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Cruel Assumptions

Judgement Ruins us All

By Stéphane DreyfusPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 18 min read
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Cruel Assumptions
Photo by Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash

I wish I could be more human more of the time. I realize I'm not defining my terms here, but I think leaving things a bit vague and up to the observer is going to sharpen my eventual thesis. You see, I think we're all really eager to be in control of our lives. Part of being able to do that is feeling comfortable knowing what's going on around us. But knowing is a fool's game: we bump into massive amounts of data and phenomena, but what we actually know about it–what we can speak to with 100% certainty–especially those shadow boxes called people, is, let us be brutally honest for a second, immeasurably small. As a result, to get that feeling of control, we pass judgment: we make assumptions about people and things. Huge, stunningly vast assumptions, and then work from there when dealing with people and the world. To cope with the world we invent most of it, set that mess on top of reality like a terrible 80's horror movie death mask, and then produce upset sounds and hand-wave irritably when the two don't match-up to our satisfaction.

What I mean to say is that I wish I didn't do the judgment thing as much as I actually do. Airports don't help.

Upon arriving at JFK international with the family I was less a human and more a patchwork mess of tight, twisted flesh, half conscious ideations both cruel and kind, and very little patience. It is challenging to keep a five year old entertained for six straight hours when one hasn't caved in to the flat screen opioids of the tech realm. He doesn't even really want to watch movies, so those devices never help for long anyway. So by the time of our debarkation a great deal of my gray matter has already been frayed for at least a few hours. Add to that the fact that there is clearly a devil in charge of designing air travel seats for those of us who are unwilling–read unable—to purchase the magic of flight for less than several thousands of dollars, the result of which being that my body is a fatigued mess, set to be uncomfortable in any position for at least the next twelve hours. Air travel in economy is a gift and a punishment. A reverse physical therapy session that somehow makes you appear in a different part of the world.

The main person I'm trying not to yell at is my wife. I have enough wisdom and compassion to know that she's in almost the same state as myself. Some part of me is also vaguely aware that the other living beings around me must be feeling similarly. At least I try to wedge this belief into my grumpy, selfish undercarriage. It is amazing how unwilling we are to let in the possibility of the suffering of people we don't know. So the struggle is to not hurt the people I love, but somehow also manage to extend that sentiment a bit further out. A challenging concept on a good day where I'm rested and well fed. Still, at baggage claim it's mostly working. I'm entertaining my son. I'm being supportive of my wife. No strangers are bothering me and I'm fairly certain I'm managing to offer the same meager kindness in return. And though it does take a while for our luggage to appear, straining things a bit in general, we make it past that point of our trip and head out to the arrivals roadways.

Our next goal is to make it to the car rental lot. To get there, signs helpfully inform us, we must take the airport shuttle several stops. There is also a sign pointing in what one hopes is the direction of the shuttle. It is outside the terminal and across a lot of chaos. Still, it appears, at a glance through the terminal doors to be a manageable distance. I steel myself for the voyage, breathing deeply, trying to keep my back strong but relaxed, knowing that I must carry a great deal of weight what looks to be at least forty meters into the night. For just a moment, I feel calm and ready.

Nobody Having Fun Here

The moment I am outdoors, things start to fall apart. Under the road that is the loop for arrivals, and standing before the three lanes of departure traffic, it is hot. And there are a lot of people crowding the three parallel chunks of curb that separate the roads through this tight corner of the airport system. A lot of people. Most of them are precariously perched on a center berm of concrete in between two busy roads. Buses, taxis, Uber and Lyft cars jockey to make landings and pick up their riders, but also then fight for the freedom to leave once they do have their passengers on board. There is desperation, hurry, and anger in the drivers. They have had to fight through a nearly immobile mass of their fellow vehicle operators and their cars, and now pedestrians are adding a new kind of obstacle to their missions. Not only do these erratic, dangerously squishy things dart into the road and sometimes across it without any care for the few traffic lights present, but they also seem to be shoving each other around, onto and off of, the concrete sidewalks. Not violently, just as a matter of their being so many of them and the fact that most of them have huge suitcases in tow.

Witnessing this chaos some part of me grows grim. I have a place to be. I want to escape the horror of arrivals, get on the tram, and get to a rental car. My ability to care for other humans is quietly being muffled and shoved into a large soundproof box, a subtle ruthlessness wielded in its place. I need to get through this mass of people, and past this river of grouchy cars. Somehow I need to get it done without losing a five year old, a wife, or a giant black suitcase on tiny tiny wheels. I start to close out the details of the human faces around me, the looks of fatigue mixed with equal parts grim dullness. I think only about making progress. I launch myself into the fray.

My son stays close. He doesn't get lost. I'm very proud of him. I make it across one street during a pause between buses. I know my wife is not far behind. But now I'm with the herd, packed onto the tiny concrete island. It's the East Coast so the "ramps" up and down the curb for luggage are steep and deep. It takes a lot of effort not to lose control of the luggage or hurt others with the unwieldy thing. Still, I've built up enough steam and I'm projecting enough orneriness that people are making space for me. Without slowing down much I can see there is already a lull in the cars on the next road. I do notice an officer, and I notice that there is a traffic light. Though some cars may choose not to notice it, even with the officer present, I see that the light is in my favor, and so I speed up. The people on the island seem a little perturbed, but they're not moving and so I assume they're on the island waiting for a car to swoop them up. I am not expecting such a luxury, and so I press on. The officer doesn't seem to care. No cars gun it to make it past me, my son stays close. I'm pretty sure my wife will eventually catch up.

Across the three roads and the two concrete islands I am met with concrete stairs leading up. Unfortunately it is only after I have struggled about halfway up those stairs, hauling a fair amount of luggage, each obstinately trying to prove various points about inertia, that my wife gets back to within calling distance. She shouts out, "It's closed!" I peer up ahead into the darkness. She is correct. The shuttle stop for our current terminal is a dark, forbidding place. Not a single light illuminates its interior. The only light on its exterior is coming from other buildings and street lamps. Additionally, it is surrounded by large amounts of chain link fencing. It is very closed. I struggle against the growing fatigue and annoyance. It's not her fault! She's trying to help! "Yes. What do we do?" I manage without too much grouchiness creeping in. "Let's go back to the rental car information desks."

I don't really want to do that. Those information desks are back in the terminal. Across three active roads and two concrete islands full of strangely static but also grouchy people. I haven't hurt anyone yet, my son hasn't been hauled into the night by some random car or person, and I only have so much time before I do something foolish and snap at someone. "Ok," I say as I switch back into moving mass mode, and start the obstacle course in reverse.

I don't think any of the island's inhabitants are surprised, or not surprised for that matter, to see me. They are all trapped in the haze of fatigue and dullness that settles in on people who have almost completed their escape from the airport. They are holding on with their last threads of consciousness and energy, waiting for their moment to throw themselves, their luggage, and their families into some stranger's car. Moments after that car door closes, they will likely dissolve into tapioca. Tapioca that is free. Tapioca that is on its way to what I hope is a restful destination. But lumpy, slimy, formless tapioca nonetheless. Regardless, for some reason the voyage back across those islands and the three roads towards the terminal is easier. There seems to be no energetic obstacles for people willfully entering the terminal.

There are still obstacles to understanding how to get to the rental car lots. Back in the terminal we finally notice signs that mention that the terminal 2 shuttle station is closed. But there are no signs about what anyone wanting to use the shuttle should actually do. This is an unwelcome and dispiriting new obstacle. My son is starting to lose focus: it’s hot and he just wants to get out of here like everybody else. He loves being in airplanes, but the crowds of airports are stressful.

My wife is on the phone and she is clearly on hold or in some kind of phone tree. She is whispering and gesticulating at me about trying to get help from some living person in our vicinity. I am hesitant to ask as I see only other travelers, all wandering about in their own lost haze. An airline pilot is about to walk past us, and my wife’s gesticulations grow intense. She is, in her way, shouting at me, while on the phone, to ask this plane driving person about how to get around the airport. I refuse. I do not believe the captain of a flying vessel will know how to escape the terminal as a plebe: he must have his own special means of fleeing to the comfort and safety afforded those of his skill and position. Still somehow not losing it on the phone, my wife does a very angry jig to show how much she hates me right now for not asking any questions of the pilot. I marvel at her expressiveness as the pilot wanders away into the crowd.

Once she is off the phone I try to explain myself. Not only did I not believe the pilot would have the information, I believe I have a sense of where to go: up. If this airport is like others I’ve been in, then we need to go to departures and see if we can cross to another shuttle stop from above. My wife is not mollified but she is willing to try it, so we head to the elevators. Fortunately, our luck shifts at this point. A person who is clearly an employee of the airport proper is also getting ready to take the elevator. We both begin to ask, though it is my wife speaking louder and more quickly, how to get to a shuttle stop that is open. Again, I say we were fortunate to run into this person because it turns out I was wrong: up is not the way to go at all. In fact, we must venture one more time across the roads and islands, to the base of the stairs to the current terminal’s shuttle stop, and then we must simply walk along a small inner ring of sidewalk to the next terminal where, she assures us, the shuttle stop is open.

I want to be angry about this. This is a terrible way to run an airport. But of all the people present, there is no one who can remotely be blamed for this terrible situation. At least there is a way to make progress. We know where we have to go. We have hope. And so once again, the family heads back to the three roads and two islands. To my consternation, despite the passing of time, the population of these concrete islands seems unchanged. I steel myself once again, prepared to push myself and my luggage through the static masses.

Things start easy. The first road seems to be mainly for buses and there aren’t any right now. The first island, perhaps for related reasons, is fairly clear of people. But the long line of taxis and ubers trying to get to the huge mass of people waiting for them on the second island, has not abated. Somehow it feels as if the flesh barrier of the second island has gotten worse. As I press forward to roll my suitcase up the steep ramp, there is almost no movement. Unlike the first time through, for some reason, people seem larger. More firmly rooted. While some inner part of me wants to shrink from conflict, it is too small and too weak to be heard. I allow the monstrous, determined self to move me forward. I keep saying “Excuse me,” and “I’m trying to pass,” and it seems to be having no effect. Undeterred, I allow the suitcase to function as a blunt rectangular plow, wedging the crowd apart for me. People are looking at me annoyed and I, to my chagrin, reflect a greater annoyance back at them. I have asked you, and continue to ask you to let me pass, why do you stand as a sweaty meat cloud, blocking my way, seemingly impervious to my entreaties?

Just Being Terrible

I am rudely forcing my way through a particularly dense family who are all of stocky endomorph ancestry, when a rotund woman with a ruddy face behind me shouts directly at me, “We all want to cross!” I don’t believe her. No one is moving. I am fighting my way through human molasses. Not a single other person is taking a step off the island towards the far shore. I am immediately incensed by this person. Who is this short, round lady, shouting at me for trying to do something reasonable while a bunch of people simply stand packed together like sardines? And if you remember the thesis, you’ll see this is where I make a huge mistake. I don’t bother to learn anything about her. In order to force my purpose and my understanding of the world into place, I have to make her a villain. So, in anger I say “Then we should all be moving!” Turn to face the last road between me and the far sidewalk I seek, and simply roll over a bunch of people’s ankles and toes to get there. I don’t wait to see if my son is following. I don’t do more than mumble a few apologies. I charge across the road, thinking mostly grumpy thoughts about the ruddy woman, and very little about the cars. They all seem to be mostly stuck anyway. No one runs me over. No one even honks. It doesn’t really matter: I’ve already done my damage and now I have to watch my inner Buddhist facepalm and try to do damage control, while my mundane self struts about satisfied that it sure told that lady what was up, and that I must be superior because I managed to cross the street while the mass of flesh just stood still taking up space on the island. It is a disappointing mess of interior noise.

Having built up a lot of steam along with being angry and not really wanting to see the faces of anyone I just bowled over or yelled at, I am marching along the sidewalk towards terminal one at a furious pace. My wife and son are somewhere behind me, both looking a bit bewildered and stressed. It is not easy for my son’s small legs to keep up with me without running, and he doesn’t really want to run right now as he’s tired. He makes some kind of plaintive call. I can no longer remember if it was that I had gotten too far away from him, or whether he simply didn’t like the way I was treating the suitcase, but the upshot of it was that he wanted me to stop so he could close the distance between the two of us. I respond poorly, shouting madly about not stopping because things are heavy and I’m tired and… I finally catch myself. I’ve managed to stop walking. I’m just barely standing next to a large suitcase with a massive duffel on top of it. I’ve been angrily stomping around for the past few minutes and the anger finally got turned on my own son. I feel terrible about it. But not just about yelling at my son; I feel pretty bad about the whole past five minutes. I want to apologize to everyone.

Fortunately my son is here and he is very forgiving. I get down to his level and apologize. He lets me hug him. My wife is equally understanding now, though of course a bit dismayed at my earlier behavior. I thank them for their patience and make a point of changing my attitude. I regroup internally, now feeling sad and regretful that I can’t apologize to the people whose toes I’ve mangled, and the woman who was shouting at me. I still don’t know why she did it, but she did not deserve any of my vitriolic aggression. As we continue the walk to the first terminal, past what seems to be an endless river of completely trapped taxis, Ubers, and Lyfts, I have plenty of time to reflect upon my terrible behavior.

By Bruno Kelzer on Unsplash

Several minutes later, owing to the fact that there is no way we, as a family with luggage, are going to make it up any shuttle station stairs, we are in the elevator to the shuttle of terminal 1. Everyone here is quiet and subdued. I take a moment to look at my fellow travelers, trying to develop compassion for each one of them. When I finally end up looking at the people behind me I am struck dumb for a moment. There, in all her rotund glory, is the rudy woman who yelled at me. It is a blessing. I am overjoyed. I’ve had some time to tame my mind and I was still in the process of feeling terrible about not being able to apologize. It’s almost as if the universe heard me and recovered this woman from the void, placing her in my regretful path.

“I’m so sorry!” I don’t even try to introduce myself, I know she can recognize me, and I don’t care if I get lambasted, I just want to apologize while I can, before we all have to disperse and try to catch the shuttle. “There was no reason for me to be so rude!”

I more than half expected her to take a self righteous or angry path, but she was amazing. She immediately said, “I’m sorry too: I was trying to tell you that the light was red! And you had your son with you and I just didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Back and forth the apologies went. Two human beings being kind and grateful to one another. I had made so many judgments about this person. Due to her appearance. Due to where she was when she said things I didn’t want to hear. Due to the fact that I am habituated to making decisions, without any investigation, about what other people are all about. In the end we had a lovely elevator ride of being apologetic, open, and explanatory to one another. When we reached the top floor, the boarding area for the shuttle, we said simple good-byes and each went in our own directions.

I felt pleasantly revived. My wife was both amused at the spectacle and doing a very light amount of eye rolling. But for me the whole experience was revelatory. I had been terrible, and I had been forced to reckon with it immediately. Then I had been gifted a small chance to redeem myself, and I had had the fortitude to do it. Successfully practicing patience and kindness can be uplifting. I still felt bad about the various ankles and toes I had rolled into or over, but I doubted I would be given another chance to see any other people from the concrete island; they would have been here with the nice, concerned woman. I would have to reconcile my actions there some other way. I needed to learn from the experience. My practice isn’t what it used to be, and just hoping you will improve doesn’t often work.I would have to spend some time making sure this experience brought about some meaningful changes in my behavior.

The shuttle sped us on our journey towards a rental car. This subsection of the trip unfolded with little trouble or drama. I did feel called to help some completely lost French people, but that kind action felt like, while meaningful and good, a clear second in practice effort compared to being caught out in my judgments. I had hours of driving ahead to reflect on it all. Hopefully it would serve to keep me awake on the dark, nighttime roads of upstate New York and Massachusetts.

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About the Creator

Stéphane Dreyfus

Melanchoholic.

"Everything about us, everything around us, everything we know and can know of is composed ultimately of patterns of nothing; that's the bottom line, the final truth." -Ian M. Banks

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