“ASSHOLE!”
I hear her muffled scream through my car windows. The blood rushes to my cheeks in embarrassment. I had been an asshole. Not on purpose, but it still happened.
I didn’t see them. Rolling up to the four-way stop, I was thinking about how I needed to get in touch with my doctor at her new clinic to refill my prescription.
A mere three blocks from home, I paused and rolled more than performed a legal stop— and bam! They were suddenly there, jogging up to the intersection where I was definitely committing a minor traffic violation.
But it was too late, all I could do at that point was to zip through the intersection so as not to interrupt their morning run more than I already had.
An involuntary “oh!” slipped from between my lips, and I covered my mouth in shame. And then I heard it.
“ASSHOLE!!”
In my review mirror, I saw her shake her head in disgust and keep running.
She was right. I had been an asshole. I wasn’t being overly attentive driving through our neighborhood, I was going through the motions, ultimately being a little selfish and lazy.
But it still stung.
I think it stung even more because blithely cutting off runners on the intersection sidewalk is so the opposite of my perception of who I am! I’m religious about stopping for pedestrians. I honor bike lanes. I smile and wave families with strollers and bikes, cheer on Hot Girl Walkers, stop to pet dogs.
Even now, I wonder why I’m taking the time to write this on my Substack of all places— as if pillorying myself in a public square of my own making will somehow absolve me.
“People don’t look out for each other anymore,” he says. “No one raises their kids to be polite.”
I catch his grocery cart rolling down the hill in the Walmart parking lot, toddler on my hip.
“Whoops! Glad I caught this for ya!” I smiled at him.
In return, he offered to collect my cart and put it away. We chatted, my minivan trunk gaping open as I loaded it up, and his closed to reveal a MAGA bumper sticker.
“Thank you so much,” I say. “This is very kind.”
And it is. Just two people helping each other out in the parking lot. Two people who likely don’t have much in common, other than they both needed a hand with their groceries.
I’m reminded how complex life is, how nuanced people are. The man scratches his white beard and waves at my son, still in my arms, and we wish each other a good day.
Back in the front seat, my friend who’s with me and overheard our conversation rolls their eyes. “White, male Trump-er bemoans the fall of common decency. Shocker.”
On the one hand, I get it: what is the kindness of collecting one cart in a parking lot in the face of the torrent of political devastation occurring at the hands of our current administration?
On the other, however, I recognized a loneliness and hunger for human connection in the man that I feel myself. It feels too complicated to process.
I turn on the car and we go home.
There’s a knock at my door.
It’s a newer neighbor I haven’t yet met. She introduces herself in a wobbly voice, and explains her car’s been stolen and would I happen to have any Ring camera footage I can share with her?
I see the policeman chatting with a man across the street. She tells me that’s her boyfriend and I offer my sympathies for her car. We start chatting about our lives, and exchanging neighborly pleasantries. I share about a time my family car got broken into, and how violating it felt at the time. I apologize for the number of noisy, half-clothed children romping around our front porch at any given time, and she says she loves it.
Then she bursts into tears.
“I’m so sorry!” she reaches for me, “Can I have a hug? You’re just being so nice!”
She holds me tightly, shaking into my arms, and I hold her like I hold my children when they’ve been hurt. We stand there swaying until she collects herself.
“I’m a cancer!” she laughs tearfully and I tell her I have two cancer babies who are the lights of my life.
At this point other neighbors and her boyfriend have congregated at my front step and we all swap stories of unfortunate vehicle related mishaps and it’s a lovely neighborhood moment.
A few hours later, when we’ve all disbanded, I see another cop car pull up and knock on her door across the street— they’ve found the car she hollers at me when I wave.
Which is it? Am I an asshole, or am I so nice?
Actually, I’m both.
The older man with the MAGA sticker on his truck who helped me with my shopping carts showed me a moment of kindness. While also voting my (and many other people’s) rights away.
I’m not writing this to draw some big conclusion about how humanity works. This isn’t my attempt to create a kumbaya moment when everyone is scared and uncertain about the future. I’m just processing this all out loud, and in need of a space to record the sense of dissonance I feel everyday living in Nashville. Living in America in 2025.
It feels personally important to attempt to put words to some of this, because depending on who you ask, I could be a caring neighbor or reckless driver. I’m both. I’m flawed. I’m funny. I’m boring. I’m kind. I’m selfish. I nuanced and change my mind.
I have to believe I’m not any better or different than the average person. I’m just a person.
A lover and an asshole all at once.
All of the photos in this post are taken by photojournalist, documentarian, and historian Ray Di Pietro. I first became aware of his work in 2020 during the Black Lives Matter protests here in Nashville. The work he’s doing to record and document the social and political goings-on in the city of Nashville are important and move me to my core. I highly recommend you follow him on Instagram and check out his website. Thank you Ray for all you do for our beautiful city!
A beautiful read. The complex duality of being human. Can we harness the humility of all of us being flawed and use it for small acts of kindness. And hope for a contagion effect?? Loved this in my inbox this morning, thank you ☺
As a seminarian, this time of the year is never not busy for me. Currently, I’m working on my Maundy Thursday sermon about Judas and love and how the three simple words of “I love you” are so freeing and liberating and sink a hook of hope in me like nothing else quite can but also how scary it is at the same time. Naturally, it’s a bit of a doozy as far as a sermon goes and is one that I know full well will not sit right with some folks. Reading this as I’m staring blankly at my screen, at a loss for how to convey the feelings I felt just now and the stories you shared - it gives me pause and hope in a weird way. That the experience of showing mercy and asking for it as well at the same time is never not a holy experience.