Break stride

"We don't see things as they are. We see things as we are." -Anais Nin

Coming home from Chicago two weeks ago, I was struck irretrievably ill in the cab on the way to the airport, that kind of I’ve- eaten- an- alien- food- poisoning- I’m- unable- to- stop- shaking nauseous kind of ill, the sort where you focus all your attention on staying upright, in which not vomiting becomes the only measure of success you can muster. An immediate, swift, and unstoppable sick that--like a train in a tunnel--just keeps barreling toward the light of day.

As I challenged myself to stay focused and not demonstrate any outward manifestation of Sick, she was joined by her cousins, Shaky and Clammy. Once deposited on the sidewalk near baggage check, I was accosted by Dizzy, now harboring the Trifecta of Sick as I struggled to maintain control of my luggage and carry-on bag, navigating escalators where people were moving too fast, making everything blurry, my vision struggling to keep up with my body.

What should I do? Could I actually travel like this? Should I even take the flight? If not, where would I go and how would I change my ticket—all questions that were too big and too distracting from my primary concern which was Not Fainting.

Adding to the Sick, I was overcome with Vulnerability. If I fainted, what would happen to me? Would people assume I had been snorting back a few too many chasers in the Mile High Airport Lounge and, thus, deserved this disgraceful way of being in the public eye? Would they step over me, cursing me for being in their way?  Would I lose my Humanity and be, instead, simply an Inconvenience (or worse)? Most importantly, would they steal my shawl and my shoes?

A few years ago, I read an article in either the NY Times or The New Yorker by a woman telling her story of being mugged in Manhattan. Inexplicably, after taking her handbag and jewelry, the thief demanded her shoes. Having lost her Palm Pilot, cell phone, cash and cards was bad enough—but shoelessness was the utter height of vulnerability, standing penniless on a street corner in Manhattan with no shoes. 

I wish I could find that article again. It resonated with me in that way you feel when someone says something you’d never thought to articulate, but all of a sudden when you hear it, you recognize it and own it—do you know what I mean?

So as I navigated that airport and all those people—none of whom could yet tell what churned inside of me—I started thinking about seeing and shoes.

A few years earlier in the Atlanta airport, I had gotten off the underground train and hustled, like all the other frantic salmon, to the happy escalators of Terminal B. Irritated by the logjam of people, I looked up to find ahead of me the Slowest Moving Human on the Planet, a tall man struggling to hold a bag and shuffle each foot forward. His walk wasn’t even technically fast enough to be a shuffle. It was a sheer force of will that raised each of his feet one inch off the ground, moving forward only because he twisted his hip on that side to propel the foot to a position not more than one inch ahead of where he had started. Every third step—that is, every three inches—he had to put the bag down and rest. At this rate, he would get to his gate no sooner than February.

My god, I thought to myself, get on with it. Can’t you see that we’re all in a hurry? With the arrogant and self-important air of a weekly business traveler who hates what is meant by families with small children and all those diaper bags and strollers and old people with their walkers, I started an internal dialogue, a diatribe against slow people.

As I got closer, I’m not sure why but I really saw him, not just as an inconvenience, but as something more.

Jostled and poked by people impatiently whizzing by, he was tall and the thinnest man I had ever seen. When I lived in Sri Lanka, the brother in the family with whom I lived was 6’6” tall and wore size 28 Levi’s – a real rarity there, that height and skinniness. This man was that tall, but far thinner. His face and neck were full of scabs; all the veins in his arms were bulging as if they were being squeezed out from under the skin. He was hard to look at, but his eyes were beautifully full of realism, knowing, hope, determination — something that I cannot name.

You look like you could use a hand, I said quietly as I stood beside him. Can I help? At first he said no, we were going in two different directions, and then he fell into me, accepting the offer, his first. Together we navigated the escalator, me carrying his bag and him holding on to my arm and leaning on me. We didn’t say much—it was hard for him to talk, but I finally got him to Gate 8000—or at least it seemed like it was Gate 8000. I was in the presence of death that day; it didn’t appear that this human being would be with us much longer. And before he went, I wanted him to at least know some small amount of love and caring among a busy, fast-paced world, some looking-after that expected nothing in return.

I missed my flight that morning; I’ve never been happier to do so. Have there been times when I’ve walked on by? Certainly, yes, I’m sorry.

This past week, I was in the Cincinnati airport again, arriving to find my flight to New York canceled—another, less satisfying form of flight loss. Did you know that there are over 80 places to shop, eat, or relax in the Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International airport?

I started my exile in the Delta Crown Room until it got too crowded for this Claustrophobic’s liking. Brookstone was next—I never knew I needed so many battery operated gadgets with timers! So many pellet pillows!

Next was Buckeyes and Bluegrass with their tempting Swedish Fish candy (to which I succumbed since they were all red fish, not those sad multi-colored packs that bastardize the taste, losing a porcelain cap on one of my teeth in the process--that's when you know you’re aging). Then The Body Shop, followed by Hudson News—yes, there was a new People magazine—so I reclined at the so-called food court to relax for, oh, eight to ten hours. After reading about Brad adopting Angelina’s babies while eating a difficult piece of Sbarro pizza (me, not him), I sat and watched people walk, making note of the different walking styles I saw—some anxious and fast with small steps, others languid and smooth with long strides. Some necks ahead of bodies, some behind. Some sure, some tentative. Some moving side to side as much as forward.

And as I watched people walk, I saw an elderly gentleman start falling in the middle of the atrium, in seeming slow motion. He tripped, tripped, tripped, seemed about to catch himself each time, then down, down, down he went, hitting hard on the surface beneath him, his 1968 light blue pleather carry-on cosmetic bag tumbling away from him, his arms outstretched to catch it (like my buddy Chuck Knoblach used to do from the New York Yankees’ second base until he forgot how to throw to first.)

As I got up to run toward him, I realized that the people right around him who had seen this hawkish, slow pirouette  went right on by—quickly stepping around the road kill. And the man himself had lived in this society long enough to know that his real anguish wasn’t whether his hip was broken, but whether or not someone would steal his dead wife’s toiletry bag from him, the one thing that reminded him of her, that still smelled of her Jean Naté body powder, the one with that big poofy poof that she dabbed all over herself in the mornings, leaving tell-tale white residue on the carpet near the vanity that he used to get angry about and now missed, terribly.

As I knelt beside him, having retrieved the bag to reassure him, I remembered my own bags, still stationary at the so-called food court. For a moment, I’ll admit I was torn between materialism and humanity, but humanity won and I stayed where I was until help came.

Interestingly, when I got home, I had received a blog post from my friend and business partner, David, that was exactly focused on this concept of truly seeing others. In it, he recounts his own recent experience with seeing and helping:

"The man was lying on the sidewalk face down. Even from a block a way I could see that he was badly hurt. It was 8:00 in the morning, rush hour in Seattle, and I watched as the other morning commuters stepped around him, pretending not to see him, scurrying towards their day and away from this man in need. No one stopped!

He was in his early thirties, dressed for work in a yellow oxford shirt, grey jacket and slacks, his blond hair still wet with that freshly combed look even though he was writhing face down on a city street. He was semi conscious and vomiting blood. His backpack, still on his back, heaved up and down as he tried in vain to press himself off the pavement.

I dialed 911 and the dispatcher asked me to hold as he connected me to emergency. Either because I had stopped or because I’d opened my phone, the passing commuters, without exception (there were five in rapid succession) spoke: “Are you taking care of this?” “Are you dialing 911?” and my personal favorite, “You got this one?” Apparently, there were scores of people collapsed and bleeding on the streets of Seattle this morning. They spoke but never broke stride." 

We need to break stride, my friends. We need to break stride.

~*~ 37 Days: Do it Now Challenge ~*~

Break stride. Don’t anticipate that others will help—they’re watching for your reaction, too, and imagining that others will help, an infinite regress of not stopping, not helping, not seeing. Imagine, if you will, that you are in that person’s shoes, dizzy and sick in the airport, alone.

Ah, shoes. We’ve come full circle. Remember the vulnerability of being without shoes—and help those who are shoeless. You may be shoeless yourself one day.

You got this one? Say yes.

 

Comments

[Michael Wagner]

Wasn't there a famous prayer on this matter? Something like, "Lord, give me strength to meet every need I see, and help me not to see too many."

Thank you for this "speed bump" of a posting; I need to break stride.

[Shawn Callahan]

Yes, people are watching for your reaction. I remember reading Robert Cialdini's book persuasion and he called this phenomena 'social proof.' When things are uncertain and you are not sure how to act then do what others are doing. Robert suggests that if you are struggling, say you have been knocked down in the street, you need to single an individual out from the crowd and ask for their help. Once this person starts helping others will too. We should make breaking stride a social proof.

[Marilyn]

Call me a California airy-fairy nut job, but based on an experience I had when I lived in San Francisco, I've become convinced over the years that just MAYBE we are put in the paths of these people as a test...and that just MAYBE they might be...um...angels. There. I've said it. (And I'm not even religious.) The emaciated man sitting on a sunny sidewalk in Chinatown last Spring, holding a sign that said he had AIDS and needed money for food...we walked by dozens of panhandlers that day and we started to walk right by him, too...but about 10 yards later I had to stop...I told my boyfriend I HAD to go back. By the time I reached him, I had tears in my eyes. I put $2 in his cup, he looked up to thank me and I saw it...that light in his eyes. I know, I know, we all have that light...but sometimes there's just something more. There are countless times I don't break stride, but in those moments when I do, it feels as if my feet are disconnected from my brain...as if they're directly connected to my heart. And that feeling is better than any pair of shoes. :)

[patti digh]

mike - you have a wonderful way of layering images on images - I love the "speed bump" language...thanks for your note - let's all break stride together, shall we?

[patti digh]

shawn - i haven't read Cialdini's book, but it appears that i need to. thanks for those insights - and yes, let's make breaking stride a social proof. I like that idea...thanks for writing!

[patti digh]

marilyn - you...um...made me smile! I love the image you end with - thanks for your uplifting, fantastic note.

[Cindy]

Once I saw a man beaten up by a group of young adults. I ran into a nearby shop and asked someone to call the police. By then he had collapsed in the middle of the road and the robbers (they took away his wallets and watch...) disappeared into the x-mas shopping crowds ...

What amazed me most was all the cars just zipped by the body (he was unconscious) and none stopped... not even when I eventually managed to reach him and waved to attract their attention. For more than 10 minutes, until the police came, I was wondering if I would be killed by one of the cars.

Are we too busy to care? We no longer know how to care? Or we do not know how to care when it is upclose and personal?

Cindy

[patry Francis]

Wonderful story, and one I needed to read. The "shoes" part reminded me of my friend's boyfriend. He is a recovering alcoholic who spent time homeless;and since he suffers from various health problems, my friend pretty much supports him. She is constantly being called a "fool" behind her back by "wiser" friends. But one day when I was riding with this couple in the car, we passed a homeless man walking the cold streets without shoes. "Pull over!" my friend's boyfriend insisted. When I did, he jumped out of the car, took off his shoes and gave them to the man. Then he got back in the car and we drove home, him in bare feet, without mentioning it. My only thought was that he had known how it felt.

[Steve Sherlock]

I tried doing a trackback yesterday and again today without success but I did use this posting to write on the blog Synergy.

http://synergyweblog.blogspot.com/2005/12/breaking-stride.html

Thanks!

[patti digh]

patry - wow. what a remarkable story. thank you for sharing it - and i'm glad my story was one you needed. many thanks.

[patti digh]

cindy - Thank goodness you were there to help - otherwise, what might have happened to the poor man? You raise the important questions. I think something happens to us when we're surrounded by others - we tend to abdicate responsibility for the Other. And perhaps it's not that we don't know how to care when it's up close and personal - but that we don't know how to care when it is not. Thanks for your thought-provoking note.

[patti digh]

Steve - I'm sorry about the trackback issue and will have to take a look at that, so thanks for the heads-up. Many thanks for your insightful take on this issue of breaking stride.

[Pearl]

Breaking stride is the gift that makes striding purposeful. Wonderful stories.

[frida]

great entry!

[Bridgette]

I needed this story just now. I need to slow down before the world swallows me up.................