Is it wrong of me to enjoy telling a kid I don’t like that she can’t do something? The way I see it, this is a kid who isn’t used to being told no, and I am more than happy to remind her what it sounds like. On second thought, that’s not entirely true, because she gets in trouble a fair amount. But denying her something she wants, even if it makes me look petty, is a small but satisfying morsel.
I do not have it out for this kid. She, however, has it out for my kid. AH (her actual initials, not just a slur) has been bullying my youngest daughter, S, for a year and a half now. They attend a Montessori school, so they will be in class together for another year and half, although the constant physical and verbal abuse my child endures makes me question my decision to keep her there. In public school, they have a slew of programs designed to identify and deal with bullying. They probably even have a mascot with a Scottish name or something. At S’s private school, I have the privilege of paying thousands of dollars a year for them to turn a blind eye.
Last year, AH was very physical. She would push S, shove her, knock her out of chairs, and even once smacked her upside the head with a lunchbox. Granted, it wasn’t a metal one like we used to have, but even those soft sided PVC-free bags can pack a wallop. And don’t forget about the ice pack. It makes a Hello Kitty lunch box the school yard equivalent of a tube sock filled with oranges.
AH has since started ADHD medication, which lessens her physical assaults. Unfortunately, AH is now more focused and better able to articulate her contempt for S, with a much greater verbal ability. She needles her daily, putting down virtually everything she can think of to get a rise out of my child. She doesn’t just call her stupid, she tells S that the teacher is wrong to think S is smart. She tells S that no one wants to be her friend because she is a liar and a tattletale. She forbids S from joining in games (much like the ostracized Rudolph) and attempts to sway other children in shunning her.
My daughter generally keeps her frustration inside, going about her day, doing her work and being kind to the other children in her class. But when she gets in my car at the end of the school day, she decompensates and gives me a detailed grievance report. She shares not only her conflicts, but the ones her friends experienced as well, and believe me, it is a never-ending list.
The situation with AH even has me questioning my style of parenting. I am an attentive, mostly patient mother to my children, and they know they can tell me anything, even if they have done something wrong. I have taught them to try to resolve their own conflicts, but never physically, and also to learn how to ignore people who persist in their hateful behavior. Overall, we try to include everyone, to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I am not preparing them for the real world, which is more likely filled with people like AH instead of people like S. If this were 1952, and S were a boy, I would have told her to deck AH, to pop her in the kisser. But that isn't an option in today's world, where even taking a plastic knife to school gets you a year in juvie.
AH is a lost cause. Whatever her reasons, she has a mission to destroy S’s self esteem. I’ve talked about it with her teachers and the school director, but always, it is a case of an unwitnessed occurrence, over before the teacher had an opportunity to see it or intervene. I’ve pointed out that each individual event is not my concern. Rather, it is the chronic nature of these incidents, the overall pattern, with which I have a problem. But AH’s mother also pays thousands of dollars a year, and the school collects it and tells the kids to try to get along.
I feel powerless to change this situation, but when a rare passive-aggressive opportunity for retaliation arises, I pounce on it, all ninja cat.
Last week was the class play/holiday party. The teacher chose the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, a Grimm Brothers feel-good story that fictionalizes the disappearance of children in a small German village, the kind of story that puts even the Scrooges among us in a holiday mood.
As the unofficial class mom, I was in charge of the holiday party, making sure there was enough food for the class and family members who came to watch the performance. With the help of a few other moms, I set up the food trays before the show, then joined my husband and watched the production, trying to refrain from laughing unless appropriate to the scene. Afterwards, it was time to enjoy the goodies and fellowship (my daughter actually said that once after a similar play/holiday party combo.) I rushed ahead of the other parents, not to raid the food, but to uncover all the trays and mix up the punch.
I poured cans of pineapple-mango juice with two liter bottles of Sprite and chunks of ice—Voila! Punch!—and filled cups with the concoction when AH sidled up to the table.
“What are you making?” she asked me.
“Punch,” I answered.
“Can I just have a cup of Sprite?” she asked.
“No,” I told her. “The Sprite is for the punch. If I gave everyone Sprite, there wouldn’t be enough for the punch.” In your face, AH!
She skulked away, carrying her plate of cookies. About fifteen minutes later, she tried again, this time with her big headed little sister.
“Can we have some Sprite?” AH asked.
“The answer is still no. Sorry,” I replied sweetly.
That will show her not to be mean to my kid! Okay, it might not be the most mature thing I could do, but so what? Drink Sprite on your own dime, brat. This here is some motherfucking punch. If you don’t like it, go slurp out of that germy lukewarm water fountain. And no, you can’t have an empty cup. The cups, like the Sprite, are for punch.
I didn’t tell S what I had done, because she is way nicer than I am, but I don’t want her to know that yet. I’d like to think it would make her smile, though. She hates Sprite as much as she hates AH. She would also be happy to know that in one small way, I stood up for her. We have to advocate for our children, if only by one denied cup of Sprite. Maybe next year I will limit AH’s cookie consumption too. That’ll show her!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Fly the Friendly Skies
I’m scared to fly, and I don’t understand why everyone isn’t. I have a variety of reasons, most of which are irrational. The basic reason is I don’t understand how a giant heavy metal tube filled with people can stay in the air. I am sure there is a simple explanation, involving the laws of nature and basic engineering principles, but it’s probably too complicated for my pea brain to grasp.
It’s more than just the feasibility of the big metal bird. It’s the canned air, filled with H1N1 virus and whiffs of Legionnaire’s disease. It’s the noise on takeoff, the hum mid flight, and the racket upon landing. It’s all that bumpy, the invisible bumps like potholes in the sky, that make me thinks one more jolt like that and we will fall out of the sky.
The parts of flying that I’m not scared of I just don’t like. The unregulated temperature of the recirculated air, always too hot or too cold. The existence of the barf bag tucked into the seat back, and the knowledge that other people considered using it, or, at the very least, have touched it. The shifting of the contents of the overhead bin. The way the air smells like microwaved chicken, even though they stopped serving meals in 2003. The cramped seats and the cramped aisles and the cramped bathrooms.
And while we are on the subject of airplane bathrooms, what is up with the airplane bathroom? It’s like a port-a-potty in the sky, only not that nice. The only thing missing is feces smeared all over the textured walls. I always wondered about the receptacle for used razor blades. Are that many people shaving with disposable razor blades while flying, or are they more likely contemplating slitting their wrists? I am so scared of someone opening the door while in that tiny water closet, even though it says occupied. I am going to be sitting there, in the middle of a big pee, when the accordion door folds in on me, my jeans at my ankles, bracing myself against the wall in case we hit turbulence and my own pee flies up and hits my ass. How mortifying would that be? Have you ever tried to change a diaper on that rickety little shelf? I’d be scared my baby would be sucked into that metal toilet vacuum hole. Now, seriously, why would anyone want to join the mile high club in there? And what if one day, while sleeping in my bed, a frozen blue chunk of airplane waste crashes through my roof and kills me? What an undignified way to go.
I haven’t even gotten to the parts I don’t like about the airport, but let’s save that for another day, shall we?
Other than writing about it now, however, I don’t’ really talk much about my issues with flying because I don’t want to influence my daughter E’s issues with flying. E has flown several times before, but like me, the older she gets, the more the idea of flying just freaks her out. So when we planned two months ago to fly to Orlando instead of driving for a Thanksgiving trip to Disney World (why spend the holidays with family when you could actually have a good time?), E decided she didn’t want to go at all. Not because she doesn’t like Disney; she loves it. No, she didn’t want to fly there. My husband and I explained to her the advantage of a one hour flight versus a nine hour car trip, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t want to go, and she cried a lot to show us how much she didn’t want to go, and then she had trouble sleeping for two weeks to further illustrate how much she didn’t want to go. I decided we would make a visit to the pediatrician for a little something to help make the proposed vacation a reality.
Our pediatrician, Dr. L, asked the reason for our visit. I explained to him that we needed some medication so that E could fly to Orlando with the rest of the family. He paused and said, “In all the time that I have been a doctor, no one has ever asked me for that.” “Well,” I answered, “if you have any suggestions on how to get her on the plane, I’m all ears. If not, we’ll be needing that prescription.”
We discussed how other children are also scared to fly but don’t need medicine. We discussed how E had already taken Valium for minor oral surgery, and how I had to kick her down the aisle the last time we flew. Then he wrote out a prescription for anti-anxiety medication. Four Valium. Perfect! Two for her and two for me.
The day of our trip, E and I both got nervous. It didn’t help matters much that our flight left after lunch, so that we had the entire morning to sit around and panic. I occupied myself with last minute obsessive packing of unnecessary things. E opted for a whole lotta Spongebob. When we finally drove to the airport, I could tell E was getting all worked up. Her face was red, her eyes were big, and she kept putting her hand on her chest as if she were going to say the Pledge of Allegiance.
We checked in at the ticket counter, went through security, bought non-terrorist bottled water, and each popped only half of a pill, because I got some bright idea that we really would be fine once we boarded and sat in our seats. Was I wrong!
After we settled in our seats, E’s red face and big eyes gave way to tears and shallow breathing. We asked the kind looking elderly lady in the window seat if we could keep the blinds closed, and she huffed but did as we asked. I spent the next hour playing motivational coach, talking my daughter through each noise and jostle of the plane. It’s a lot easier to keep your mind off how scared you are to fly when you are trying to convince someone else to not be scared to fly.
I learned some important things that flight, things I’ll need to remember for a long time. I learned that my daughter thought we had to know where the emergency exits are so we can jump out of the plane mid-air. I learned that flying is not so bad, although I’m sure I’ll be just as scared the next time I do it. I learned that just because an older lady looks like a grandmother, it doesn’t mean she will be nice too. But most importantly, I learned I should just take the whole Valium.
It’s more than just the feasibility of the big metal bird. It’s the canned air, filled with H1N1 virus and whiffs of Legionnaire’s disease. It’s the noise on takeoff, the hum mid flight, and the racket upon landing. It’s all that bumpy, the invisible bumps like potholes in the sky, that make me thinks one more jolt like that and we will fall out of the sky.
The parts of flying that I’m not scared of I just don’t like. The unregulated temperature of the recirculated air, always too hot or too cold. The existence of the barf bag tucked into the seat back, and the knowledge that other people considered using it, or, at the very least, have touched it. The shifting of the contents of the overhead bin. The way the air smells like microwaved chicken, even though they stopped serving meals in 2003. The cramped seats and the cramped aisles and the cramped bathrooms.
And while we are on the subject of airplane bathrooms, what is up with the airplane bathroom? It’s like a port-a-potty in the sky, only not that nice. The only thing missing is feces smeared all over the textured walls. I always wondered about the receptacle for used razor blades. Are that many people shaving with disposable razor blades while flying, or are they more likely contemplating slitting their wrists? I am so scared of someone opening the door while in that tiny water closet, even though it says occupied. I am going to be sitting there, in the middle of a big pee, when the accordion door folds in on me, my jeans at my ankles, bracing myself against the wall in case we hit turbulence and my own pee flies up and hits my ass. How mortifying would that be? Have you ever tried to change a diaper on that rickety little shelf? I’d be scared my baby would be sucked into that metal toilet vacuum hole. Now, seriously, why would anyone want to join the mile high club in there? And what if one day, while sleeping in my bed, a frozen blue chunk of airplane waste crashes through my roof and kills me? What an undignified way to go.
I haven’t even gotten to the parts I don’t like about the airport, but let’s save that for another day, shall we?
Other than writing about it now, however, I don’t’ really talk much about my issues with flying because I don’t want to influence my daughter E’s issues with flying. E has flown several times before, but like me, the older she gets, the more the idea of flying just freaks her out. So when we planned two months ago to fly to Orlando instead of driving for a Thanksgiving trip to Disney World (why spend the holidays with family when you could actually have a good time?), E decided she didn’t want to go at all. Not because she doesn’t like Disney; she loves it. No, she didn’t want to fly there. My husband and I explained to her the advantage of a one hour flight versus a nine hour car trip, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t want to go, and she cried a lot to show us how much she didn’t want to go, and then she had trouble sleeping for two weeks to further illustrate how much she didn’t want to go. I decided we would make a visit to the pediatrician for a little something to help make the proposed vacation a reality.
Our pediatrician, Dr. L, asked the reason for our visit. I explained to him that we needed some medication so that E could fly to Orlando with the rest of the family. He paused and said, “In all the time that I have been a doctor, no one has ever asked me for that.” “Well,” I answered, “if you have any suggestions on how to get her on the plane, I’m all ears. If not, we’ll be needing that prescription.”
We discussed how other children are also scared to fly but don’t need medicine. We discussed how E had already taken Valium for minor oral surgery, and how I had to kick her down the aisle the last time we flew. Then he wrote out a prescription for anti-anxiety medication. Four Valium. Perfect! Two for her and two for me.
The day of our trip, E and I both got nervous. It didn’t help matters much that our flight left after lunch, so that we had the entire morning to sit around and panic. I occupied myself with last minute obsessive packing of unnecessary things. E opted for a whole lotta Spongebob. When we finally drove to the airport, I could tell E was getting all worked up. Her face was red, her eyes were big, and she kept putting her hand on her chest as if she were going to say the Pledge of Allegiance.
We checked in at the ticket counter, went through security, bought non-terrorist bottled water, and each popped only half of a pill, because I got some bright idea that we really would be fine once we boarded and sat in our seats. Was I wrong!
After we settled in our seats, E’s red face and big eyes gave way to tears and shallow breathing. We asked the kind looking elderly lady in the window seat if we could keep the blinds closed, and she huffed but did as we asked. I spent the next hour playing motivational coach, talking my daughter through each noise and jostle of the plane. It’s a lot easier to keep your mind off how scared you are to fly when you are trying to convince someone else to not be scared to fly.
I learned some important things that flight, things I’ll need to remember for a long time. I learned that my daughter thought we had to know where the emergency exits are so we can jump out of the plane mid-air. I learned that flying is not so bad, although I’m sure I’ll be just as scared the next time I do it. I learned that just because an older lady looks like a grandmother, it doesn’t mean she will be nice too. But most importantly, I learned I should just take the whole Valium.
Monday, December 14, 2009
The 3-H Club
When was the last time you heard the word hobo? I hear it with surprising frequency, as my daughters think a hobo is any person down on his luck. I have tried to explain to them that the life of a hobo is more than just a downward turn. It is a hardscrabble life, men with an ever present five o’clock shadow, bandana knapsacks tied to a stick over one shoulder, riding the rails from one town to the next, eating beans out of a can heated over an open flame. The hobos sit on stumps and overturned pails, the light from the fire illuminating their rough features as they share their stories of like on the tracks. I have even showed them pictures of Boxcar Willie, that hobo’s hobo.
Well, the railroad connection is lost on my children. We have the same issue for hillbilly; the “hill” part has no meaning for them. The focus instead on the silly way it sounds. To my girls, hillbilly is a stupid word used for stupid people, and while it makes them dance around and stick their teeth out, it does not make them think of the Hatfields, the McCoys, or even any part of Kentucky.
But why the analysis of the misuse of hobo and hillbilly? A few weekends ago was the twentieth anniversary of United Ministries’ Walk for the Homeless. The three mile charity walk is a well attended event which raises oodles of money for different programs in the upstate of South Carolina, all geared to help the homeless both with their immediate needs and they long term goals. The event is so successful because of the support of area churches and religious groups which form large teams of walkers with a great fundraising capacity.
We learned of the walk not by the social action committee of our temples, since, shame on us, we don’t have one, but from my friend, MJ, and her daughter, AJ. MJ lives to serve her fellow man. She not only publishes a senior resource guide, she also volunteers in capacities not seen in the under 40 crowd. When she’s not supporting some cause or another, she is fostering that spirit of goodwill in her daughter.
The night before the walk, AJ slept over with my daughter, E. She came in and flopped on the couch, and the two of them began to play an imaginary game which revolved around the walk the next day. I sat behind them and acted as if I were engrossed in a computer game. I kept my mouth shut so they would forget I was in the room.
One of them pretended to be a reporter interviewing the other one who pretended to be a homeless person. If I heard correctly, the game was called “Interview with a Hobo.” Here are some sample questions and answers:
AJ (as interviewer): What is your favorite food to eat?
E (as hobo/homeless person): I like spaghetti and meatballs and sushi a lot.
AJ: And where do you live?
E: Under the bridge, near the highway.
AJ: Do you have a cardboard box?
E: I have two. They’re very roomy.
AJ: What do you do for fun?
E: I look for places to live. And I walk a lot.
I am pretty sure AJ asked things about pets and favorite colors, which I thought was sweet. I bet homeless people don’t get asked about their pets and favorite colors very often.
They switched roles at one point, and E asked AJ similar questions. What struck me was how little either of them understood what it meant to be homeless. We live in a house with more toilets than family members. AJ’s parents are divorced, so she has not one but two houses to call home. To the two of them, being homeless meant nothing, in the same way that hobos are unlucky slobs and hillbillies are goofy.
I, however, do know what it means to be homeless. When I was a senior in college, my mother remarried and moved from my hometown in Florida to a big city in the Midwest. I no longer had a home to go to, and the bulk of my belongings from my childhood bedroom fit inside two white office storage boxes. One month after my mom moved, my roommates moved out of our shared college apartment with no warning or concern for our rental agreement. I handed their parent’s information over to my landlord in exchange for the termination of the lease and my share of the security deposit. Which meant I was free, but also that I had nowhere to go. I lived off campus at the time, and it never occurred to me to seek aid from the housing office, especially since I had less than three months until graduation.
I stayed on my boyfriend’s couch for a few nights and asked everyone I know if anyone needed a roommate, but mid-semester is not a good time to hastily change living arrangements. Lucky for me, my boyfriend’s uncle had a vacant apartment downstairs from his dental office, more like a basement with a sitting area, a closet sized bathroom, and a kitchenette than an actual apartment. He agreed to let me live there until graduation for the same amount of rent I had paid for my share of the apartment, which was $143 a month and all I could afford at the tail end of the school year.
As appreciative as I was for his generosity, I hated living there. His office building was located on a highway across from a small state park which was known more for its illicit activities than its natural beauty. One window had a bullet hole through it, and the unused kitchenette had become home to more than a few large roaches and their many tiny offspring.
The main storage room became my bedroom, with my second hand twin bed scooted against one wall while the rest of the large dark room was overrun with a collection of antique furniture and cardboard boxes. I never unpacked my clothes, since I didn’t have a dresser, but kept them in the boxes I had clustered around my bed. I would close the door to sleep because the bullet hole in the window freaked me out, but the darkness of the room with the door closed would freak me out worse. I didn’t sleep until after graduation.
I didn’t share my story with AJ or my daughter. Instead, I tried to point out that being homeless for most people is not a choice. While they may have made other poor choices that led to their current lack of living arrangements, they certainly didn’t think having no home is a lifestyle. I emphasized the need for us to be sensitive to other people’s misfortune and life circumstances, and also to appreciate what we have.
The next day, we walked for, and occasionally, with, the homeless. It was a cold, blustery afternoon despite the bright sunshine, and if it weren’t for the massive crowd surrounding us and leading the way, I would not have known where the hell I was, even though I’ve lived in their town for twelve years. The walk route followed the path that the homeless walk to find services, and along the way, the girls, acting as tour guides, would point out service locations as landmarks. We stopped at water stations along the route, and made conversation with friends we saw while walking. After we completed the three mile loop, MJ drove us to another sketchy part of town to get Blizzards from the Dairy Queen. And after that, we returned to our cozy, well appointed homes.
I don’t know if AJ and E had a better understanding of what being homeless means, or at least, the difference between a hobo, a hillbilly, and a homeless person. But I do know that even the free t-shirt made E a little sad, and with that sadness came a lesson that stuck somewhere in that spongy absorbent brain of hers. Raising the awareness of one child is still raising awareness, even if the benefit won’t be appreciated for years to come.
Well, the railroad connection is lost on my children. We have the same issue for hillbilly; the “hill” part has no meaning for them. The focus instead on the silly way it sounds. To my girls, hillbilly is a stupid word used for stupid people, and while it makes them dance around and stick their teeth out, it does not make them think of the Hatfields, the McCoys, or even any part of Kentucky.
But why the analysis of the misuse of hobo and hillbilly? A few weekends ago was the twentieth anniversary of United Ministries’ Walk for the Homeless. The three mile charity walk is a well attended event which raises oodles of money for different programs in the upstate of South Carolina, all geared to help the homeless both with their immediate needs and they long term goals. The event is so successful because of the support of area churches and religious groups which form large teams of walkers with a great fundraising capacity.
We learned of the walk not by the social action committee of our temples, since, shame on us, we don’t have one, but from my friend, MJ, and her daughter, AJ. MJ lives to serve her fellow man. She not only publishes a senior resource guide, she also volunteers in capacities not seen in the under 40 crowd. When she’s not supporting some cause or another, she is fostering that spirit of goodwill in her daughter.
The night before the walk, AJ slept over with my daughter, E. She came in and flopped on the couch, and the two of them began to play an imaginary game which revolved around the walk the next day. I sat behind them and acted as if I were engrossed in a computer game. I kept my mouth shut so they would forget I was in the room.
One of them pretended to be a reporter interviewing the other one who pretended to be a homeless person. If I heard correctly, the game was called “Interview with a Hobo.” Here are some sample questions and answers:
AJ (as interviewer): What is your favorite food to eat?
E (as hobo/homeless person): I like spaghetti and meatballs and sushi a lot.
AJ: And where do you live?
E: Under the bridge, near the highway.
AJ: Do you have a cardboard box?
E: I have two. They’re very roomy.
AJ: What do you do for fun?
E: I look for places to live. And I walk a lot.
I am pretty sure AJ asked things about pets and favorite colors, which I thought was sweet. I bet homeless people don’t get asked about their pets and favorite colors very often.
They switched roles at one point, and E asked AJ similar questions. What struck me was how little either of them understood what it meant to be homeless. We live in a house with more toilets than family members. AJ’s parents are divorced, so she has not one but two houses to call home. To the two of them, being homeless meant nothing, in the same way that hobos are unlucky slobs and hillbillies are goofy.
I, however, do know what it means to be homeless. When I was a senior in college, my mother remarried and moved from my hometown in Florida to a big city in the Midwest. I no longer had a home to go to, and the bulk of my belongings from my childhood bedroom fit inside two white office storage boxes. One month after my mom moved, my roommates moved out of our shared college apartment with no warning or concern for our rental agreement. I handed their parent’s information over to my landlord in exchange for the termination of the lease and my share of the security deposit. Which meant I was free, but also that I had nowhere to go. I lived off campus at the time, and it never occurred to me to seek aid from the housing office, especially since I had less than three months until graduation.
I stayed on my boyfriend’s couch for a few nights and asked everyone I know if anyone needed a roommate, but mid-semester is not a good time to hastily change living arrangements. Lucky for me, my boyfriend’s uncle had a vacant apartment downstairs from his dental office, more like a basement with a sitting area, a closet sized bathroom, and a kitchenette than an actual apartment. He agreed to let me live there until graduation for the same amount of rent I had paid for my share of the apartment, which was $143 a month and all I could afford at the tail end of the school year.
As appreciative as I was for his generosity, I hated living there. His office building was located on a highway across from a small state park which was known more for its illicit activities than its natural beauty. One window had a bullet hole through it, and the unused kitchenette had become home to more than a few large roaches and their many tiny offspring.
The main storage room became my bedroom, with my second hand twin bed scooted against one wall while the rest of the large dark room was overrun with a collection of antique furniture and cardboard boxes. I never unpacked my clothes, since I didn’t have a dresser, but kept them in the boxes I had clustered around my bed. I would close the door to sleep because the bullet hole in the window freaked me out, but the darkness of the room with the door closed would freak me out worse. I didn’t sleep until after graduation.
I didn’t share my story with AJ or my daughter. Instead, I tried to point out that being homeless for most people is not a choice. While they may have made other poor choices that led to their current lack of living arrangements, they certainly didn’t think having no home is a lifestyle. I emphasized the need for us to be sensitive to other people’s misfortune and life circumstances, and also to appreciate what we have.
The next day, we walked for, and occasionally, with, the homeless. It was a cold, blustery afternoon despite the bright sunshine, and if it weren’t for the massive crowd surrounding us and leading the way, I would not have known where the hell I was, even though I’ve lived in their town for twelve years. The walk route followed the path that the homeless walk to find services, and along the way, the girls, acting as tour guides, would point out service locations as landmarks. We stopped at water stations along the route, and made conversation with friends we saw while walking. After we completed the three mile loop, MJ drove us to another sketchy part of town to get Blizzards from the Dairy Queen. And after that, we returned to our cozy, well appointed homes.
I don’t know if AJ and E had a better understanding of what being homeless means, or at least, the difference between a hobo, a hillbilly, and a homeless person. But I do know that even the free t-shirt made E a little sad, and with that sadness came a lesson that stuck somewhere in that spongy absorbent brain of hers. Raising the awareness of one child is still raising awareness, even if the benefit won’t be appreciated for years to come.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Redirected Road Rage
An open letter to the people in front of and behind me on the drive home last night from my meeting:
Dear Sir/Madam:
Welcome to the road. You are sharing it with other people, so there are some basic rules of etiquette you need to remember.
To the person in front of me, your car has automatic transmission, which means you may use the same foot for the gas and the brake pedals. This is not 1953, and your Buick does not have a clutch. So please, do us all a favor and take your foot off the brake. I understand that the road is dark, and foxes and raccoons can appear out of nowhere, but destroying your brake pads isn’t the way to anticipate them. I was mesmerized by your three glowing red brake lights, and kept wondering when I was supposed to know the difference between you being overly cautious and when you actually planned to stop. Were you unsure of where you were going? Were you looking for a side road? If so, I would recommend, in the future, the purchase and usage of a GPS system. I did find out, however, that it was neither. You therefore must not know where to put your left foot. I know where to put mine; let me tell you. There is a little foot rest on the left hand side of your floor board. Put your foot there. Free up your brake pedal for more important things, like braking.
To the person behind me, I understand it was a dark road. After all, it was after nine o’clock in December. One can expect the night time sky to be a little dark under such conditions. And yes, this particular road does not have street lights. So I can see why you might have been tempted to use your bright lights the entire trip down the road. After all, foxes and raccoons can appear out of nowhere, but blinding the person in front of you, in this case, me, is not the way to go. I hate to be the one to tell you, but you are not the only one on the road. Even though you are visually impaired, I can see you just fine. Too fine, in fact. I felt like I was reliving a scene from “Mississippi Burning” or “Silkwood.” I didn’t know if you were going to run me off the road or pull me over and shoot me in the head. Lucky for me, it was neither. Your bright lights are most likely operated by a stem on one side of your steering wheel. If you are unsure where, take a moment to review your user manual before you leave your driveway. That way, you won't make the mistake of driving for miles blinding both the oncoming traffic and those unfortunate souls going in your direction.
The next time you are tooling down the road, take a minute to look at your dashboard. Is there a blue light indicating your high beams are on? Look down a second, and check the position of your left foot. Is it hovering over the brake pedal? If the answer is yes, then let someone else drive. You need some additional training in the operation of your motor vehicle. You are not road ready. And if the rest of us can’t see because we are being blinded from behind, or tell what the hell is going on while you ride your brakes, then how are we going to be able to tell when the foxes and raccoons appear out of nowhere?
Sincerely,
Everyone else on the road
Dear Sir/Madam:
Welcome to the road. You are sharing it with other people, so there are some basic rules of etiquette you need to remember.
To the person in front of me, your car has automatic transmission, which means you may use the same foot for the gas and the brake pedals. This is not 1953, and your Buick does not have a clutch. So please, do us all a favor and take your foot off the brake. I understand that the road is dark, and foxes and raccoons can appear out of nowhere, but destroying your brake pads isn’t the way to anticipate them. I was mesmerized by your three glowing red brake lights, and kept wondering when I was supposed to know the difference between you being overly cautious and when you actually planned to stop. Were you unsure of where you were going? Were you looking for a side road? If so, I would recommend, in the future, the purchase and usage of a GPS system. I did find out, however, that it was neither. You therefore must not know where to put your left foot. I know where to put mine; let me tell you. There is a little foot rest on the left hand side of your floor board. Put your foot there. Free up your brake pedal for more important things, like braking.
To the person behind me, I understand it was a dark road. After all, it was after nine o’clock in December. One can expect the night time sky to be a little dark under such conditions. And yes, this particular road does not have street lights. So I can see why you might have been tempted to use your bright lights the entire trip down the road. After all, foxes and raccoons can appear out of nowhere, but blinding the person in front of you, in this case, me, is not the way to go. I hate to be the one to tell you, but you are not the only one on the road. Even though you are visually impaired, I can see you just fine. Too fine, in fact. I felt like I was reliving a scene from “Mississippi Burning” or “Silkwood.” I didn’t know if you were going to run me off the road or pull me over and shoot me in the head. Lucky for me, it was neither. Your bright lights are most likely operated by a stem on one side of your steering wheel. If you are unsure where, take a moment to review your user manual before you leave your driveway. That way, you won't make the mistake of driving for miles blinding both the oncoming traffic and those unfortunate souls going in your direction.
The next time you are tooling down the road, take a minute to look at your dashboard. Is there a blue light indicating your high beams are on? Look down a second, and check the position of your left foot. Is it hovering over the brake pedal? If the answer is yes, then let someone else drive. You need some additional training in the operation of your motor vehicle. You are not road ready. And if the rest of us can’t see because we are being blinded from behind, or tell what the hell is going on while you ride your brakes, then how are we going to be able to tell when the foxes and raccoons appear out of nowhere?
Sincerely,
Everyone else on the road
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