We Need Change: Random Acts of Kindness at Aldi

Last night, I went grocery shopping despite being tired and not feeling well. I had been trying to stave off a panic attack since the night before, when something in an episode of The Maid triggered me. Living with PTSD has taught me that a panic attack can occur at any time, even when you're objectively safe. The antecedent doesn't even have to be known. It just happens, wherever and whenever it wants. I one time had a panic attack while changing my client's sheets at his home during one of my shifts as a caregiver. There's nothing scary about clean linens, nor was anything bad happening. He was asleep in his living room chair, and I had the sudden urge to scream and vomit. My heart rate skyrocketed (most likely to 140 beats per minute, my usual when I think I'm going to die), and I knew what was happening because it wasn't the first time and surely wasn't the last. I had a similar feeling last night in the parking lot of Aldi. I don't know specifically what brought it on in that moment, but I only had a few things to get. So I reminded myself to be present: "You're in Lemay, in your car with the doors locked, about to get groceries. The only people around are pushing carts to or from their cars. Nothing bad is happening. Right here, right now, you are safe." I put my mask on, grabbed my keys, took a picture of the grocery list I wrote on a paper towel in the kitchen the night before, put my phone in my purse, strapped it over my shoulder, and got out of the car. Being in public is an ordeal ever since the trauma in January of 2019. It was getting dark out by the time I got to Aldi, even though Daylight Saving Time didn't end until 2 o'clock this morning. Everything is scarier now when I'm away from home and it's dark out. I didn't used to be afraid of the dark - even as a kid - until it became a trigger. I approached the rows of carts outside the store and reached into my purse for a quarter. I remember putting one in there specifically for the purpose of getting an Aldi cart. I frantically checked every pocket and pouch, to no avail. I knew I probably had one in the car, but this was one of those times that a feat like that felt too out of reach. That would take a whole minute and a half, and may I remind you, I was in a hurry. I had nowhere to be by any certain time, other than home before dark so I could panic in private. I can only talk myself out of something like a panic attack for so long until I have one, and sometimes - they don't reason with me at all. It's ironic that the purse I was fumbling through cost hundreds of quarters to buy. But here I was, in need of just one. Finding a quarter while trying to talk your body out of thinking it's going to die is an odd combination of tasks. One could say that I may consider whoever could give me a quarter in that moment a life-saver. "Excuse me," a little girl's voice interrupts my search. "Would you like a cart for free?" she asked. "You don't have to give me a quarter for it," she immediately added. I almost burst into tears, dropped to my knees, and folded my hands in gratitude for this sweet stranger. "Thank you so much," were the only words I could muster, but of course with the most sincere tone. "You're welcome," she said, in a way that sounded like this gesture was no problem at all. And maybe, from the outside looking in, it was just the culture of Aldi running its course. This happens all the time outside that store. Maybe she got the cart for free from another nice stranger and was paying it forward. Maybe my struggle was obviously pathetic and  whoever she was with, watching from the car, told her to give it to me for free. Or maybe she did so of her own volition. No matter what, it was a moment of my life I was in desperate need of a little kindness. After all, it is the small acts that change the world. Once inside, I sanitized my cart and pushed it through the automatic doors. I was on a mission, and I tried to only focus on what was on my list. In and out quickly was the goal. I was almost finished shopping when I saw someone carrying a box of groceries to the checkout lane. It was a young black woman wearing athleticwear that defined her muscular figure. She looked fit, so maybe she didn't need to set it down, but the box looked heavy. There were multiple people in front of her in the checkout lane, so I figured she may be standing there for a while. I at least wanted to ask if she'd like to share my cart until she got to the conveyor belt. I had room for what she had. And as proven before, I know what it's like to not have a quarter on me. I also have gone into Aldi before, thinking I didn't need a cart, and getting more items than expected. I was going to finish scanning the aisle I was in and get behind her in line. Less than a minute later, I began making my way toward her when I saw an older white man point toward the open space in his cart. She set her box down, and there were words exchanged that I was slightly too far away to hear above all the beeping with every barcode scanned and chimes with every card inserted. This interaction made me smile, not only because someone beat me to the punch, but also because it isn't something I'd necessarily expect from this man by the way he looked (shame on me for assuming he's racist). I'm the one who's racist by judging a book by its cover and a person by their color. I did an internal slap on the wrist. I got in a different line, unloaded my items, and put my chip in the reader. Taped to the plexiglass around the register was a sign that said, "We need change." I knew this probably meant they were short on certain denominations of money. Perhaps they needed more nickels or ten dollar bills. Perhaps they're like me, in need of a quarter. Perhaps the meaning of these words matched exactly how I read them: We need change. We, as individuals, and collectively, need change. We need to be better. We need to treat ourselves and each other better. The pandemic has brought about so much change, but have we changed with it? Last night, at Aldi, I witnessed human connection. Sure, we're alienated by six foot distances and cultural differences. We're afraid of this virus and inevitably, each other. It's hard to hear people speak through, and see people smile underneath, the mask. But we are still here, with voices and lips. We are still here, with hearts and souls. I drove home in awe of the colors of last night's sunset. There was barely any light left. One star shone a bright white, just as the moon did with a sliver of it visible. The horizon was bright pink, outlined by a purple grey backdrop. Brush strokes of sherbet orange overlaid the dusty blue hue of dusk. I got home, locked the door behind me, put the groceries away, and immediately collapsed into a panic attack. It was finally safe to do so. I started crying, which rapidly transitioned into hyperventilation, then tingling in my head and hands, eventually to go numb. My mother was in the kitchen and witnessed the whole thing unfold. She loved me through it and did everything she could to revive me once it was over. As closely as a panic attack resembles your final moment before death, the end of a panic attack resembles death itself. I ran to the window to suck in fresh air. The autumn wind cooled the skin on my red, hot face. I went from gazing out the window, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, in a completely dissociative state, to lying on the floor of my parents' dining room, curled up on my side, unable to move. It was hard to feel anything at all. I always have brain freeze following the heat of any moment. It's like ice that comes to the rescue of fire. Upon regaining consciousness, I spoke with my mom about how I felt. "What happened to me was not my fault. What happened wasn't fair. I didn't deserve it." Even though victim shame has been part of the aftermath, I have to remind myself I didn't ask for the trauma to happen. And God knows that. She said we turn to God for justice when we're failed by the world. I told her, "I hope he's damned to hell forever." It takes time to heal, and grieve, and find a new way forward. She said PTSD isn't a permanent part of who I am. I hope she's right, because I don't know if I believe that or not. I think it will affect me the rest of my life. But maybe she means who I am is not what happened. Yes, I have to suffer from the wrongdoing of someone else. And it's hard to accept that pain when it was caused by another. But in the same way life is unfair in harmful ways, life can be unfair in helpful ways. And I get to rejoice in the random acts of kindness perfect strangers have performed. Did I do something to earn that quarter last night? No, at least not directly, like the way work and money are related in society. I did nothing for the girl who gave me that cart. I got it without asking for it, just as I got assaulted without asking to be. Sometimes I get what I ask for, and sometimes I don't. Sometimes I get what I don't ask for, and sometimes I don't. I don't know what God's rhyme or reason is. Maybe "God works in mysterious ways." Maybe God doesn't exist, and everything happens randomly or because of everything everyone does. It's hard to say who's captain of this boat, when "this boat" is the size of a universe too vast to fathom. This is the tangent my mind goes on when I ask, "Why me?" or wonder, "Why them?" I used to think everything in life had to be even. My father was a St. Louis city policeman, so I was raised to think that every behavior had a consequence, and I thought everyone who broke the law served some sort of punishment for it. You can imagine my dismay upon learning how the world actually works. My point here is not to say there's something wrong with wanting equity. People should absolutely pay for what they've done, be it immoral or illegal. And everyone should have their basic human needs met and dignity respected. I'm not about to "All Lives Matter" this conversation, because it's an obvious statement that undermines the Black Lives Matter movement and those whose lives have been wrongly targeted on the basis of race and deemed less valuable. But I will say, in truth, every person has fundamental rights - whether or not those are provided. I (a 24-year-old woman in the LGBTQ+ community who was born into a middle-class family in St. Louis, Missouri with blue eyes and blonde hair) am just as worthy of life and love as anyone else. I don't know how we haven't figured it out yet - how to coexist in the world. I know world peace is unrealistic, but does it have to be such a crazy idea to dream of a world where we stop killing each other? It didn't start and won't end with me. What will it take? Will we ever get there? What should we do in the meantime? (Those are questions for another day. It's 7 p.m. and I haven't eaten lunch yet. I've been at my computer for hours.) So, let's get back to talking about justice. Maybe that happens on earth. Maybe there's an afterlife. Maybe there's a God who brings it all in the end to every single person. Maybe there are people with free will, and no one is the rightful authority. Maybe we're just a bunch of pompous animals, picking our noses and pooping our pants until we're told not to. Who's to say what's "right" or "wrong"? Maybe it all depends on intention and circumstance. I don't have all the answers, or really, any. But I do know I've spent my life inside a quid pro quo mentality - "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." My father doesn't think we should turn the other cheek. He believes in hand cuffs, corporal punishment, discipline, law and order, the death sentence, life in prison. It's heroes vs. villains in his world. If you grew up in the Catholic religion, you may have been taught to endure the suffering so as to be a martyr for your faith. You may have been told that God will save you: ask and you shall receive, where there is sin, there is atonement, and being "good" is your golden ticket into heaven. I think the cop in my father and disciple in my mother was a recipe for my belief that there is always an "If... then..." relationship, in everything we do, and that this relationship is clear and closely occurring. But sometimes the good deeds we do go unnoticed, and if you're doing them for the right reasons, the reward is in the doing. Sometimes we do things without knowing the impact they'll have on others - good or bad. We do them and hope it'll make the difference we want, inside ourselves or others or the world. Sometimes we harm people with the harm that's been inflicted upon us. And sometimes we receive blessings or wounds from unknown sources, in unknown ways, for unknown reasons. And it hurts, or it heals. Some things just happen. And we don't have to see the change to be the change. We just have to see that we need it.