Ann Zuccardy's Blog

I slept with two men in an airport

Good thing I had that Chinese woman pummel me in the chair massage station near my gate before I boarded my flight from Hong Kong to Chicago. "You like hard massage?" she demanded more than queried. "Yeah," came out more as a puff of air than a recognizable word forced out with several hard blows to my back. 

Arriving in Chicago 15 hours later, I continued to feel the effects of my Chinese chair massage - remarkably loose and as rested as one can hope to be.  Such smooth sailing gave me hope for an uneventful last leg of the trip.  I was wrong. 

My four hour layover in Chicago turned into five, then six hours as my flight home was repeatedly delayed and then finally, cancelled.  That's when I began to think of myself as a beef cow being led to the slaughterhouse. 

I understand problems.  I understand human stress and burnout.  I understand too much work with too little resources for I, too, live these challenges in my own work. What I don't understand is nastiness, devoid of compassion, attack and conflict.  I do understand the power of a thank you or a smile under the most stressful conditions.  And maybe I'm just a pollyanna or crazy, but even when I'm going on 24 hours of continuous stress, I do manage to sneak in a empathic word or a kind glance.  Silly me?  Maybe. But that's who I'll always be.  Guaranteed.

I don't remember correctly the entire sequence of events after my flight to Burlington was cancelled.  I do remember long lines of angry people.  I do remember gruff, understaffed United Airlines customer service representatives treating me as if I were the problem as they rebooked me on another flight from Chicago to Washington, then home to Burlington.  And believe me, I am a complacent passenger.  I do as I'm told.  I say thank you.  I don't give anyone crap when I recognize the futility of a situation.  Not in airports, and definitely not in my personal life! It became a challenge for me to "kill 'em with kindness" to see if I could get a smile or some semblance of compassion out of a customer service rep.  Nothing. 

After more delays, I made it to Washington where I ran, at what felt like a five minute mile,  across  multiple terminals to catch my final flight home.  I listened to a middle aged woman with a badly permed mullet and a track suit with white sneakers that had likely never seen exercise rant endlessly about her journey from Phoenix.  And that's when my sarcastic voice kicked in - all in my mind, of course.  "Shut the F up, lady.  Phoenix is nothing compared to where I came from.  Do you really think whining about it to your seatmate who looks oblivious to your silly little plight is going to get you anywhere faster?  Do you think big bad United really cares about you more than the other stranded people sitting here?" 

Several more delays later (I lost count), around 10 p.m. (I lost track), the flight to Burlington was cancelled and I knew I'd be sleeping in Washington that night, hopefully at a hotel as I was beginning to hallucinate from lack of sleep and my teeth were covered with the nasty film of crappy airline meals and foul smelling bacteria.  My hair still looked great, I must add, not at all modestly.  Thank goodness for my crazy hair which seems to always look better when I don't wash or brush it.  And really, with good hair, I believe I can conquer the world.  (Hallucinations in full swing now.)

That's when one United Airlines representative (one who did manage to smile just a little) told me and two men I'd befriended that we couldn't get to Burlington until the next day,  "No, there are no hotels, but the seats in terminal C have no armrests between them and are quite comfortable for sleeping," she told us.  After we begged for food, she gave the three of us (me and my two friends) food vouchers, but by this time all that was open was Dunkin' Donuts. 

My two friends and I were now bonded and obviously in this together.  And maybe this makes me less of an independent woman, but I have to say, I was relieved to be in the company of two gentlemen who allowed me to go first down the escalator, who waited while I used the bathroom in a deserted part of the airport and seemed to understand my fear about sleeping alone in an airport. 

We dubbed ourselves "abandonmates."  Yes, United Airlines pretty much abandoned us - no food unless we asked for it. No blankets for sleeping.  No, "I'm sorry I can't help you."  And worst of all, not any semblance of human compassion.  We found our way to terminal C where we were to spend the night.  I was slightly excited about running through a deserted terminal and checking behind all the empty ticket counters to see if I could find pillows and blankets for us.  It reminded me of my childhood fantasy about being locked in a mall overnight.  Yes, hallucinations were thoroughly in charge now. 

I found three blankets and my two friends and I hunkered down for the night.  By this time, I was so out of it, I wasn't sure if I could sleep and I questioned the wisdom of popping an Ambien to help with the process.  Ambien won.  I felt safe.  I felt compassion and security with my friends and I swallowed a sleeping pill.  All I remember as I drifted off was clanging of the change recepticles of a bay of pay phones as if someone was obsessively trying to remove money from them.  It went on and on and on.  Or maybe it didn't.  I don't know.  Snippets of what I thought profound poetry drifted through my drugged mind.  "Oh, I have to remember to write this as a poem," I thought...and then I thought no more. 

I awoke four hours later to an airport coming to life in the early morning hours.  We still had five hours before our rebooked flight left.  I worked a little.  In all my burnout and exhaustion all I could think of was work and how burnt out I've been feeling.  I ranted and raved in my own mind about work until it dawned on me.  The compassion I was so craving from the airline personnel was the same compassion I felt unable to give myself. 

So, I sat in the awakening terminal C and did my dirgha breathing.  Calming breaths at first for compassion and then a little later, the breath of joy to breathe new life into my body.  I even meditated for a short time.  Cross legged on an uncomfortable bench, I forced myself to smile ever so slightly and to breathe.  I held the smile for about 10 minutes.  Yes, I cared that I looked like an idiot.  Yes, I care more about compassion and peace. 

The rest of the story is rather dull.  I made it home to Burlington, was reunited with my luggage and drove home from the Burlington airport consciously forcing myself to be alert. 

As I write this, I am still exhausted even though I've slept for a few hours and I am trying to figure out if this story is about travel hell or human compassion.  It's about human compassion.  What would it take for those United employees to have some sensitivity training and for irritable travelers to be trained in the art of compassionate assertiveness.  What is the power of a thank you?  Of a kind glance?  Of deep breathing into a different state?  What is the difference between the weary traveler who becomes abusive and swears and the weary travelers who become friends and help and protect one another as my two friends and I did? 

I don't know the answers.  It's a much bigger issue than an airline issue.  I'm noticing it in other places in my life - the places where I'll walk away from a confrontational person versus the places where I will calmly try to have a conversation versus the places where I, too, realize I am human and my potty-mouthed, judgmental self kicks in.  But she rarely stays for long.  These days I'm learning to thank her for her contribution and working on not engaging her.

Yeah, this is rambly.  I don't care.  I'm working on something bigger.  Understanding.  Empathy.  Compassion.  Self.  It's got to begin there.   

Ann's excellent circuitous adventure - part 1

I love to hear stories of how people got here.  How they got to be who they are right now.  What were the good choices?  What are the mulligans?  What story does every cell of the body of the person having coffee with me have to tell and what bits of wisdom (no matter how much I like or dislike the person) can I distill from The Big Story?  I love this stuff.  I have quietly observed and recorded these stories, as well as my own, through my passion for language for the nearly half century that I've inhabited this body. 

Only recently have I begun to open my mouth and speak my observations - to ask questions, to engage my curiosity out loud, to summon up the courage to be outrageous and outspoken, but compassionate and hopefully, tactful and respectful.  I never realized that was a possibility - it's not what I learned.  I've only just begun unlearn the beliefs I had about my right to be listened to.  Only recently have I begun to try my hand at new expressive genres (poetry, photography, hoop dance).  Inspired by a handful of people who have found their own circuitous way into my life and my heart, some without knowing it, I'm now remembering and telling my stories (some of them ugly and humbling).  The purpose of this blog is to tell them proudly and without apology. 

Last week, after attending a forum on career/job changers at the company where I am employed as a corporate communicator, I listened to the stories of strangers with whom I work. Each talked about his or her aspirations from childhood through adulthood.  Each talked about changing jobs in the company where we now work.  I'd been thinking about my own career story.  I cannot remember a time when I didn't want to write, teach or tell a story. Stories of fiction, inspirational stories, teaching my sister to read a Dick and Jane reading primer, or teaching pregnant women to listen to their bodies' vast intuitive knowledge, it mattered not. 

I was a painfully shy kid.  I was the kid who threw up with anxiety over a math test.  I was the one who knew what was going to happen and what people were thinking long before they told me.  I was the one who had nightmares about unspeakable horrors. I was the one who starved herself to the point of ill health when she thought she was fat and hideous. I wrote for solace.  I wrote it all.  And I  have always loved to teach or inspire others to read and write.  It's in my DNA.  It's who I am when I'm not thinking about who I am.  And I am grateful that I have always made a living doing it in one form or another. 

I have always believed that education is not about a degree.  I have always been a staunch supporter of a liberal arts education, even more today than 25 years ago as I observe that the thinkers, the communicators and the people who build strong relationships are the ones who seem to report the most fulfilling stories.  Ever read Daniel Pink's A Whole New Mind?  He asserts that the right brained folks (that's the creative sorts) will rule the future.  I would also add that I believe the folks who can easily switch between left brained logic and right brained ingenuity, those who spend time developing both kinds of thinking, will rule.  Bright shiny Ivy League diplomas, MBAs and $50K/year undergrad degrees will mean less and less in the coming years.  I see it happening all around me. 

Stay tuned for Ann's excellent circuitous adventure - part 2.  It doesn't have a title yet because, honestly, I never have a clue what I'm going to write until it comes out of my hands.  

I will tell you how I got here.  And I want to know how you got here.  That's all I know. 

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*Photo: sweet raspberries growing on my property.  I ate 'em all last weekend. 

This post is dedicated to the people who tell stories that inspire me to think, question and create. 

Writing prompt sources

I'm always looking for good writing source prompts.  Usually, my prompts are simple - a word that pops into my head.  In the last week I've used ersatz and egregious - fun to say - fun to write. 

Today I feel wordless.  I am functioning on a much more visceral level.  It may be a poetry day.

I did find a quote that I shall ponder today in hopes that something will come out of my brain.  So far, nada.   

"There are several good protections against temptation, but the surest is cowardice." -Mark Twain

Where do you get your writing prompts? 

My cacophony of silence

When I first learned to play the piano I refused to read the notes.  I remembered that middle C had a chip on the edge closest to my fingers and I always rubbed my thumb on it because it felt good and let me know I was in familiar territory.  Safe territory where I could find my way through any number of scores without ever reading a note.   I committed that little ragged chip in ivory to memory, just as I

often do with people – a snapshot that isn’t visual.  I can feel the chip of that middle C just as if I am running my thumb over it now and it occurs to me that my middle C approach has served me well for I rarely understand the notes I read and I plod ahead with tactile confidence. 

 

The early notes of a beginner learning music are not cacophonic to me.  A baby’s cry is not cacophony.   But sometimes when a light is harsh, too bright or casts unfriendly shadows in my house the physical pain it creates is a cacophony of demands in unfamiliar territory.  The tone of one harsh voice, however soft it may be is cacophony. And yet, an untuned piano with an earnest player learning a chord or the brightest sunlight across my naked body on the most humid summer day or the orgy of spring peepers doing whatever it is they find so compelling each April never cause pain. These are welcome cacophony .

 

My quiet voice is cacophony.   I know what it says, but I can only feel middle C.  I can’t translate it to the circles and lines in front of me…yet.   I know that this is the spot just to the left of the two black keys in the middle of the piano from which the other notes originate.  I want to play loudly and to wallow in cacophony without hesitation as I gently release its sound from my lips. 

 

I practice.  I plod.  I return to middle C.  Cacophony calls my name – fortissimo -  and dares me to revel in its clamor. Cacophony plays me. 

 

 

-This post is dedicated to a cacophony of thoughts that  are beginning to find their words. I wrote it a few months ago as part of something bigger.  Still playing with it.