I got coughed on, and here's what I learned
In March, on my daughter’s second birthday, I got coughed on. The type of cough that happens on purpose, with the mask pulled down and curses flying. A cough that gets recorded. A Karen Cough.
We were outside our local bakery and decided to stop in for some cupcakes. For my toddler – who has now spent more than half of her short life stuck at home – it would be an unusual treat for her to walk in like a big girl, press her little finger up against the glass case, and choose whichever one she wanted.
The shop is very small and only allows five (masked) people in at a time, and it was already at capacity. We decided to wait, even though it was freezing outside, because you know, birthdays. More than a few minutes passed; probably close to ten, and we found it strange no one was coming out. My husband peered through the storefront and realized just one group was inside. A woman was ordering, and with her, another woman, man, and teenage girl paced around the tiny shop. With her mask around her chin, the teenage girl appeared to be laughing, posing, FaceTiming someone. Our daughter was becoming impatient. My husband peeped his head through the door.
“Excuse me, are you in line to order anything?” he said.
“No, we’re not.”
“Then would you mind waiting out here so we can come inside? It’s pretty cold out and we just want to grab some cupcakes for our little one.” Surely, they could see her.
A few minutes pass, and the non-ordering woman comes out.
“There, are you happy? We’re not from around here, you know. You can go in now,” she said, visibly annoyed.
“I’m sorry, we weren’t trying to be rude. There’s just a five-person limit and if you’re not ordering, we’re hoping to go in,” I said.
“Well then go!”
“We can’t, there would still be too many of us in there. And with all due respect, your daughter has her mask off, and we’re with a toddler, so we’ll just wait,” said my husband.
The woman mumbled something under her breath about New Jersey, which under ordinary circumstances, I’d think, “Okay, fair.” But not when it comes to our state’s COVID-19 protocols, which like it or not, exist and are not up for out-of-staters to interpret based on their limited, voluntary foray into our alt-universe of caring about this disease.
Still, I am not usually the safety police when it comes to strangers. If you want to be an idiot, be an idiot six feet away from me, and I will shake my head and keep on moving. My husband, though, is not like me. He loves to get the last word. So when the rest of this family walked out the door, he had to jab.
“Hope you got a great selfie in there, enjoy your time in Jersey!” he prodded, thriving in the awkward of what he thought would be a minor passing altercation.
Inside, just minutes later, as our daughter began to recite the name of each character cupcake, the ordering woman stormed back inside of the bakery.
“Did you just make my family leave? Did you THREATEN my family?!” The rest of her brood looked on outside.
“Have a nice day, ma’am,” my husband tried brushing her off, but it didn’t work, and her rant escalated: she was from this town, too, they had just come from a memorial, who did we think we were??!! She was screaming very close to my daughter and getting closer, so I stepped in, trying to steer the debate outside to allow my husband to finish up with the cupcakes and keep her away from them.
Silly me.
“Oh good, let’s go outside, because I’ll fuck you up, bitch!”
My intentions were obviously misconstrued.
I’ve never fought anyone, let alone, a Baby Boomer outside of a bakery.
But this time, I didn’t just shake my head and keep on moving. I couldn’t.
Instead, I roared, waving at the capacity sign, asking what the hell they didn’t understand about being respectful, about the young bakery employees who thought they were rude, about it being my daughter’s second birthday and I’m terrified to take her anywhere because of people like you.
Then she ripped off her mask and coughed in my face.
And I ran away.
My daughter’s birthday was ruined. I cried – shook – when we reconvened in the car, my husband and I battling each other on how it went there, why it went there. He thought I dialed it up a notch. I felt he lit a match because he could. Poor Ruby just wanted her cupcake.
For weeks, I couldn’t shake my despair from this experience. Two functioning adults were speaking the same language and not speaking the same language, our belief systems hijacked by politics and weaponized by a public health crisis. I was never too jaded to think this couldn’t happen where I live; my New York City suburb is not immune to the conflicts playing out everywhere. The woman who spent decades making memories in our local bakery probably views the influx of “woke” families in her neighborhood as poisoning what was once “great,” to her. We march for things: equality, women, basic human rights. We shudder corner stores and replace them with breweries. We paint our houses gray.
Right now, all of our conflicts are at an inflection point: political, cultural, racial, generational, environmental, anything you can handle. It didn’t take getting coughed on to realize this. But then why, from my hundreds of hours consuming news programming, reading articles in The Atlantic, and engaging in meaningful, intellectual discourse with respectable individuals on both sides of these issues, was I not in a better position to handle myself when thrust into a real-life viral video?
Because I was over it.
My reaction was an emotional release — a gut check. I had gone far to protect my family all year. Ever since that final trip to the grocery store, the one where people were screaming and lines were an hour and my neck was sweating and we had no masks, no diapers, no clue. Ever since then, I’ve been building armor around them.
Diplomatically, I’ve questioned family members about their whereabouts before seeing my children. I’ve pleaded with my grandmother to wear a mask to her card games (why were they still playing card games?). I’ve said “no” much more than I’ve said “yes” and hugged my older daughter through each disappointment. I’ve been a buzzkill to my friends. Time and again, I’ve been the bad guy, but I could sleep well knowing I was doing what I should.
In that moment, though, I wasn’t rational. I couldn’t, ahem, “go high.”
Sanctimony doesn’t buy you peace of mind. Underneath my own layers of armor, I am disgusted and resentful. I am angrier than I realized. Not just at one woman who would scream in the face of a toddler, but at big decisions by leaders and smaller actions by people I know. Many of us have steam to blow off, and acknowledging that is important. It shouldn’t be a referendum of your gratitude, either.
You can be thankful for your health and prosperity and still be on the verge of losing your shit.
There are two sides to my story, like any other. I am trained professionally to anticipate my adversary’s arguments, and at first, focused deeply on her when playing back what happened. But dissecting those details is unimportant to reaching the heart of the matter: I am not proud of my conduct. I never want to scream at another human being like that again. Even if my instincts were rather primal and I’m kind of glad they exist, I’d prefer to just tuck this little feather behind my hat for no one else to see.
As for Ruby, she did enjoy her cupcake and is young enough to forget her pandemic birthday. I’m just glad no one was filming and that I’ll get another chance next year.
The little things
Keep your She Shed — this nook in our dining room is all I need. For years, I wanted a “sipping chair,” a comfortable place to gaze out our bay window, and if I happened to have a cocktail in hand, so be it. This camel-leather beauty from Arhaus is pretty high-maintenance, but really, who cares about greasy fingers anymore. Spaces are meant to be used. Chairs are meant for sitting.
The artwork above was the real surprise. I was printing some photo cards on Minted when I came across Shes Blooming, by Theresa Bear. This print represents the wild journey women must go on to flourish into our truest selves. I’ve never felt a piece of art belonged in my home before, until this. She is me, and a reminder for my girls.