact with the people in the front of the house — the customers, the patrons. The only restaurant staff who have anything to do with them are the waitstaff, hostess and bartenders. The front is festive and welcoming; the lighting and music are set to create a mood of relaxation or gaiety, while in the back, there are bright lights, loud noises and a palpable atmosphere of pressure and intensity. Sometimes the cooks are screaming at one another, swearing about timing and efficiency. They are two different universes under the same roof: in the back there is a swirl of drama, power dynamics and raw emotion, and a few feet away in the front is an organized dining room of civility.

I love thinking about this: there’s an orchestrated image, a performance, an amalgam of pretense and truthfulness in everything we enjoy or need. Something pleasant, entertaining, therapeutic or at least benign is paired with a darker reality of personal politics, bad moods, petty grievances, and perhaps, vulnerability. At the theater or concert hall, the polished, much-rehearsed show onstage belies what’s happening backstage, unseen by the audience: anxieties and tensions of the lighting, sound and stage crew. In a physician’s office, the doctor entering the room often projects confidence, equanimity and wisdom. After all, this is what patients come for. Yet, in reality, there is usually a roiling underbelly sitting inside each medical professional. And despite a feeling of calm in the waiting room, there may be dysfunctional dynamics playing out among the support staff and the nurses. All is not what it seems.

As children, most of us witnessed this dichotomy when we watched The Wizard of Oz. Dorothy and Toto were on a quest to find the Emerald City after a tornado expelled them from the comforts of home in Kansas. At the end of the movie, after they (and three friends they meet along the way) survive an encounter with the Wicked Witch and other allegorical dangers, they reach the Emerald City, ruled by the ruthless and powerful Wizard of Oz. As they arrive at their destination, they see his enormous and frightening image on a far wall and hear his loud, intimidating voice bellowing questions at them. Then Toto tugs at a curtain, revealing the real Wizard — a small, powerless, unassuming man. A fraud. He has a kingdom of subjects who believe him to be a godlike leader, and really, he is a nervous coward.

When I watch the news at night, I am often struck by the juxtaposition of the frightening state of the world with the commercials that punctuate (and fund) the broadcast. For example, a grim story about the increase of fentanyl deaths is followed by an ad showing happy adults dancing in some town square. They are singing a jingle about how some medication is the answer to depression or diabetes or erectile dysfunction. In every drug commercial, people look joyful and carefree while the voice-over warns of suicidal ideation, thyroid cancer, erections lasting for hours. I suppose advertising is the archetypal area of modern life that emphasizes the promise of front-of-the-house experiences (flawless skin, compassionate and responsive health care, perfectly white teeth). Behind the scenes, however, we know that the marketing industry is often fraught with cutthroat competition, deception and manipulation.

My interest and curiosity lie, almost always, in what resides in the back of the house. I like messy dynamics, raw, unedited expressions of emotion and vulnerability. Sometimes they scare me, but I am never bored by them. As a child, I observed the dinner parties my parents threw in Manhattan. Our living room was on the floor above the bedrooms in the brownstone we lived in. I would crouch at the foot of the stairs to eavesdrop on all the gaiety going on above me. I could make out conversations my parents were having, the laughter and raucous discourse. They were the magnanimous and generous hosts, the warm welcomers of their friends and colleagues. Yet I  heard their altercations leading up to the parties. Often critical of the friends they were inviting, I wondered why they were even hosting a big gathering — it sounded to me as if it were going to be a terrible time for both of them. Yet during the party, it was as though all their best friends were in attendance. I was both confused and fascinated.

Today, I am no longer perplexed by this universal and inevitable bifurcation. In fact, I welcome learning about what’s on the other side of pleasant. For example, I did not feel a connection to Ted Lasso in the popular show of the same name until he started having panic attacks. Until then, it seemed to me to be a superficial, albeit upbeat, sitcom. Straight front-of-the-house material. Once he was shown to be a more dimensional character, when his consistently positive and affable nature was paired with his hidden and inner emotional conflict — well, then the show became interesting to me.
The Royal Family in the UK is an iconic example of the appearance of grandeur, cohesiveness, calmness. What are meant to be seen are the ceremonies, the symbolic representations of unity and stability. Yet what the world is mesmerized by is the behind-the-pageant reality (or the versions of reality we read in the press). So many plays, movies, shows have focused on the  underbelly of the Royal House: The Crown, Downton Abbey, Spencer, The King’s Speech … the list could go on for pages. Let’s not forget Prince Harry’s 2023 international bestseller, Spare — a true back-of-the-house exposé.

I cannot think of anything in life, any person or any place, that does not exist in these two planes: the presentation, persona, role, performance, masterpiece in front and then the more unseen shadows lying beneath or behind. It is not surprising I chose a career that would allow me to help people focus on their unconscious longings and the places they find themselves repeatedly stuck. What could be more back-of-the-house than dreams, secrets and shame?

So here I am, on a vacation from the work that fascinates me, flying from freezing Minnesota to sunny Arizona, and I see it all in action: the Delta flight attendants scrunched in a tiny galley kitchen gossiping like grackles on a clothesline. And as if on cue, and with Delta smiles suddenly shining, they turn toward the passengers, offering peanuts, reassurance and comfort as though there is nothing more important in the world to them at this very moment.