The Next Time You’re Dismayed by the State of the World…
Read this, remember all the good and be hopeful instead.
I witnessed something incredible on the Atlanta BeltLine two weekends ago. The BeltLine, for those not in the know, is a 22-mile loop that repurposes historic railway tracks to connect 45 neighborhoods surrounding the city’s urban core. The estimated $4.8 billion project has been underway since the early 2000s and isn’t expected to finish until 2030. As of late April, nearly 11 miles were finished.
The condo R. and I share with one human and three canine babies is approximately three blocks away from an entrance to the BeltLine—one that not only allows R. to walk a straight-shot mile to his office, but also gives us easy access to parks, retail, restaurants and, in the afternoon, too many people with clipboards who desperately want you to help them save the whales. Clipboard do-gooders aside, I absolutely love the BeltLine. I walk some part of it almost every day.
On the Saturday in question, R. and I popped the Bean into the stroller and spent a few hours wandering into various shops in the hopes of finding quirky décor to fill the abundance of whitespace that stretches from our front door up to the bedroom loft. After buying literally nothing, we decided to patronize a brewery further down the BeltLine. Why spend perfectly good Saturday sober when there are key-lime sours with our names on them just up the trail?
At New Realm, we ordered our drinks and set the Bean up with a beverage of her own. Nothing says “hot Saturday” quite like a sippy full of whole milk. She downed her drink and spent the rest of the time making R. and I chase her around the outdoor patio (to the delight of many, many old ladies who were also present). It was my turn to Bean-wrangle when I witnessed a truly amazing turn of events.
Keep in mind that on this sunny afternoon, the BeltLine was packed with people and pups, strollers and scooters, bicycles and branded stalls where local crafters sold their wares. The path is wide, but with so many Atlanteans on the move, it was crowded. Something was bound to happen at some point.
And something did! A young man on a bike attempted to pass another guy on a Lime scooter. As the former tried to navigate around a group of slow walkers, he accidentally veered a smidge too close to the scooter. The front wheel of the bike collided with the front wheel of the scooter, and after a lot of wobbling and overcorrecting, both gentlemen lost control of their two wheels and went flying in opposite directions.
This was not anything spectacular. I’m sure these types of incidents happen every single day along the BeltLine. What happened next though…that was unique, especially when you consider all the things that didn’t happen. Not a single “FUCK” was yelled. No punches were thrown. There was no screaming about paying attention or fighting over who was at fault. In reality, no one raised their voice at all. The two guys simply got up, dusted themselves off, asked if the other was OK…and then they fist bumped and went on their way. No confrontation. No anger. No swearing. I was shocked.
Now, I know this is going to sound completely cringe, but I’m going to say it anyway: I truly, whole-heartedly believe that there is love everywhere if you’re bold enough to look. I know, I know. And yet, I stand by it. At a time when people constantly (and loudly, so, so loudly) want to proclaim that the world is a dumpster fire and everything is going to hell in a handbasket, and that we’re more divided and angrier than ever before, I see evidence to the contrary all the damn time.
I refuse to get caught up in the nonsense of the everyday outrage machine. The doom-and-gloom fearmongering news cycle cannot get me down. Instead of seeing assholes everywhere, I see people who rise to the occasion when given the opportunity. And when you look at the world from this perspective, there are always little confirmations that things aren’t nearly as bad as they seem.
I’d hate to make you grind your teeth over my Pollyanna bullshit any further, but I’m going to double down by quoting a well-cited bit of advice from Mr. Rogers: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” People love to bust out this quote during natural disasters and other times of abject chaos, but this holds true in the absence of tragedy, too. I can feel your skepticism, so I’m going to give you another (funnier) example to prove my point.
Yesterday, I flew back to Atlanta from Cleveland-Hopkins International Airport. The Bean and I had spent the previous week at my parents’ house in Mentor, OH, because my dad hadn’t seen E. since April and was missing her. As is often the case when I visit my parents, R. stayed back with the pups, and I played single parent to an unpredictable monster on an airplane.
Mostly, this works out just fine. My 15-month-old daughter has been on close to a dozen flights since her birth. She’s a seasoned flier with two wings pins from two different domestic airlines. Although she doesn’t love having to sit on someone’s lap for an hour or more, she usually does just fine when there are snacks, which, girl, same.
The flight to ATL on Wednesday, however, was not our best. Although we zoomed through security and laughed our way through a short delay, E. decided that she was not going to just go the fuck to sleep during this evening flight. Instead, she was going to lose her mind when I wouldn’t let her obstruct the aisle during boarding, despite having crackers, berries, milk, an interactive toy, a soft toy, four pacifiers and, if all else failed, mama’s phone and an episode of Dora playing on the screen mounted on the seat in front of us. I come prepared, folks. Bean was not having it.
Now, despite the yelling and flailing before takeoff, she calmed down once we were in the air. She ate some berries and played with some pamphlets and hung out on the floor. Then, she sat on my lap, and I felt it before I smelt it. She took a massive shit. And by the sound of it, that poop was not solid. Spoiler alert: It was not.
Thankfully, the ding from the flight attendants indicated that we could get up and move about the cabin. I rushed to get a diaper and wipes. We hauled ass down the aisle to the bathroom. She screamed her head off as I tried to change her without getting all of it (OMG, so much of it) all over us and the tiny bathroom at the very back of the plane. She hates having her diaper changed on a good day, so add in some turbulence and a changing table that was designed for non-kicky mice-sized people, and you’ve got one freaked out kid and a super stressed mama.
And yet, we survived. The mess was handled, and neither of us had a drop of shit on us. Crisis averted. Except this is a story about helpers and good people, and so far, I’m the only hero on this plane.
I must admit that at this point in our journey home, we’re about 35 minutes out from the Peach State, and I’m feeling good. The Bean’s eyes are getting heavy. She’s snuggling against my chest, and I can feel sleep is near. That’s when we hit some serious rough air, and her eyes fling open. She’s not upset, but she’s wide awake now. Suddenly, I feel warmth bleeding through the shoulder of my silver sweater.
Just as I start to identify the wetness as puke, she throws up again all over my chest. Then onto my lap. And onto my other shoulder. Not a little “baby spit up.” Chunks. About two full cups of potatoes, berries, curdled milk, carrots and God knows what the fuck else. In my sweater pocket next to the pacifier that was in her mouth, on the seat, in the aisle, all over my shirt dress, all over E.’s yellow zoo animal shirt that everyone thinks makes her look like a little boy. Everywhere.
After the first round of projectile vomit, before I’d even fully registered what was happening, a passenger behind me jumps out of her chair, ignoring the seatbelt sign, and sprints to the bathroom to get me a boatload of paper towels. She alerts a flight attendant before handing me the towels. I’m so grateful I could cry. The flight attendant returns with a trash bag, another comes with cleaning wipes, another with wet towels. One goddess comes forth with an air freshener spray to spritz above us because literally everyone from row 25 to the back of the plane was forced to endure the aroma of shoddily cleaned vomit that was still everywhere.
I have no change of clothes because I checked my bag at the gate to make carrying a baby while lugging two other bags as I disassemble and collapse a stroller a little easier. That’s when the pilot comes on to tell us that we have no choice but to stay in our seats because the weather is making it impossible to get to the jet bridge, and oh yeah, our checked luggage will be delayed getting to baggage claim. I hate being dirty. If I have a spill on me, I cannot rest until I have changed or it is blotted into oblivious. Every year for Christmas, someone in my life buys me a five-pack of Tide-to-Go stain remover pens. This is my nightmare.
But all I can do is laugh because what else can you do? The Bean feels magnificent, by the way. She’s laughing and smiling. I guess after you take a massive shit and then vomit out your remaining stomach contents on your saint of a mother, you probably would feel light and carefree and ready to take on the world.
So, what does this baby do when we get off the plane in our puke-soaked attire and stand just off the plane waiting for the gate check people to bring the stroller? She waves at every single person as they get off the plane. SHE GODDAMN WAVES, huge grin on her face the entire time. The Queen of Central Texas has come to Atlanta folks, and she’s ready to take her rightful place as Queen of the South.
But back to this passenger, who is the actual helper hero of this story. Before I got off this God-forsaken plane, I turned to thank her profusely for her help. Not only did she bring the towels I needed to limit the damage right away, she also spent a good amount of the time handing me things the Bean threw into the aisle in anger when I wouldn’t let her storm the cockpit and fly the plane herself (or whatever that little tyrant was trying to do instead of sit nicely on my lap). This wonderful, kind, life-saving woman waved me off. “No problem,” she said. “Don’t even worry about it. We all need help sometimes.” She was so cool about the entire thing, despite being one of the passengers whose senses were most assaulted by the smelly aftermath, that I loved her even more.
But she’s not the only person out there who goes above and beyond to help people in their most mortifying moments. She isn’t the sole helper hero in this world. Anyone less than 100 percent rotten—which I’d argue is nearly everyone—will lend a helping hand at some point during their lives.
It can be as big as saving people from burning buildings or as small as finding the nearest bathroom when a stranger desperately needs a paper towel. We are all capable of letting our anger go, asking someone if they’re OK when we accidentally bump them off their bike, alerting someone with more resources that the turbulence shook the baby just a little too hard and there were consequences. We know ourselves to be capable of this kind of selflessness, and we should be generous enough to see it in others, too. It really is everywhere. On the path. In the skies. Around the world. Take heart, my friends, the world really isn’t so horrible after all.
With pleasure,
Yes, Misstrix
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