Uncommon Composure

It’s just after 9am and Eli, Ellison and I are wrapping up our morning bike ride. A car approaches and I bring it to the kids’ attention, reminding them to get off to the side of the road and keep their eyes on it until it passes. Our neighborhood doesn’t have sidewalks; I used to think that was my biggest oversight when we bought this house. I lead Ellison - still on his bike - over to the curb and come to a stop. Eli, already done riding for the day, runs back up the street towards us and, rather than stand, decides to sit on the curb. 

“Why are you sitting on the ground, silly?” I ask, laughing.

“Because I want to!” he giggles back.

Ellison, wanting in on the fun climbs off of his bike, sits down next to his big brother and joins in the laughter.

As the car drives past, the driver slows to a stop, rolls down his window and says “you didn’t have to push him down.”

I chuckle. Heck, we’re all already laughing; maybe he wants in, too, offering a joke of his own. I don’t really get it but, I rarely do. 

Hello, social awkwardness.  Good to see you again. 

“Oh, you think it’s funny?!” he spits, both him and the man sitting in his passenger seat now visibly upset.

It wasn’t a joke. 

I scan the scowls on their faces. Once. Twice. 

I’m taken aback. 

Three times. 

I don’t understand what’s happening. I laugh again but this time, very nervously.

They both continue to stare. My children are no longer laughing.

I turn to look at Eli and Ellison, making sure they’re okay and offering some reassurance by way of a small smile.

“Maybe you just panicked,” he offers, curtly but unconvinced.

I am panicking. I can’t find the words. Why can’t I find any words? What is going on?!

“Yeah, it’s hard.” 

He stares for another moment or two, rolls up his window and drives away.

I turn to my children again and they’re both still sitting there. Eli is now holding Ellison’s hand. My breath gets caught in my chest.

”Let’s… let’s head back, Eli. Come here, Ellison.”

I pick up Ellison, gingerly, and put him back on his bike and we head toward home.

What the fuck just happened?

Eli races back to our open garage door, looking back a few times before plopping down in the driveway.

What the fuck?

I try to get Ellison to practice pedaling the rest of the way—he’s been getting pretty good at it—but he refuses. I push him instead.

What the FUCK, man?!

I’m trying to piece together what just happened when it finally hits me: he actually thought I pushed Ellison off of his bike.

I continue piecing it all together.

‘Yeah, it’s hard.’ 

Seriously, Samantha? Really? ‘Yeah, it’s hard” ?? What does that even mean?!

I get angry. 

“He thought I pushed Ellison off of his bike?!” I say out loud - a little too loudly - shocked.

“You didn’t push Ellison off of his bike!” Eli yells, upset at the mere suggestion.

The humiliation and indignity set in.

Who would think a mother would push their small child off of their bike onto the pavement? What kind of person do they think I must be to push my small child off of his bike and onto the pavement? What even worse sort of person do they think I must be to push my small child off of his bike and onto the pavement with an audience?

Then: the anxiety.

Oh, my God: will they tell our neighbors that I pushed my child off of his bike? Will my boys lose the first 2 friends they’ve made in the neighborhood in over 2 years of living here because I’m now the mom who pushes her own kids off of their bikes? Is he going to call the police? Or social services? If this is what they think I’m capable of, am I even safe here?

And finally, the blaming. And shaming.

Why didn’t I stand up for myself? If I’m so damn smart, why did it take so long for me to understand what was happening? I’m supposed to be fierce, right? Then why was I so consumed with fear?

A few words of self-assurance and sanity creep in amidst the dissonance.

Why am I so upset that I couldn’t meet someone else’s hysterical, unreasonable thoughts and actions with a measured, rational response?

I mean, I know the answer. One minute, you can’t even be afforded the benefit of the doubt, a more reasonable interpretation than the first—simple decency—where others would have been.  And in the very next, you ought to be exceptionally self-possessed. You’re called to an uncommon composure.

Oh, I know. I’ve known since I was a child: about Eli’s age, actually. I was 5 or 6 the first time someone mentioned - with great surprise - how “well-spoken” I was. I used to think it was a compliment, too. That is, until I realized that it was a compliment only extended to some people.

Eli’s been a recipient of it for a bit now. I wonder how old he’ll be when the smile he offers in return - the chuckle - loses its sweetness and turns bitter in his gut. I hope it lasts a little longer than it did with me. But then again, I don’t. I hope he learns quickly what it all really means and how best to digest the bitterness, turning it into fuel.

He’ll need all he can get with where we seem to be going. 

Turn the fear they’d feed you with into fire, son. Only: don’t let it burn too hot. It’s liable to burn you down.

Yeah, I guess it’s time though I wish it weren’t. I tell you, carrying around the weight of other people’s irrationality never gets any easier.  The empty explanations don’t make the weight any lighter. By 32, you’ve just grown strong.  

Hopefully.

If you last that long.