At age six, I could barely reach the gas pedal with the tips of my toes. But, Disneyland in the early 1980’s had no rules about parental escorts (or seat belts) for the no-door cars of the Autopia ride. Like most kids that age, I had no shortage of self-confidence that I could drive like a big girl.
Seconds into the ride, I realized my error. The only way I could get enough leverage on the pedal was to scoot so low in my seat that I couldn’t see above the dashboard. I strained my neck to look at the line of cars waiting behind me. They couldn’t pass because of the straight curb that ran under all of the cars, keeping us all on the same track.
I sunk into my seat and pressed the gas pedal. The car jolted forward and crashed against that undercarriage curb so hard I nearly toppled out the side. The smell of my car’s exhaust filled my mouth. I turned around, wishing someone behind me would jump out of their smoking vehicle to help. That’s when I first noticed him.
The sun glared so brightly in the old man’s face that all I could see was his white hair rustling in the breeze and his angry scowl that turned my guts into a cesspool of anxiety. Would he ram into me? Would he holler at a Disneyland employee to remove me from the park? Would he berate my mother for my incompetence? Big worries for a little girl.
His face screwed up in further irritation, and I knew if the car had a horn, he’d be slamming his fist into it.
Panicked, I slumped down as far as I could, closed my eyes, and jammed the gas pedal to the floor. Bam! Crack! I gripped onto the steering wheel as tight as I could. Scrape! Boom! Over and over, I jerked into the center curb, trying to put distance between Grandpa Grumpy and me. Eventually, slowly, painfully, I made my way around the track. When I spotted my grinning mother waiting at the exit, I abandoned my car and ran to bury my face in her shirt, too embarrassed and frightened to look back at the old man who had stolen my confidence. I spent the rest of that day looking over my shoulder, wondering if the mean man would find me.
A decade later, I flipped through a photo album from that trip. I landed on a picture my mom had taken from the sidelines of Autopia. There I was, turning in my seat, straining my neck to look in panic at the person behind me. But something wasn’t right.
The person in the car behind me wasn’t angry. He wasn’t ready to yell at me. He wasn’t even an older man. The person in the car behind me was my very own brother, who is less than two years older than me. True, his hair glowed almost white, and his face scrunched up, but only to protect his eyes from the blasting sun.
How had I not recognized him? How could I have interpreted a situation so very, very wrong–something I witnessed with my own eyes? How could that one misunderstanding ruin the rest of my day at the “Happiest Place on Earth?”
It took a change in perspective to see the truth. How I wish I could have changed my perceptions at that moment, instead of a decade later!
This experience makes me question how many times I have been 100% convinced of a “truth” that I have only perceived from a single perspective. Whether it is politics, relationships, my impact on the environment, or even the social hierarchies of the world–have I spent enough time trying to be objective and observant before flinging around my opinion and judgment like it’s the gospel truth? My guess is probably not. All I can do now is commit to do better, get curious, take a breath, postpone judgment, listen–really listen–before reacting.
