Road Rage, Myopic Vision & Marching With Selma

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trahan


I’m not a fan of being cut off on the road. I’ve yet to meet a person who is a fan. To me, cutting someone off is getting away with being rude. The cutter-offer does not even offer an “excuse me” as he or she passes on the left or the right, squeezing into a driving space or speeding off ahead of you in the blink of an eye and perhaps a flip of the bird.

When this happens on the highway, the offending drivers are often long gone as I shake my fist in the air, grit my teeth and argue with the now invisible driver to get off my lawn, pull up his pants or to stop clicking her gum. Yeah, I heard them blow the bubble as they sped by.

If I’m cut off on a city road, I at least take solace in the fact that I’ve been aggressively passed so that he or she could get to that red light before me. “Hi. Nice meeting you again. Tell me, what was it about this particular light that you find so entrancing?”

No wonder I am greeted with puzzled looks by drivers. They are blissfully unaware that I am self-righteously being sarcastic. They flip the bird, pop their gum, and speed away.

A fellow worker I once shared space with at a past job was one of if not the best — but also most aggressive — workers in the office. He knew his stuff, would regularly increase his sales, and would often voluntarily take on (steal) additional clients and heavier workloads. He knew what the company offered — backward and forward — and not just a few favorites that he suggested to clients. His sales would often lead the way or be among the leaders. Even so, cheery as he may have been with consumers, he had a myopic vision in how he went about his work. It was his way or the highway and that highway was often littered with a working version of road rage. And if a co-worker stepped back, giving him his own lane on that highway, his road rage could be heard from across the room as he plowed his way through another successful day at work, even if he also would bull his way into your territory, with nary an “excuse me” to be heard.

Screenshot 2016-06-11 at 11.22.50 PMRoad rage elicits anger. Work rage can also elicit anger but since people have to work with each other on a daily basis, it’s best to resolve issues quickly so that they don’t foment. Sometimes people let off steam and resolve these fomented issues over beverages that have been fermented. Time tends to heal wounds as well as softens blows to the ego where our perceived wounds are held. Funny how that works.

In mid-May, I reflected a bit about a friend’s mother who had passed away after a long illness. As May turned to June, I realized I had another friend and fellow performer who had also lost her mother. My friend and I have known each other for almost 35 years. (Side Note: Feels weird to say phrases like that — adding any number higher than 10 when reflecting on years that have passed.) While attending UMass, I might have met my friend’s mother, Selma Singer. Perhaps Selma and her husband, Jerry, had come to UMass to see my friend perform. Alas, my myopic vision really can’t recall if I had met her then. But I do recall meeting Selma briefly once or twice shortly after my friend gave birth to her daughter Paulina roughly 25 years ago. Selma and I had limited interactions, even though I had visited her home in Kingston more than a few times since the early ’90s.

While memorial services are understandably trying for the family and close friends, I find them somewhat enlightening to attend. Rare is the time where I haven’t wished I knew the deceased better. Well, while they were living, of course. What I learned of Selma on that day was that she was an educated, jovial, spirited, questioning, loving, sometimes combative woman who loved the experience of life.

She also cherished social justice.

Recollections shared of Selma by a few people were beautiful, funny, sunny, challenging, moving, and downright inspiring. And, because of my arbitrary, spur of the moment attendance on that particular day, I will now think of Selma Singer when I hear of the March on Washington or Martin Luther King’s I Have A Dream Speech. Because of Selma, I have now met someone who was there for that speech. It’s no longer just an out of focus piece of history for me. It’s a piece of history that I’ve been in the same room with and perhaps shared a snack with … all while blissfully unaware of the piece of history’s presence. True, the participant had aged a few decades since that time. But my myopia didn’t know enough to engage during the few opportunities I had. Perhaps I could have learned something.

Screenshot 2016-06-11 at 11.26.54 PM


In 1963, despite the protestations from assorted family and perhaps Jerry’s boss, Selma got it in her mind that she should attend The March and Speech. My friend was not quite 2 years old, with 4 or 5 older siblings. Selma, a still youthful Jewish mother, with $10 in her purse, traveled by car from New Hampshire to Washington, DC. with a group from Unitarian Universalist Church. And so, they were present for history.

So the question is, which type of person do I prefer? Those I see almost every day who have a myopic vision of their own self-importance? Or those who are like Selma? A woman I only met a handful of times. A woman I have trouble recalling having a how-yadoinconversation with much less a challenging debate? A woman I met later in her life, far after her vibrant, grab-life-by-the-cajones youth. But a woman whose focused vision took her to one of the most celebrated historic events in our country. A woman who after that time dedicated her life’s passions not to myopic things like road rage or subverting someone else’s work in order to get ahead. No. Selma dedicated her life’s passions to teaching and learning, raising her children, loving her husband, and seeking out what was right.

Yes. March like Selma. You may not be richer than the $10 in your purse or wallet. But you’ll be richer in spirit for it.

Rare is the time I haven’t wished I knew the deceased better.


trahanGary Trahan of Manchester, NH, has written and performed throughout New England, Colorado, Florida and New York City. Gary has written plays, sketches, screenplays and humor columns, including for almost three years as part of a rotating team of humor columnists submitting for the Encore section of The Nashua Telegraph. “Gare” received his BA from UMass/Amherst another lifetime ago, and has been learning lessons ever since. Writing and other forms of creativity help to keep him sane, uh, sanER. You can reach him at gareman2@aol.com.


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