The first time I was laid off from a job, I was living outside Washington, DC. My lease ended just two weeks after the day that I got the manila envelope with my first layoff papers inside. It was the dot com bubble and every day there were headlines to remind me just how challenging the job market would be. I remember standing in my living room surrounded by boxes, frozen. I was crumbling under the pressure of a thousand small and enormous choices.
One day in the panic of it all, I opened Monster.com and I typed “social media jobs.” I made a promise to myself. Wherever I saw the most open roles, I would move. It seemed so practical. More jobs, more chances of getting one. In my research, that city was Boston. Just a few weeks later, I was on my way North in a U-haul and a very full Honda Civic. I had never even visited before. I can’t believe a 25 year old me did that, but I’m so glad they did.
A friend’s parents had an empty room and a futon where I could stay in southern Maine. That summer, I divided my time between obsessing over job applications, driving all over New England for interviews, and playing guitar in what I (affectionately) called an old man band. Yes, really. Just picture me and 3 guys over the age of 65 playing soft rock. Most of them are bald. It was a fun 7 weeks that ended with me moving to Maynard, MA to take a job where it all started, Monster.com.
This week, I drove those same roads all over again over 15 years later to speak at a few events - something I only dreamt of doing all those years ago.
Tuesday morning on one of those roads between the gym and the friend we visited, I saw the aftermath of a car accident on the side of the road. It was pouring rain. In front, a white SUV with a bent bumper. Behind them, a bright blue Ford Focus. The front bumper was shattered and all of the airbags were deployed.
As I waited at the red light, I looked for a place to pull over to ask if they needed help. Then, I noticed a man round the corner and walk toward the blue car. I assumed it was the driver until I saw the airbags start to wiggle and the driver - a 20-something with long, blonde hair - climbed out, their entire body shaking.
The man walking toward the car looked so much like one of the guys from my band that I did a double take. It wasn’t him, but this person’s good deed had me smiling about that summer. I know those guys would never drive past someone in need. They were role models for me and still are all these years later.
They taught me that the helpers are everywhere, not just in Maine. They are stopping on the road at a car accident and in living rooms talking about what to do. They are in school board meetings resisting book bans and at sporting events cheering on trans students.
I see them when we drive long distances. Their homes line the rural roads and hold flags hung solely to tell people who might be scared that they belong here and are loved. These people are not just on TV or making reels, but inviting a young kid to join their old man band to teach them lessons about how we all can show up for each other.
