Lowering my eyebrows.

The flight attendant had legitimate tears in her eyes as she apologized to us. She turned her back, assuming the through-passengers on the flight last night were making a space for us as Wade carried our son onto the plane.

They weren't.

It wasn't a full flight. I am sure they had been told that. So the handful of passengers traveling through Birmingham on to Baltimore spread themselves over the first five rows of the plane. We love to fly Southwest because with the no-assigned-seat-policy we can load Benjamin easily in the first row or two. Either Wade or I can carry him that far. But last night as I took all the removable pieces that I possibly could off of the wheelchair (so that it is battered as little as possible), and as my daughters followed their dad and brother carrying everything I had handed them thus far (headrest, iPad arms...), no one moved. And more, they made faces of disgust that my 13-year-old witnessed and will never forget. And so when I entered carrying the cushion for the chair, the hip guides, the joystick, I turned the corner expecting to see my family and instead they were all the way on row six. 

Let me assure you that the sixth row may seem close to you if you are rolling your carry-on luggage. It is a mile away if you are carrying your grown son and a million pieces of equipment.

And so as soon as I sat, the flight attendant was at my side. "I have worked for Southwest for 37 years. People are usually so good about moving. I am so sorry that I wasn't more helpful. I assumed they were doing what they could to help you. I am so sorry."

When we landed in Birmingham just days before, we exited the plane and went straight to a companion restroom for Benjamin. It was locked but we have learned we should wait because often there isn't more than one (We now know there is in Birmingham and next time we won't wait!). So we waited and waited. Finally the door opened and a well-dressed middle-aged man exited. He looked me straight in the eyes but I didn't speak just moved to grab the door for Benjamin.

"Don't look at me like that, lady! I just had cancer surgery and needed my privacy," he yelled at us. "I am sorry you had to wait."

He didn't sound sorry. He sounded scary. Benjamin thought he was about to strike me. I simply told the man how sorry we were he had surgery as we entered the bathroom. But I was shaking.

We discussed it when the door was closed and locked. We discussed what look I had that made him so angry -- I confess my eyebrows probably raised from years and years of having single people walk out of the only companion restroom in a public space -- and we discussed how he could have said the same words with a less scary tone and the encounter would have been completely different. And then we discussed how angry he must be right now with his own circumstances to lash out at us.

Today, I want to curl up on my own couch and never leave home. I want to stay where no one is staring at us. I want to stay where not one is yelling at us. I want to stay in my safe place.

Except that we won't stay home. We like to go and travel and be out and about. But the inability to trust people to behave in a civilized manner has scarred me. I realize that both of these situations have become more and more frequent of late. I find that I am shocked when people actually treat us kindly. I am shocked when they show respect to my sons. I find that I enter situations expecting rude stares, and condescending interactions, and anger. So much anger. 

How horribly sad is that?

We can do better. We must do better.

I'll start by working on my eyebrows.