The baby was a little bit fussy. He squirmed about in his mother’s lap, across the aisle of the bus from me, and it seemed that he was nearing the inconsolable stage. He was probably 3 or 4 months old (but then again: I’m pretty bad at guessing baby’s ages), and he had tan skin, and big brown eyes. He wore a navy blue onesie, and his white diaper bulged out the sides. His legs were more like yummy drumsticks than human appendages. His mother, a plump Hispanic woman with thick black hair, soothed him or tried to, stroking his fat little face, and murmuring something to him in Spanish. To no avail. He writhed about. At one point, we made eye contact across the aisle, he and I. His eyes, huge and deeply set, struck me with their humanness. He was having a hard time right then, he was dealing with a bodily function of some kind, who knows which one, and he was letting his mother know he needed help. I gave him an encouraging smile. This seemed to strike him still, he got that I was communicating with him, and he went very silent and calm, staring at me. His eyes were serious. Who is this person smiling at me … does it mean something? Can she help me? When it became apparent that my smile had nothing to do with HELPING HIM, he went back to writhing about, his small tan feet curling and uncurling themselves in mortal baby agony. The mother, still cradling him in her lap, reached down for her bag, which was placed on the floor of the bus, awkwardly out of her reach. She strained, reaching further, digging her hand deeper. The baby’s mood was reaching critical mass. He was about to start screaming. I could see the threat of it in his eyes. Then she finally brought out a bottle of what looked like apple juice, and got him into feeding position. Already the bottle was 5 minutes too late, so in the one second it took to get him into position, he began to weep as though he were from a Greek tragedy. Why, mamma, why is it taking … so … long … … And just before the tragedy could reach its peak, the bottle went in his mouth. Then came the transformation. You could feel it not just in his body language but in his entire essence. He relaxed. He lay back in his mother’s lap, and sucked away. Blissfully. He had his drumsticks up in the air, and I could see that he was still flexing his feet, but now it was a languid gesture, the gesture of a happy pasha, of contentment. Ahhhh, yum yum, I’ve got me some juice, and I love to flex my toes …
I watched this entire thing from across the bus, sometimes peripherally, and sometimes blatantly – and when he relaxed, suddenly I felt from out of nowhere a huge lump clog up my throat. I thought of the mothers outside the Superdome, clutching their limp hot babies, babies wearing filthy diapers that the mothers have scraped clean so that they can use them again, dehydrated babies, babies who need water, juice, anything … and the mothers, being mothers, know this … and yet there is no water, there is no juice. The stench of the air is atrocious, there is a corpse lying 2 feet away, and no amount of soothing or clucking or stroking will turn the baby into a contented pasha, flexing his toes just because he can and because it feels good.
The simple gesture: of a mother reaching down into her bag to get a bottle … the simple gesture: of a mother being able to take care of her baby’s needs when he says to her, in body language: “Mamma, I have a need…” …
suddenly seemed like a miracle, a freakin’ miracle, and it pierced my heart in two.
Oh God Sheila, you said it so perfectly. I,too, have been noticing the basic human comforts/needs, we take for granted. 1 diaper for 5 days straight, no juice, no water, no tampons… I have trouble without my altoids for God’s sake. This tragedy makes our day to day “struggles” seem so meaningless. I love the image of the tan drumsticks…………… I hope the gulf coasters get their %%$$##ing juice pretty damn soon.
J
It’s weird. I’m so upset about what is happening down there, Jackie … but at the very same moment, I have become unbelievably thankful for the simple things. I have my period right now. I have tampons. I am thirsty. I have a pitcher of water in my fridge. It’s just astonishing.
Tan drumsticks!!! So cute, so fat!!!
Beautifully put. I also love the image of little tan drumsticks waving in the air like a contented pasha – little dimples for knees and the soft skin too. And I’ve also thought a lot about basic comforts lately – food, water, ice, a shower, an a/c, tampons, etc. I hope those poor people can get some real relief sometime soon.
I admire the stamina and strength of the hurricane survivors so much. To see them huddled outside of the Superdome, waiting, waiting for basic necessities, surrounded by dead bodies and stench and filth – I’m dumbfounded, utterly embarrassed and deeply ashamed of myself, because I’ve come to realize that I’m just like the baby on the bus, quick to show displeasure at even a moment’s delay in getting juice.
If I don’t have a shower prior to climbing in bed, I can’t sleep. All night. Literally.
If I don’t have water available to guzzle at will, especially now that I live in New Mexico, I start to agitate, my mouth goes dry and my heart starts palpitating.
If it’s a hot, humid day, the air conditioner better work or else I will start to whine, mope, and be the king of crankiness.
I want a spotlessly clean, working, private toilet to be within 50 feet of wherever I am at all times.
I need to be able to be by myself, to have quiet, to make my own plans, and to come and go as I please.
My idea of roughing it is having to wait five minutes in line at the Post Office. Three days before Christmas.
I fully expect that “they” will open a new checkout line at the supermarket as soon as they see that I’m behind some coupon-clipping shopper with a full cart and that I am signaling my displeasure with my patented Joan Crawford haughty disdain eyebrow moves.
On the one occasion when the ATM disbursed $20 to me instead of $40, I stormed into the bank, reported the outrage, and when I was told my account would be credited later, I slammed my hand hard on the counter and announced for the entire bank to hear, “That’s not good enough.”
There have been times when someone in authority acted just a touch too officious and my bulging eyes and spittle-covered enflamed lips were a wonder to behold.
I admit all this because I literally do not have the mettle to make it through an ordeal like we’re seeing in New Orleans, and I am disgusted with myself. I would be a crying, rocking, sweaty, rash-coveed, despondent, schizophrenic basket case by day two, and would storm off at some point, a delusional Sybil, only to get myself in even deeper trouble.
So I’m admitting to more than just being an instant gratification junkie spoiled since birth by the first-world comforts and extravagance of life as an affluent white male growing up in twentieth century United States. I’m also acknowledging that I would be a burden and hindrance to my fellow humans in such a crisis, an albatross around whomever’s neck I entwined myself. And I’m deeply ashamed.
But damnit, if I were a government official in charge of the town, city, county, state or country in which a disaster such as Katrina befell, and I was somewhere with telephone service, I would move heaven and earth to make sure that nobody would suffer as these people have suffered. I would not care if I was crossing some jurisdictional line – I would get the effing water to them somehow. I would call Halliburton and say, “Get your helicopters over to the Avian factory this instant and start loading bottles of water.” I would call the makers of Pampers and say, “I’ll give you a tax write-off if you air-drop a half million diapers to the Superdome by nightfall.” I’d tell Costco to allocate every pallet they had of toilet paper, tampons, antiseptic wipes, lawn chairs, air mattresses, pillows, t-shirts, socks, underwear, and shorts, along with every brick of cheese, every jar of peanut butter, every box of crackers, every supersize container of powdered milk and cheerios and raisins, and every apple and orange, and get them all loaded into 747’s and flown to as close to the victims as possible. Look, I know I’m just talking out of my ass here, but I think we could have spent some money, mustered some resources and got these people sufficient water and food in the first 24 hours. Is that really beyond our capability? Hell, there’s 2000 hot-air balloons here in Albuquerque, with room in each basket for a fresh san-i-can. I guess I don’t understand.
I keep hearing the words in my head:
“Will I lost my dignity,
will someone care,
will I wake tomorrow,
from this nightmare…” Rent
Your words are beautiful Sheila and I hug my children tightly whenever possible.
red, that was just beautiful. And so true. And I cannot imagine the anguish of the mothers in the Superdome, not able to attend to their babies’ needs.
These past few days I’ve been walking around very cognizant of how good I have it…I have drinkable water, I have a soft bed to sleep in, I have a/c. I have a job, all the people I really care about are okay, I have enough food to eat.
it makes me feel a little guilty.