As a self-classified wildly independent person, I make sure that I am always able to help myself, and I detest asking for anyone else’s assistance. This is a fault, I am aware, but it’s just who I am. So, instances in which I am helpless stick out in my mind above most other things. So far, there have only been two instances that I can remember in which I was truly helpless. In both of these situations, people completely unexpected pulled me through.
When I was 16, I drove a ’99 silver Toyota Corolla, which I fondly named “Throckmorton.” One weekend, I was left with my then 9-year-old brother and 14-year-old sister, while my mother went out of town for work and my father took an extra shift at his job. Being a 16-year-old, and thus having an aversion to pots, pans and the oven, I decided to take my siblings out to dinner. On the way back, we crossed over a busy intersection and BANG. A huge, black Suburban came at me from the left, turning Throckmorton into a glorified, crunched-up Coke can.
I promptly unbuckled my little brother, who was screaming like a banshee in the backseat, and helped my sister out of the car. I had no idea what to do. My mother was in Montana and my father was an hour and a half away, and here I was standing in the middle of a Dallas intersection with two young children. The man who hit my car promptly ran to us, but not to help, to scream. I attempted to explain to this red-faced man that I had not done anything wrong, and he had turned left into the intersection without an arrow. But he would hear nothing of it. I was “a stupid, 16-year-old, blonde, bimbo that didn’t know what she was talking about.”
Right as I was about to go against all instincts (and physical capabilities) and sock this man in the face, I heard, “Excuse me sir, you need to leave these children alone.” When I turned around, I saw a two people that I recognized, but did not know by name. They promptly called my parents, put my brother and sister in their mini van and put in a DVD for them, and helped me figure out insurance and talk to the police. After they made sure my car was towed away safely, they gave us a ride home. They turned out to be a couple from my church, who had simply recognized me and stopped to help.
The second instance of helplessness also occurred when I was 16. A good friend of mine suddenly and tragically passed away in a car accident. In the heartbreaking whirlwind that was that day, I was alerted that, since his family was Muslim, they were required to hold the funeral and burial within 24 hours of the death. It was daunting. Things were happening so fast. In the tear-filled evening before and morning of his funeral, I didn’t for a second consider the possibility that a Muslim funeral would be different than a Christian funeral – a reality that hit me hard as I was wiping away tears and looking through my closet to find something to wear.
Yes. I was helpless, because all potential cultural differences swooped in on me at that exact moment, and nothing in my colorful closet seemed quite appropriate. Then, my cell phone started to ring. A number I didn’t recognize popped up on my caller ID. I answered. “Hey Jess, are you going to Raheed’s funeral? If you are, I just wanted to tell you what to wear.” It was someone I knew from high school, but had never really talked to before.
It never dawned on me to call someone I knew from school that was Muslim, but it occurred to him that he should call. This person probably doesn’t even remember calling, and I’m quite sure he doesn’t know how much his simple phone call meant to me, but he offered a small moment of clarity in the midst of complete chaos.
Looking back on my life thus far, I’m not sure if I have ever done something that touched someone’s life as much as these two sets of people have touched mine. Maybe I have, and I will never know. At least, that is what I hope.
– Jessica HusemanAssociate Opinion Editor
