On Waving Back

sweet, sour, and the space in between

My mom is mad because half the neighborhood has speed bumps—and it’s not ours. And the inequality is appalling, frankly, and don’t give me that face because I’m not the only one who cares about this—in fact, there’s a whole committee on speed bumps! In our suburban development, the sprinklers are always running. The skinny strips of grass lining the sidewalks forever stay a too-perfect green. “That’s where our money’s going,” a resident scoffs, gesturing to an arc of water. Another shakes his head knowingly.

I judge it all, because I can, because I'm 26 and the world feels too big and speed bumps feel comically small. I swear to myself I’ll never be like that, never put too much weight in the things that can’t possibly matter. But then I feel it creeping up—the part of me that knows all too well that what I feel most isn't judgment, but dread. The part of me that knows I’m not immune to change.

I once was so sure of who I’d be when I grew up. When I took the school bus in elementary school, we played a game called "sweet or sour." We'd wave to the cars below; if the driver waved back, they were "sweet"—if not, "sour." I swore to myself I'd grow up to always wave back to kids on school buses. I would never be the bitter-faced driver, dodging our waves.

But the truth is, I just might be.

I might be so focused on getting to work on time, so absorbed in some political podcast, so distracted that I don't see the wave, or worse—see it, and hesitate. See it and keep my hands white-knuckled on the wheel, because New York made me colder, because kids can be mean. Because there comes a time when a wave isn’t just a wave, but a reminder—of foregone simplicity, of promises we’ve made to ourselves and broken, of the countless times we sought kindness in strangers and were left wanting.

I'll overthink it. Be labeled sour. Join speed bump committees and care too much about small things and forget that all that really matters is waving back.