Dwain Northey

Misunderstanding: Or Maybe a Restraining Order?

There are songs we hear so many times that we stop actually listening to the lyrics. They become part of the soundtrack of our lives, and we absorb the emotion without necessarily examining the story being told.

Genesis’ “Misunderstanding” is one of those songs.

On the surface, it’s easy to understand the sentiment. The narrator is heartbroken. He’s waiting for someone who doesn’t show up. He calls, waits, searches, and eventually realizes that the relationship may be falling apart. It’s melancholy, catchy, and wrapped in that particular brand of late-1970s/early-1980s emotional misery that Genesis could deliver so well.

And if you’re the narrator, you’re obviously the victim.

But let’s try something different.

Let’s listen to the song from the perspective of the person he’s singing about.

Suddenly, this isn’t necessarily a sad story about a guy who has been abandoned.

It might be a story about a guy who desperately needs to be told to stop showing up.

Because that’s the funny thing about songs involving heartbreak: the person telling the story is usually the person who gets to decide who the villain is.

The narrator tells us about waiting. He tells us about trying to find her. He tells us about driving around looking for her. He tells us about the plans they apparently had. He tells us about her absence and his confusion.

What he doesn’t tell us is what she thinks is happening.

Maybe she really did misunderstand.

Or maybe she understood perfectly.

Maybe she didn’t want to see him.

That’s where the song gets considerably more uncomfortable.

Imagine reversing the roles. Imagine being the person on the other end of this story. You’ve apparently failed to show up for a meeting, and now this guy is driving around looking for you. He’s calling. He’s trying to figure out where you are. He’s emotionally distraught because you aren’t where he expects you to be.

At some point, you might reasonably think:

“Dude, this isn’t a misunderstanding. I’m avoiding you.”

And if he doesn’t get the hint, eventually the conversation changes from “Why doesn’t she love me anymore?” to “Why won’t this guy leave me alone?”

That’s a pretty significant distinction.

We tend to romanticize persistence in relationships. Movies do it constantly. Songs do it constantly. The guy refuses to give up because he’s convinced that the relationship is still there somewhere underneath the misunderstanding.

But persistence only looks romantic when the other person wants you to persist.

Otherwise, it’s just unwanted attention with a better soundtrack.

That’s the uncomfortable thing about looking at old love songs through a modern lens. We have become considerably more aware of the difference between romantic devotion and obsession.

And obsession has a funny way of rewriting reality.

The obsessed person doesn’t necessarily think they’re being obsessive. They think they’re being devoted.

They’re not stalking.

They’re trying to find you.

They’re not refusing to accept rejection.

They’re fighting for the relationship.

They’re not ignoring boundaries.

They’re trying to understand what went wrong.

And they’re not imagining a relationship that may no longer exist.

They’re holding on to what they know is still there.

Except, of course, the other person gets a vote.

That’s the part missing from the narrator’s perspective.

We don’t hear her explanation.

We don’t know why she didn’t show up.

We don’t know whether she had second thoughts, changed her mind, met someone else, became uncomfortable, or simply decided she didn’t want to continue the relationship.

All we know is that the narrator believes something has gone terribly wrong.

And that’s exactly how obsession can work. The person experiencing it fills in the blanks with their own interpretation because accepting the alternative—that the other person simply doesn’t want them anymore—is emotionally unbearable.

It’s easier to believe there has been a misunderstanding.

Because a misunderstanding can be fixed.

Rejection can’t.

And that’s where the title itself becomes almost unintentionally funny.

Misunderstanding.

Maybe.

Or maybe the narrator understands perfectly well what happened and simply doesn’t like the answer.

There is an important difference between “She didn’t understand what I meant” and “I don’t understand why she doesn’t want me.”

The first is a communication problem.

The second is a boundary problem.

And if the second person keeps pursuing the first person after being rejected, we’re no longer talking about a romantic tragedy. We’re getting into territory where someone might reasonably be researching restraining orders.

That’s not to say the narrator is necessarily some sinister psychopath hiding behind a sentimental melody. That’s obviously an exaggeration. The song was written as a pop song about loneliness and romantic disappointment, not as a psychological case study.

But that’s precisely why examining lyrics from another perspective is interesting.

We automatically empathize with the person singing.

They’re the one telling us what happened.

They’re sad.

They’re lonely.

They’re confused.

They’re the protagonist.

Therefore, they’re right.

But real life doesn’t work that way.

Sometimes the protagonist is simply the person with the microphone.

And sometimes the person with the microphone is leaving out some rather important information.

Maybe the woman in “Misunderstanding” isn’t cruel.

Maybe she isn’t confused.

Maybe she isn’t playing games.

Maybe she just wants some distance.

And maybe if she were given the opportunity to tell her side of the story, the entire song would sound very different.

It might go something like:

“I thought I made it pretty clear I didn’t want to see him anymore, but apparently that wasn’t clear enough because now he’s driving around looking for me.”

Suddenly Genesis has accidentally wandered from heartbreak into true crime.

And that is the beauty of examining old songs this way.

The lyrics don’t change.

Our perspective does.

What sounds like romantic persistence from one side can sound like obsession from the other. What sounds like heartbreaking confusion to the narrator can sound like someone refusing to accept another person’s autonomy.

Maybe it really was a misunderstanding.

Or maybe the narrator’s biggest misunderstanding was believing that someone else’s decision not to be with him required an explanation he was entitled to receive.

Because love isn’t ownership.

A relationship isn’t a contract that one person can continue enforcing after the other person has mentally checked out.

And rejection isn’t a puzzle that persistence is guaranteed to solve.

Sometimes the answer is simply no.

And sometimes the healthiest thing you can do when someone doesn’t show up is not drive around looking for them.

You go home.

You listen to the song.

You eat some ice cream.

You feel miserable for a while.

And eventually you move on.

Because if you don’t, the next chapter of the love story may not be a reunion.

It may be a judge explaining the difference between heartbreak and harassment.

And somehow, I don’t think that was the misunderstanding Genesis had in mind.