All Our Broken Beaches: Thoughtlessness of Strangers

They parked a boat and jetski on the sand where the children played, and the stink of gasoline made the salt water writhe.

A hot sun came and sparkled on little swollen waves. My son delighted in the spewing fountain of the water toys, the feeling of being buoyed for the first time by a bayward ocean, the closeness of his parents—unaware they were fuming half the time.

Could these people not have asked, been friends instead of interlopers on the sand? Could they not have at least apologized for their machines? But they have no idea, no way of ideating something as complex as mutual aid among the commons of our shared bit of beachfront land. And their machines? Not even a question’s shadow at the edges of their lives.

When the woman waves at my child, swimming toward us like a shark, I feel possessive of my toddler’s delight; He is not yours! I want to scream. His joy deserves more than this faux attention from some self-important white girl! But this is petty, and I know it—no matter who they are, I’ve let them into my insides, and that failure's mine. Reflection, then.

It is the thoughtlessness, sure; I deplore those who never learned the lessons my father taught me:

Be aware of yourself
and your surroundings,
be mindful,
Of the way you chew your popcorn
—too loud
and the people behind you cannot hear their
feelings
Or taste the silver screen’s emancipation of their
minds.
Be aware, kiddo, of your tone,
and the way you watch the room
through half-closed eyes
so that they will not know you see them all.

Yes, there is a lesson taught to me, stamped into my blood: awareness is the key to life.

But now I am aware of the pollution of the jetski. Of the pillage made by sound-systems on the bay.

Of the not-so-subtle ick when you put your fingers beneath the sand and come up holding the caps of beer bottles sharp as knives.

And meanwhile, across the bay, a mansion glitters like a spider’s face populated with glassy black eyes, a profusion of leering sockets behind which the other side resides.

And in this moment, I am in sympathy—for I, too, wish a barrier between my world and this unthinking hoard.

But what sort of a world would be left, when we're all walled away inside?

I’m Odin Halvorson, a librarian, life coach, and fiction author. If you like my work and want to support what we do here at Unenlightened Generalists, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to our newsletter for as little as $2.50 a month!

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