You never know when some stranger is going to tell you exactly what you need to hear. Offer a few sentences or a handful of words that cut through all the mess in your head, the ugly stuff you obsess over in the middle of the night, the things you can’t say out loud. I once believed these encounters were surreptitious and extraordinary–right place, right time and so forth. But I now think that the answers to all of our questions are circling around us constantly. Waiting for us to receive them. For our defenses to weaken enough so that the truth can penetrate our hearts or, if necessary, hit us over the head. I had such an encounter just last week. In this case, the stranger was an Uber driver. The circumstances, a return ride from the Harry Potter tour at Warner Brothers studios in Watford, England. The cause for the chink in my armor? Heavy rain and an alarming case of jetlag.
To back up a bit, I ended up in London quite spontaneously. My husband was traveling to Europe on business for ten days, and my kids and I decided to join him last minute. To do what we’ve always threatened/heard that people do: cash in an expensive business class ticket for four coach seats; trade a costly hotel room for a roomier Airbnb; forego pricey restaurants and cook for ourselves. Saying yes to the trip meant that the three of us would be on our own in the city. That I’d have to wipe the calendar clean and put all deadlines on hold for a couple of weeks. That the current momentum I had with my writing (so very hard to come by) would be disrupted. Again. But time is flying by, I thought. Two more summers and my daughter heads to college. How can I not jump at the opportunity to see the world with my kids? Hell, to see the world for me? Yes, I said, let’s do it. And off we went with barely a plan in place. Open and ready for whatever lay ahead.
What lay ahead, if I may fast forward, were five days of rain and five nights of sleeplessness. Despite the daily miles walked, an entire bed to myself, and the soothing patter of drizzle on the roof, each morning I lay awake as the sky turned light. By the fifth dawn, exhaustion consumed me. Body buzzing, heart skipping, my sound-mind started to crumble, and all the whys rushed in. Why did I agree to the trip? Why did I always put my work on hold? Why was I the supporter of causes and people, the caregiver, the flexible parent? Why did I follow so easily? Why did I think I had anything to say? Why would I trust that I could grow a writing career in my 50s? And why in God’s name had I allowed myself to fall into such a traditional role—me always staying while he went off? I bludgeoned myself with these questions until my defenses counter-attacked with, “You selfish, little you-know-what! Get over yourself and your white privilege problems. You’re vacationing in Europe for god sake. Take a Benadryl and shut the hell up!” The tug-of-war in my brain was deafening. And though I didn’t take the pill, I did curl up on the sofa and try to rest, repeating the mantra, “I am grateful. I am grateful. I am grateful.”
We would have taken the train back to London, but my daughter had a bit of a cold, and the Harry Potter tour kept us on our feet for almost four hours. Dodging the downpour, we ran for the Uber parked at the entry and jumped inside–kids in the back, me in front. As I buckled up, I noticed the lingering smell of vomit that the New Car air freshener couldn’t cover up. I cracked the window; it would be a long, 60-minute drive back to the city. In the warmth of that small space, my eyes ached to be shut. I pulled out my sunglasses and put them on muttering something about light sensitivity. Which turned out to be the exact opening our driver needed to begin a conversation. About the regular client of his who can’t tolerate any sun and has to cover every inch of her exposed skin. How he lives in Watford and never drives into London, but for some reason made an exception for our pin. About his three children, all under six (ah, the pukey smell now made sense), and the rain gear he’d put on his son for a field trip to the zoo that day. How families are falling apart, and children are messed up. How young ones spend too much time in school, and…how mothers are naturally the best caregivers and should stay at home to raise their families. My eyes instantly popped open. Oh, crap, I thought. He’s a chauvinist.
While I hadn’t paid much attention, I now turned to profile our driver: early 30s, good teeth, mixed accent, possibly Muslim. I wanted to reprimand him for being sexist and patriarchal. Tell him that his point of view was not one I would tolerate. But I was vulnerable, sleep deprived, my resistance nonexistent. So when the bigger voice inside of me rose up and urged, just listen, I did.
Off my silence, he backtracked. “I mean, someone should be available for the kids.”
“Of course,” I said, swiveling around to check on my son and daughter, zoned out listening to music.
He asked, “What do you do? Why are you in London?”
If there’s one question I hate more than anything, it’s “What do you do?” I hate trying to string together the through-line of my work over the past 15 years. I hate admitting that what I do most is care for my kids. Be available for them and our family while their dad has the career, makes money. That I so quickly put my work on hold to volunteer, show up, manage the moving parts, juggle other people’s stuff. I hate that what I do conflicts with the feminist in me, the creative in me, the dreamer in me who imagined/still imagines that I’m the one packing the bag, flying off, rising to the top. I hate that my choice–though I’ve never actually admitted to it being a choice–looks so similar to the scenario I grew up with.
Did I just tell him all of this? Did I actually fess up to my demon? I’m not even sure how much spilled out of my mouth. I was so tired. But when done, after the air hung quietly for a few moments, he gently responded–
“It’s very hard for the person who stays at home. It’s hard to push your career forward. It stops and starts a lot.”
That’s all he said: two short sentences that were simple yet profound. Enough to make me want to jump over the seat and hug him. Thank him for acknowledging my pain and truth. For giving me permission to drop my weapons. To be okay with my choice, and recognize (finally) that my decision wasn’t an easy one. I took off my glasses and smiled at him. And then–with the same spontaneity that began our conversation–we moved on. To discuss Brexit. And Boris Johnson. And when the bloody rain would end.
