2002-09-12 - 11:25 p.m.
That awful sound always lingers in my mind like a bad song: the screech of brakes. Someone directly in front of me slammed on their brakes without warning. I got stopped in time. But the person behind me didn't. Boom. I've been rear-ended.
My car has been hit so many times, I have quite honestly wondered if it had some kind of jinx on it. We considered asking our friends the priestesses to do an exorcism on it or give us a spell to counteract the bad energy, or whatever they do. I keep thinking surely it can't get hit again. But today, the first thing that went through my head, after the whole slow motion, this-isn't-happening thing, was: number seven.
I always get really upset about my car getting hit. Not that I plan to or anything, but it shakes me up, and makes me feel victimized and unlucky and sorry for myself. Because it has never been my fault, in fact, this is the first time the car was even moving when it got hit. And even if they pay for the damage, it is hugely inconvenient to arrange to get it fixed, and to do without it for several days, etc.
But this morning, I looked in the rearview mirror to see who hit me, and that little round scared face looked familiar. It was Emily, the girl who designed the banners for the neighborhood meeting the other night. The one who sat down in tears when the nasty old curmudgeons of the neighborhood shot down the banner committee, and refused to vote. I don't know her personally, but I was so incensed on her behalf at that meeting, because I have had the experience of having my art work disparaged, and it hurts. So when I looked back and saw her, my whole feeling suddenly changed. Instead of being upset, I thought: Oh, poor Emily. Now she has an accident to deal with, too.
We got out and met in the street as the traffic buzzed around us. She was so sorry. And I was just trying not to make her feel too bad about it. She said "What do we do now? Do we have to report it? I've never had an accident before...."
I said, " Well, let's take a look." And amazingly, on closer inspection, it looked like her paint was on my bumper, but no cracks or dents. I told her I could probably rub it out. No real harm done. Let's just let it go. She gave me her number just in case.
I mentioned that I had been to the neighborhood meeting, and had appreciated her contribution. She thanked me and said she wasn't doing anything else for them unless they clearly knew what they wanted. I said I wouldn't either.
So we drove off our separate ways, maybe even a little better for that accident. She's so young, and I want her to feel valued and welcome in the neighborhood. That is more important to me than a scratched bumper. And it was good for me to recognize just how different I could feel about someone hitting my car when I knew even one little piece of her story..... when I saw it from the viewpoint of the other person.
I'm having to do a lot of that at work these days, too. I have a new responsibility: deciding whether to give students refunds on their fees when they have had to drop out for various reasons. They write letters, describing their particular circumstances. I want to sympathize with everyone and give them what they ask for. Sometimes the reasons are heartbreaking: death in the family, illness, accidents. But some of them have broken very basic rules for less dire reasons, and I have to find the courage to say no. So many shades of gray, so many stories. I am so aware of feeling like a judge, trying to gather as much information as possible about each case, and making a decision. I am also beginning to see that more priviledged and more assertive students have a better chance of getting what they want from this process. Because they have the wherewithall to make a good case, and solicit the support of a dean or director, which virtually guarantees the success of their petition. Whereas a poor or lower class student might be intimidated to seek support, and might be unable to present the facts of their case accurately or convincingly. I have to try to see into a situation, and know what questions to ask, know where to draw the lines that, always, in my mind seem to be moving. I need wisdom.
Always in my life I have sought and nurtured wisdom on how to live well, how to be creative, and how to keep my soul from being scarred. But I still feel somewhat unwise when it comes to perceiving how best to live with other people. And I seem to be needing all the wisdom I can scrape together right now. I'm paying attention. Maybe it won't take number eight.
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