Way out West, in Berkeley, California, where we are advocates for the homeless but may not know the names of our neighbors, we have heard of it… The Bible speaks of it in the parable of the Good Samaritan. Confucius called it ‘jen’ (pronounced “wren”): the heightened state one achieves by unselfishly aiding others to be the best they can be. Buddhists call it ‘the compassionate life’ . Even the ancient Incan Emperors of Peru routinely gave the first harvest, the best of their crops, to the disabled, and the elderly. And, I had heard, in Georgia it was called Southern Hospitality.
Unfortunately, my first opportunity to sample that legendary hospitality ‘went south’. After nearly three hours in the “world’s busiest airport”, I found myself alone, exhausted, hungry, and unable to find lodging.
I was “runnin’ on fumes” when I dragged myself over to the air-terminal Police Station. I appealed to a serious, Raymond Burr-esque- looking man behind the counter for help, noticing too late that he lacked the tired gentleness found in that actor’s eyes. I was a sitting chickadee at the end of his large, consuming stare, which he aimed at me as if he were a bounty hunter, hired to rid the terminal of all suspicious females. Apparently, I was beginning to resemble a character from Pedro Almodovar’s film WOMEN ON THE VERGE OF A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN. Raymond was uncaring, and uncooperative, until I dropped the sacred acronym ADA (American’s with Disabilities Act): he suddenly picked up the phone and authoritatively demanded a wheelchair and driver! tout suite!
Shortly, I was off and rolling, but when I asked Missy Wheelchair Driver to please take me to the nearest US Air counter, she snapped back, “I heard you! That’s where we’re goin’!!” My patience for people who love to hate their jobs, and take it out on everyone else, had ebbed to nothing in the past three hours. I was sick and tired of being treated like an annoying dog. I shot back “ Is it going to be a problem for you if I repeat myself? Because if it is, I’ll get out right here, and you can call someone else to help me!”
“Oh no,” she said, in a much softer voice, down-shifting. As I and my story, slowly unravelled, she began to sympathize, and we took a detour to a counter where I had earlier overheard a real southern lady, with a soft, Blanche Dubois voice assisting another passenger. Yes, Blanche told us, there were only 3 hotels which had any rooms available. But, regrettably, just moments ago, she had turned the list over to the Information Counter across the way.
I immediately recognized the counter, run by Missy in Red, as being the second place I had stopped to get help much earlier that evening when I was still hopeful, patient, and full of energy. It had turned out to be like almost every kiosk at the airport: containing up to four individuals who, it seemed, could only say “over there”, or point, without using any directional words. If asked, they would reluctantly provide a telephone for the traveler’s use: it was bright red, and looked like a painted left-over from the era when words like ‘Hopkins’ and ‘Fireside’ were used as prefixes to phone numbers instead of the first two digits. I had not interacted with a single person who would volunteer to show me, dial for me, or give up any more information than what I had specifically asked for.
I soon found myself turning into the type of traveler I disdained: one who dropped names, and made statements like “I have traveled alone in countries where they don’t even speak English, and never had any trouble like this!!” At one point in the evening, I even yelled to the World-at-Large (who, by the way, was not listening…) “I hate this place!”
So, after invoking names like: 911; The Nearest Hospital, and, again, The American’s with Disabilities Act, Missy In Red agreed to write down the names and phone numbers of the triumvirate of lodging who might be able to offer me a bed. The red phone was slammed on the counter, about three feet above me, as I sat in the wheel chair: they didn’t seem to notice, or care that I couldn’t reach it. But, Missy Wheelchair Driver offered to call for me, using her cell phone, and Missy in Red flashed me a scornful look as she disappeared down the hallway.
I soon discovered that Missy in Red was either nefarious or dyslexic: all of the phone numbers were slightly off: none were correct. I heard someone who sounded vaguely like me saying “If I don’t get a room and some food soon, I am going to end up in the hospital. ” Finally, the young man behind the counter got the picture, and volunteered to correct the numbers. Then, he slammed down the Red Phone, but Missy Wheelchair Driver was already dialing on her cell.
Alert the World Press!Things were looking up! Finally, three and a half hours after landing, one of the hotel clerks said yes, they had a single room available for the night- I only needed a credit card number to reserve the room. Another obstacle-I didn’t have a credit card! Back when I first arrived here, I was traveling with my husband to a conference in Tennessee. But ‘Podunk’ Airlines refused let me on the plane, because they didn’t like my I.D., even though I had already been cleared by Homeland Security in Oakland, and traveled all day without incident under the caring wings of US AirWays, a much larger carrier. I told my husband to go on without me: I would be fine; I would get a hotel; explore Atlanta for a few days; and meet him on the return flight. He had given me all the cash he had in his wallet, but no credit card. Now, I begged, I pleaded, I probably even bleated like a sheep: “P-p-p-lease wa-a-ait for me to get there, I am going to find the shuttle right now.”
The woman agreed to hold the room for fifteen minutes. But, just as it appeared that things were looking up, Missy Wheelchair Driver who had been complaining all along about needing to be elsewhere, received a call on her cell, and ran off. “My piece of paper!” I cried out, not wanting to lose the only documentation of the call and the awaiting room. I staggered toward ground transportation, trying to replay the hotel conversation in my head, but my hippocampus was tired of being on-call all night, and refused to answer the page. I remebered Missy Hotel Vacancy saying something about the logo on the van, but my dope was low, and my executive functioning shot. I was unable to focus on more than one thing at a time, and couldn’t find the shuttle.
I was rapidly losing ground: my physical, emotional and mental reserves were nearly depleted. At exactly 7:00 p.m. that very day, I had landed in Atlanta, Georgia, happy and confident. It was now after 11:00 p.m., and I began to feel the ground moving under me. I had trouble finding my heartbeat, and I could smell the unpleasant odor of stress seeping out of my pores.
I attempted one more request for help. My last upright interchange went like this:
me: EXCUSE ME, COULD YOU PLEASE TELL ME WHERE THE NEAREST US AIRWAYS AGENT IS?
MISSY BAGGAGE CLAIM: OVER THERE
me: I ‘M SORRY, I CAN’T TELL WHERE YOU MEAN, EXACTLY
MISSY BAGGAGE CLAIM: OVER THERE! (POINTING).
me: THERE ARE ALOT OF THINGS IN THAT DIRECTION, CAN YOU SHOW ME WHERE?
MISSY BAGGAGE CLAIM: BEHIND THE GLASS DOORS
me: BUT THERE ARE A DOZEN GLASS DOORS, WHICH ONE DO YOU MEAN?
MISSY BAGGAGE CLAIM:THE ONE THAT SAYS ‘US AIR’ ON IT.
me; I DON’T SEE ANY NAMES ON THEM , THEY ALL LOOK THE SAME, CAN YOU TAKE ME TO THE CORRECT ONE?
MISSY BAGGAGE CLAIM: JUST LOOK!! IT’S THE ONE OVER THERE!
I tried to stay focused, and stumbled in the general direction she had indicated. I passed glass door after glass door, and as I got closer, my throbbing eyes saw a dark amoebic form within one of the offices. I only hoped it was human! I imagined it was the Gooey Kablooie from Calvin and Hobbes. I opened the glass door, slumped into a chair, and began to cry uncontrollably. The Kablooie took on shades of grey, and navy blue, and kindly asked me “What happened?” I was unable to speak, so it actually came out from behind the counter and stood in front of me! Was a Gooey Kablooie capable of patience? Compassion? As my tears began to dry, the refractive error they had created in my field of vision resolved. I took a deep breath, and The Kablooie asked me what was wrong, and how could he help me. As I focussed, I considered that he seemed sympathetic… nice, even. But his eyes were a little too narrow for me to trust completely.
I tried to sit up straight, regained a bit of composure, and explained my situation… I apologized, saying I had Parkinson’s Disease, and that I was thirsty, hungry, and exhausted.. As I began to relate the evening’s saga to him, he quietly interrupted me and asked “Have you taken your meds?”
“Have you taken your meds?” The words echoed: friendly, familiar, caring…Have I taken my meds? I looked at the clock, and realized that yes, indeed,I was overdue for a med. The fog lifted, and I remembered those same caring words from my husband. I remembered that I had community at home, and that I was loved by my husband, and my brothers and my ‘sister- women’. I began to cry again, but this time, tears of gratitude rolled down my left cheek.. I smiled at The Kablooie, who immediately turned into a human being! I decided his eyes were trustworthy after all… he wasn’t fused to the counter, and he had a real name: Freddy! Freddy Kablooie took the crumpled paper from my hand and dialed the numbers until he found Missy Hotel Vacancy, and requested from her detailed information about the color, logo, and location of the shuttle van. He said he would walk me there himself.
The end of a rotten evening was in sight!! I could almost smell the fresh white sheets, and imagine luxuriously sleeping diagonally across the King-sized bed, after a meal, and a hot shower…..!
But, just then, a boyish U.S Serviceman, and a bossy female airlines agent rushed in. Apparently , the young man needed a ticket immediately, in order to make a connecting flight in another city, and avoid going AWOL. Freddy Kablooie announced that there were no more flights out that evening , and the man-child would have to depart in the morning: the agent began to argue with Freddy, as if he could invent a flight that did not exist.
My precious fifteen minutes were ticking away swiftly, and so I politely interrupted…”“Excuse me, since you can’t leave until the morning, anyway, would you mind waiting for five minutes while this agent walks me to the shuttle? He will be right back.”
Boyish looked through me with opaque red-yellow eyes. I could feel him willing me to disappear as he turned away. Bossy frowned deeply, her wrinkles stacking up on top of each other up like dry kindling. An arroyo formed between her arched, holier-than-thou eyebrows… as I summoned up my last store-house of courage : “ I am just asking for a little understanding,” I said, “I have Parkinson’s Disease, and I’m completely exhausted.”
The arroyo deepened as Bossy inhaled. I began to feel short of breath in the tight oxygen-deprived office. Suddenly, she exhaled, her breath enveloping me in a gaseous cloud of superiority.
I membered the volcanic eruption in Iceland 3 days ago, saturating the air with ash. In the resulting melee, all flights to Europe had been cancelled, and even jets en route were turned back. I knew Freddy couldn’t abandon his post while customers were waiting, but I was desperately afraid of losing what could be the only room left in Atlanta. I admitted to myself that I had lost this battle- I had no armor against the almighty Boyish-and-Bossy .
So, I oozed out the door: the only form of locomotion I could still manage, morphing into a kablooie myself, but I was disoriented. My hippocampus was tired of memory games, and was still on strike. I wasn’t sure of the direction, and I pathetically looked back at the glass, hoping Freddy would come out, still human, and willing to help me. But the door stayed closed, and I realized, defeated, that he probably thought me rude, and had decided to let me go on my own. I was so strung out, I wasn’t sure I could hang on to my luggage anymore.
I couldn’t organize my thoughts, and felt inept, and clumsy. Missy Bossy Agent nearly ran into me, doing ninety in the pedestrian lane, and I said, “You know, you could have showed a little compassion back there! You could have waited for five minutes!” She screamed back at me “Well, that’s not my problem!!!” I ditched all comportment and protocol, completely lost my zen, summoned up my last reserves, and shouted back “Oh yes, it is, cuz some day when you need help, it’s gonna come back and bite you in the ass!!” (even though I don’t really believe in bad juju).
I had a few grams of stubbornness left in me, and as I turned, I saw a pair of narrow eyes that had been searching for me. “Am i going the right way?” I weakly asked.
“YES! Wait!” Freddy Kablooie jumped over the railing, and accompanied me to the shuttle pick up area, making sure that I was standing in the correct spot, and that I knew the exact color and logo of the van. Before he returned to his post, he gave me his cell number, and asked me to call him when I had arrived safely at the hotel, and promised to do what he could to make sure that I would be re-united with my husband, and have no trouble on the return trip. As he ran off, he repeated the healing mantra, “Don’t forget to take your meds!”
True to his word, Freddy explained my situation to his supervisor, and obtained a guarantee that I would have no difficulties on the return trip while traveling with USAir. He even stopped by the hotel after work to drop of my favorite sweater! I had abandoned it as road kill, not knowing where I had dropped it, but Freddy had found in the glass office. Each time we spoke he warmly chanted “How do you feel? Are you taking your medication?”
The compassionate life... why has it become so easy to ignore the cries of our fellow humans? I have reflected on it often, both before and after this trip. My conclusion is this: True compassion does not pour from a faucet that we turn on and off. True compassion is not hot and cold. It is not a ‘sometime thing’. We must practice it, and cultivate it, until it becomes second-nature. Compassion, offered when one is too busy, when it is inconvenient….compassion offered without expectation, or compensation, is the greatest compassion of all. The next time you see someone struggling, don’t wait for them to ask…slow down…. listen to their story, look them in the eyes, and say… “How can I help you?”
Those may be the most important words you will ever speak. If we can give just a few moments out of our day to an individual who is struggling with a disability, or old age, or loneliness, or poverty….if we can offer that person a chance to regain
her dignity, then we are truly in a state of grace. What nobler assignment do we have as human beings, as parents, as teachers, as lovers..than to make another person feel good about thin/herhemselves, happy, supported, accomplished, and dignified?
Oh, and Freddy? It turns out that he is originally from Peru. Perhaps he is or is not distantly related to an Incan royal family. Perhaps he doesn’t really know anything about that so-called “southern hospitality”. But I can tell you one thing, he behaves like Prince!!
Thank-you, Freddy