Because i <3 the reader's list
A while back, during the beautiful weather we experienced in January, I was riding home on the bus one evening when all traffic came to a stop along Center Ridge Road just a few blocks from my house. We crawled forward and eventually reached the source of the bottle-neck: a man was trying to push his car out of the road and could not do it by himself. Car after car moved into the center lane in order to get around him. The bus finally got its turn. I watched out the window as we passed this young fellow, struggling against the rise of a driveway, trying to steer and push at the same time.
"Hang on!" I yelled to the bus driver. "Let me off here. I'm gonna help him."
"Are ya sure?" the driver asked. I told him my stop was only a couple blocks further on, so yeah. He let me out and I ran to the back of the car. He smiled gratitiude and we pushed him out of a pothole and up to the driveway.
It wasn't enough for a running start, though, and I felt the car coming back at us. I wedged it against my knee. Even two of us wasn't going to be enough, not like this.
Out of nowhere, hands came to rest on the trunk. Two more men joined us, and together we got him out of the road. By the time I told the driver where to find a gas station and a garage, the other two fellows had jumped back into their cars and disappeared.
You see this phenomenon frequently: no one helps until one person helps, then others join in. It's like a dam breaks, and a flood of assistance flows forth.
I was thinking about what causes the dam. I don't think it's apathy or selfishness, most of the time. I think it's the awkward fear that you might be making a social gaffe, or treading into private business. It's more not knowing how to start than not wanting to help at all.
I know, because I've been a hanger-back before. And I still feel guilty about it.
When I was a freshman in college, living in Portland, Oregon, I rode the bus to and from school. One day it was packed full, but I was one of the lucky ones with a seat. An elderly lady got on the bus, and none of the men offered her a seat. I froze. I wanted to offer her my seat, but I was afraid it would be a breach of some protocol I didn't get. I dithered, feeling bad, feeling awkward, feeling self-conscious, until she pulled the cord and signalled for her stop. She looked disgusted at the men all seated around her, but I - young and certainly able - was spared her disappointment because I was a girl.
I've felt badly about it ever since. I wasn't hoarding my seat; I simply was not sure what to do. It's odd that such a minor incident still haunts me, almost 30 years later. But I think there is a reason.
I don't like the feeling. It feels stingy and helpless, all at the same time. The lingering effects of that feeling are what compel me to overcome the awkwardness of approaching a stranger and offering a helping hand. Being willing to risk that first step then makes it all right for others to help, too.
The morning after September 11, I walked out my front door and saw not one flag on any house on our street. I pulled our flag out of the closet and hung it by our front door. By evening most the houses had flags. It wasn't guilt. People aren't sure what to do, they are looking for a signal. Someone to lead, and point the way. Heck, someone to start singing "Happy Birthday" at a party.
It's a relief to me when someone else begins, and I can contribute based on the lead of another. But I also see that the onus is on me not to always hang back, not to always wait for someone else to make the first move.
We stop being isolated individuals when someone offers to share. Community means being that someone at least some of the time.
Originally posted by zoethe.
"Hang on!" I yelled to the bus driver. "Let me off here. I'm gonna help him."
"Are ya sure?" the driver asked. I told him my stop was only a couple blocks further on, so yeah. He let me out and I ran to the back of the car. He smiled gratitiude and we pushed him out of a pothole and up to the driveway.
It wasn't enough for a running start, though, and I felt the car coming back at us. I wedged it against my knee. Even two of us wasn't going to be enough, not like this.
Out of nowhere, hands came to rest on the trunk. Two more men joined us, and together we got him out of the road. By the time I told the driver where to find a gas station and a garage, the other two fellows had jumped back into their cars and disappeared.
You see this phenomenon frequently: no one helps until one person helps, then others join in. It's like a dam breaks, and a flood of assistance flows forth.
I was thinking about what causes the dam. I don't think it's apathy or selfishness, most of the time. I think it's the awkward fear that you might be making a social gaffe, or treading into private business. It's more not knowing how to start than not wanting to help at all.
I know, because I've been a hanger-back before. And I still feel guilty about it.
When I was a freshman in college, living in Portland, Oregon, I rode the bus to and from school. One day it was packed full, but I was one of the lucky ones with a seat. An elderly lady got on the bus, and none of the men offered her a seat. I froze. I wanted to offer her my seat, but I was afraid it would be a breach of some protocol I didn't get. I dithered, feeling bad, feeling awkward, feeling self-conscious, until she pulled the cord and signalled for her stop. She looked disgusted at the men all seated around her, but I - young and certainly able - was spared her disappointment because I was a girl.
I've felt badly about it ever since. I wasn't hoarding my seat; I simply was not sure what to do. It's odd that such a minor incident still haunts me, almost 30 years later. But I think there is a reason.
I don't like the feeling. It feels stingy and helpless, all at the same time. The lingering effects of that feeling are what compel me to overcome the awkwardness of approaching a stranger and offering a helping hand. Being willing to risk that first step then makes it all right for others to help, too.
The morning after September 11, I walked out my front door and saw not one flag on any house on our street. I pulled our flag out of the closet and hung it by our front door. By evening most the houses had flags. It wasn't guilt. People aren't sure what to do, they are looking for a signal. Someone to lead, and point the way. Heck, someone to start singing "Happy Birthday" at a party.
It's a relief to me when someone else begins, and I can contribute based on the lead of another. But I also see that the onus is on me not to always hang back, not to always wait for someone else to make the first move.
We stop being isolated individuals when someone offers to share. Community means being that someone at least some of the time.
Originally posted by zoethe.