The northwest corner of First and Jackson can be tricky. During rush hour, traffic whizzes by, despite the fact that there’s only one block of street left until you hit Elliott Bay. In places, cracks in the tarmac reveal old bricks underneath. The curb cut is make-shift. With the Mariners playing the Jays today and fans spilling onto the street, the crossing was even more hazardous.
I was going one way with Gus, and she was going the other. There was barely enough room to pass. She telegraphed disgust and sneered. Seriously. Sneered. I leaned forward and spoke to her, “Too many people, not enough room.” Her gaze remained high, no recognition of my words. I shifted to catch her eye. “Everywhere you go in Seattle,” I tried, “traffic!” Nothing. She was directly in front of me, her frown unaltered. Unmoved. Unmoving. Part of me wanted to escalate the confrontation. I looked down and muttered softly to Gus, “Can you believe this crap?” He pushed forward, and she gave a slight side step.
I am an expert in recoil. It’s a sad by-product of my disability. I notice a pitying glance that drops or a sharp intake of breath or a dead stare. I can feel the palpable annoyance and discomfort that I cause others by my sheer existence. And despite countless initial, hurtful responses to my physical being, to my obvious paraplegia, I choose to engage, to lean in, to make contact. My go-to strategy is disarmament. Take away that negative power. Work for recognition of common humanity. Some days I wonder why I try. Today was one of those days.
It was a rough start. I slipped while transferring to my chair. (Picture a slow slide rather than an abrupt drop.) Then, later, after heaving my chair into the trunk of my car, I lost my balance and wrenched my arm grabbing for the roof rack that serves as a kind of hand rail so that I can negotiate my way to the driver’s side. Like many other souls in this city, I had dozens of reasons to be surly and unforgiving and judgey. But I was fighting it because there were just as many reasons, if not more, to be hopeful and loving and at peace. Wasn’t the September light piercingly beautiful? Didn’t I enjoy the most amazing pastry from London Plane? Weren’t the students I met eager and enthused?
Today I was tired enough and sensitive enough that I felt slightly more broken by this short, chance, unpleasant encounter. I got thrown off my game. Just like the Blue Jays. But the season isn’t over. Yet.
Beautiful piece, Randy. Thanks for sharing it. I admire your decision to choose to focus on the positives.
It’s this kind of heartbreak that makes your writing so searingly honest that it has the potential to open eyes to the injuries we do to spirits by not seeing beyond surfaces and into each other’s humanity. My soul felt like a balloon, deflating with her casual insensitivity.
“Seeing beyond surfaces,” that sounds like an excellent alternate title. I’m making this my mantra.
Thanks for sharing your moments. Not just the happy ones. You are my example.
Your latest essay seems to bring out the ideas of a texting world: keep out of my way and out of my life. Compassion? What the hell is that? Five stars for the reminder we all need to hear. Empathy rules. Thank you, Randy.
I hear you. I try to imagine what that person’s life is like – I mean, it must be miserable to inhabit that sourness. It may be that you caused her discomfort by your existence, but I’m betting she feels that way about everyone. It may not be Randy specific. Just enough me and too much of everybody else. But some days, I can’t imagine that. I can’t imagine anything good or helpful. Some days I’m only just big enough to feel my own pain. I’m only big enough to get through the day. I’m only big enough to let others wound me and make it home alive. There aren’t many of those. Thanks for saying it out loud.
Thanks for your raw response, Claudia. Pain shared takes the sting out of sour incidents. Your observations about days of diminishment resonate. And what about those moments when I am barely big enough to hold my own sorrow? May they be few and far between. For all of us.
I send you lots of hugs, Randy. Pull one out when you need it. I’m always inspired by your honesty and introspection.