Into the Blue: Attention
A few months ago, on a boat picnic while on vacation in Florida, a family anchored next to us; music blared through a bungee-corded speaker attracting attention to two huge flags flying atop their center console: one read, TRUMP 2024, the other, FUCK BIDEN. As I watched the mother on board offer her smallest child a sip of water, I wondered what she would do if that child didn't fit into our binary world? Would she still support Trump? We pulled up our anchor as another boat floated by with a flag that read, God, Guns, and Trump.
I remember once when Pip was four, we were driving him to soccer practice in Boston. The fields were next to the Charles River, and parking was a nightmare. Our strategy was to drop me and Pip off while Roo and Phoebe parked the car. On this particular afternoon, we turned into the lot for our routine drop-off, and there was a carload of men waiting for a spot. Their very buff, tattooed bodies bred a don't-fuck-with-me energy. They were on their way to softball practice; I remember this detail because when they got of their car, they were holding bats. As we drove past their blinking car, the driver put his head out his window and shouted such profanities and threats that our four-year-old gasped from the back seat. I was appalled.
Against Roo's wishes, when we came to a stop, I got out of our Subaru Outback, and bee-lined to the group of softball players who had scored a prime parking spot and forgotten all about the family of four whose lives they had just threatened. I walked up to the driver and said, "I want you to know my family had no intention of taking your parking spot. We're here to drop off our son for soccer practice. The words you shouted at us were really horrible." At this point, I put my hand on his chest, and continued, "My family and I are kind people. My name is Georgia. I'm a mother of two; I teach yoga. I'm not here to fight you for a parking spot. I know you were here first, and I wouldn't take your spot." The man looked at me in complete shock. I watched as my words and hand landed; his body relaxed, his eyes softened. He said, "I'm sorry." I smiled, nodded, and walked back to our car to get Pip out of his car seat. Roo took a sigh of relief.
The Georgia in the Charles River parking lot was generous. She believed humanizing herself--sharing her story--would be enough to create a connection. She saw the man--touched the man---as a fellow human. The Georgia in the Florida canal was not able to see past her assumptions that came along with the Trump flags.
Phoebe doesn't always feel comfortable going into a public bathroom without me. Once upon a time, I thought Phoebe's discomfort had to do with being shy; today, I understand my presence as a shield to the comments:
"Hey buddy, the boys' bathroom is over there."
"Hey man, wrong bathroom."
"Mom, why is there a boy in here?"
The folks making these comments are operating on assumptions: I get it, Phoebe has short hair and wears their brother's hand-me-downs. I would assume they were a boy too. And maybe once upon a time, I would have acted on those assumptions; but today, I would keep my mouth shut, and err on the side of kindness and hospitality.
Last winter, 16-year-old Nex Benedict, who identified as non-binary, was in a school restroom when a group of classmates made fun of them for how they dressed and how they laughed. When Nex threw water at them, the three classmates attacked Nex causing them to hit their head and black out. According to Nex's grandmother, Nex had been bullied at school after Oklahoma's governor, Kevin Stitt, signed a bill in 2022 that forbade trans and nonbinary youth from using bathrooms concurrent with their gender identities. Nex died by suicide the day after the bathroom altercation. Nex's tragic death hit me like a brick.
When I look at a photo of Nex, I see a bright-eyed teenager. Sue Benedict, Nex's grandmother and guardian said, "Nex did not see themselves as male or female. Nex saw themselves right down the middle. I was still learning about it, Nex was teaching me that." At age nine, Phoebe said something similar, "I don't feel like a pink girl or a blue boy, just a green Phoebe." Neither you nor I have have to understand Nex's or Phoebe's experience; our only responsibility is to replace making assumptions about what is right or wrong--better or worse--with a generous mindset. A generous mindset is present when we are being kind, hospitable, open, respectful, and when we are paying attention.
What do you do when you see a homeless person on the street? Do you offer them your attention? On our same Floridian vacation, on our way to dinner, we saw a homeless man sitting on a curb next to a stoplight with a sign that read, "Please Help." Phoebe noticed him first, and that he did not have use of his legs. We watched the man topple over as he reached for a coin dropped from a car window. We winced. The stoplight turned green and we drove on. I tried not to make assumptions about what the man would do with the money; instead, I wondered how he got to the curb in my rearview mirror.
The next morning, while sipping my coffee in the warm sun, Phoebe declared, "Mom, I have an idea. I want to make care packages for homeless people here in Florida. " They handed me a hand-written list of items to include in the packages:
Band-aids/first aid
Granola bars
Orange/apple
Candy bar
Hand sanitizer
Socks
Water
Toothbrush, toothpaste
Emergency blanket
Gum
Hat
Beef Jerky
"Oh, Phoebe," I said, "I love this idea. Maybe we can make one package and give it to oneperson today...I don't think we have time to do more than one."
"O.K." Phoebe replied, "then we can make more when we're back in Hamilton."
We never got around to putting together the care package in Florida nor have we assembled any here in Hamilton yet. BUT I still have Phoebe's list, which I was reminded of when reading Anne Lamott's latest book, Somehow: Thoughts on Love. Chapter one, "Swag," recounts Lamott's church put together bags "of supplies for the unsheltered in [their] county with necessities like shampoo, socks, and dental floss" (13). "Swag" follows Lamott driving around Mirin with three lavender-colored bags on the floor of her back seat, introducing us, one by one, to their receivers: a man, while smoking a cigarette on a bench, looks through the sac and takes just the socks; a mother and child with a sign that reads "Can you help PLEAS!" in a grocery store parking lot takes the first bag; a woman with dreadlocks and sores on her legs takes the second bag; and after replenishing the socks, Lamott's friend, Ben, takes the final bag and says: "You're so kind to me Annie. Kindness is how I feel the movement of God!" (24).
Lamott writes: "these bags were not your ordinary handout. The people at my church in their incredible thoughtfulness had considered how a person might feel cared for. What would help them have a shot at balance? What might help a person who's up against impossible odds?" (22). Phoebe had the same salve to suffering as Lamott's church: our attention.
As I continued to read Lamott's book, Phoebe was light on my mind and heart until I got to chapter five, "Somehow," when my heart sank a little. Chapter five is about Lamott finding mercy for herself in the face of the ongoing repercussions of a cruel and shocking tweet she made in 2015 about a famous trans woman. I did some research to find out more about the incident Lamott refers to. The 2015 tweet was indeed mean, judgemental, and unnecessary. I can't help but feel deeply disappointed in the author, who is so often a beacon of wisdom, hope, and grace. If Lamott can act on her assumptions and impulses so hurtfully, we're doomed, I think to myself. But then I remember my capacity to be generous in the face of discomfort and confusion--to consider the pages and pages of loving words Lamott has shared with us over the years, as opposed to focusing solely on a single tweet of hateful ones.
Whether you are a Trump supporter, a Biden supporter, a non-binary person, a homeless person, a very buff softball player who shouts profanities at young families, or a spiritual priestess who makes a mistake on Twitter, let us look a little more closely at one another, past our assumptions. In his book Infectious Generosity, Chris Anderson, founder of TED, defines the generosity of attention as "the generosity of being willing to be a little uncomfortable, to take down those shields, to give up a little time, to risk coming to care about someone else" (69). Phoebe's list, Lamott's lavender bags, and my hand on the softball player's chest are examples of giving our attention as a means to bridge the gaps between us. In David Brooks' most recent book, How to Know A Person, he equates paying attention to others to moral behavior: "Evil happens when people are unseeing, when they don't recognize the personhood in other human beings." Nex Benedict died from a (young) lifetime of being unseen.
Let us hold close the words of Thich Nhat Hanh: "The most precious gift we can offer anyone is our attention."
As always,
thank you for reading.