Mean Hippie

“Meaghan, why did you put your hand up like this?’ Sam S. asks with his small hand upstretched, all five fingers open wide.  “Well,” I tell Sam, “that person in the black truck behind us wouldn’t let me get in.  He kept speeding up as I tried to merge.  It wasn’t very nice of me but what I was telling him with my hand was ‘thanks a lot and have a great day – hope you get to where you are going’.  But I was being sarcastic, which isn’t very nice.  Maybe I should take a deep breath and say a prayer.  What do you think?”

I also called the individual a “Jack Ass” under my breath, but fortunately, I don’t think the kids heard that.  They did hear me say, “Maybe he has diarrhea and needs to get somewhere fast.  I hope so.”  I looked in the rearview mirror and could see 7 year-old Sam’s potty-talk-lovin’ grin and sparkle in his eye.  He was glad I wished diarrhea on the man – me too.  Why else drive like such a Doberman Pinscher, mean and aggressive?

As we continue on our way, Sam asks, “Where is the truck now?”  Me: “Oh, behind us in the other lane but I’ll slow down so we can check the driver out.”  And the truck sped past us in the right-hand lane and we couldn’t wait to get a look at this person, to see if it indeed was a man, if he looked angry or sick or mean . . . maybe he was distracted or did truly have an emergency . . . “You never know what’s going on with someone else,” I tell the kids.

And as the truck buzzes by, we see an old man, heavy-set with white hair.  No phone in hand, no coffee, just driving along – he doesn’t give any telltale signs of his hurry which, to be honest, we are all a bit disappointed by – we were looking for some action this cold January morning.  But as he goes past, Lily shouts out, “It says ‘Hippie’ on the back of his car!”  Well, this gives us something to go on - to think about - but it seems a bit ironic. I reply, “Well he certainly isn’t acting very hippie-like!”  And Sam pipes up, “Meaghan, what do you mean?”

So I say, “My dad was a hippie.  And the hippies I know are typically calm and laid back, not fast and in a rush.  They’re for peace.” Spoken like the true daughter of a 70’s hippie, I’ll spread the word. “My dad,” I tell the kids, “he never drove like that.” Like I was making some important proclamation - really educating them on some key hippie qualities. Or at the very least, what my dad was like.

Funny, how our stereotypes – positive or negative – shape our beliefs. How a word can evoke an entire experience or memory.  Even how we share them with our kids is so telling (or other people’s kids too as the case may be – our friends have no idea what we get into on those morning commutes to St. Bernard Academy!).

“Sage, do you remember when I was telling Skyler my dad was a hippie?” I ask as we make our way toward school.  “No,” she replies.  “Well, while I was telling Skyler about my dad, you said - with your hands on your hips - ‘Mom, I know what you are trying to say’, like I was speaking in code or telling Skyler some big secret I was trying to hide from you.  So I asked ‘what do you mean, honey?’ And you said ‘You are telling Skyler your dad’s a hypocrite’ “. 

At the time Sage was maybe four and I’m blown away by how these little minds work, what they soak up, what they remember, the connections they make.  Now, hippie isn’t short for “hypocrite” and “hippie” on a bumper sticker doesn’t define this man either – as much as we wanted it to. No one in the car this morning asks more about hypocrite and I’m glad to not have to expound. I think we’ll just leave it at “Mean Hippie” for today. We won’t ever really know this man’s story but Sam and I can smile as we think about that fast-driving, white-haired old hippie, perhaps racing to a McDonald’s bathroom as fast as his little black truck could carry him.  We wish him well.  Namaste.