There is a wide open road. Take a spin, and all around me is a high-plains desert with Yucca plants, tumbleweeds, and red colored clay dirt. It’s so hot, my shoes start to stick to the black tar. Off in the distance, I can see the heat rising off of the pavement in sizzling waves. Something catches my eye. There is a small speck. It looks like a person walking toward me, friend or foe, I am not sure. I walk toward her. As we approach one another, she becomes familiar. It is a friend. I start running toward her. I am so hot, so thirsty, in need of relief from the heat. Running, running, all I can think about is the comfort the familiar face will bring. My gaze shifts to the ground in front of me, watching the yellow lines pass in the middle of the road. I hear her voice, look up and BAM!
The bus hits me without warning. No horn, no squealing of tires or burning smell of rubber. There I lie, under the bus.
That’s what it felt like when a close colleague, whom I believed was a confidant, used my vulnerability for personal gain and threw me under the bus. That feeling of helplessness, surprise, and being dumbfounded is one that I never wish to experience ever again.
Choose your people wisely.
Being young, new in the EDU-world, I was very willing to trust any and everyone, willing to share ALL of me, and clearly unaware of the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Since this particular situation, I have learned a lot. Choose your people wisely. It is more than appropriate to be friendly with your colleagues, but you do not and should not feel that you have to be friends with your colleagues. My circle of confidants is small now -- seriously four people and only one of them works in the same district as me. These amazing people have proven time and time again that they are trustworthy and support me. They offer advice, are a sounding board, and are, well, my people; I am theirs in return.
So next time I am on that deserted road, I may take a look around. I may start to run toward that speck down the road, but I will be aware if a bus is heading my direction.
I remember once when I was a little girl, I had a terrible dream. This was one of those dreams that wakes you in the middle of the night feeling all icky. The type of dream that borders on a hazy reality. In this dream, I was trying to get somewhere and was late. Little did my young mind know that being late would be a habitual problem in my adulthood. (If you know me, I am either late or early, never on time.)
But I digress. I am late getting somewhere, the place in which I need to get is never really defined. I distinctly remember a schoolyard. This schoolyard is filled with many people, young and old. It is interesting because of the schoolyard, which resides on the side of a hill, looks down toward the rest of the town. It’s night time, just dark where you see the lights from inside homes and on street lamps. As I walk up the hill in the yard, I weave in and out of the crowd like a snake looking for shelter. Then I come upon a slab of cement. It reminds me of a four-square area but there are no lines, no ball, and only one child. This child sits alone in the middle of the area, knees curled up, arms wrapped around his legs, and head tucked down. What’s interesting about this dream is that no one is stopping to help the child. People move here and there, focused only on getting across the yard, paying no attention to the child.
The thing that strikes me in remembering this dream from ages ago, is the child. There he sits. Alone.
How many times have we put our heads down and walked past the child or even adult in need? How many of us see others put on the brave face but deep down, there is a scared, isolated child? How many of us are that child?
I honestly don’t remember much more of the dream. But if I could rewrite it, I would stop and sit with the child. I would offer help, a shoulder to lean on, just be present with him.
Slow down. Look around. Spot the child in your space and pull up a chair. “You are safe. I’m here for you. I’m glad you’re here.”
Mena T. Hill
Educator, Wife, Mother, Colorado Native