The fire started around dinner time, and my family and I were home not only to witness the columns of thick, black smoke pouring out of the apartment building next door, but to inhale them, as our house was separated from the burning building by a mere nine feet. We had to run through the suffocating wall of heat and smog in order to evacuate.
The experience was surreal. I kept feeling as though I were on the set of a movie, Martin Scorcese calling instructions from somewhere beyond the smoke: “Okay, usher the children out, keep low, that’s right ... now, glance back at the flames mournfully. Great — that’s a wrap!”
I couldn’t believe it was happening: that our neighbors, grating and loud as they had been, were losing their home; that the fire could potentially spread to our house. None of it seemed possible.
Even more shocking than the fire, however, were the thoughts that filled my head. I wasn’t terribly upset, as one might imagine, or even fearful as the flames licked at our roof, threatening to jump the gap between the two houses and destroy our home, too. We had insurance. We could rebuild. The loss of things such as furniture and appliances seemed inconsequential. I did, of course, feel empathy for my children, who were clearly terrified, but the chief emotions occupying my mind were far from compassionate.
As I’ve already mentioned, the first floor tenants of the burning building, whose windows overlooked our driveway, were not exactly ideal neighbors. Their perpetual yelling, thunderous music and colorful language had peppered many of our days and nights for the better part of a year, and the cigarette butts, condom wrappers and puddles of sputum that occasionally littered our drive didn’t exactly inspire warmth. So, as you can imagine, I had — on more than one occasion — wished them gone. Never, of course, by means of fire or devastation or any form of violence, just ... gone. And as the fire burned, I realized they would be. They had escaped the blaze, I knew, but it was clear that the building would be uninhabitable — that they would have to live elsewhere — and that thought brought me a certain sense of satisfaction.
It sounds cold and callous, I know. I knew it then, too, which is why along with gratification, I felt guilt. The two emotions grappled in my mind that night and for several days after the fire, going from, “It’s normal to want good neighbors,” to, “I’m a baaad, baaad, woman,” until finally, after a great deal of stewing and self-flagellation, “I’m human,” won out.
After all, we can’t control the thoughts that rush into our minds, especially during moments of crisis. The best we can do is recognize them, dark though they may be, and understand that within everyone at any given moment lies the capacity to be kind or cruel, compassionate or selfish. The emotions are normal. It’s what we do with them that matters.
Thankfully, during the time my neighbors lived next door, shouting, retching and blasting their tunes, I responded — for the most part — with kindness and civility. So that’s it. I’m letting myself off the hook with a vow to work on changing “for the most part” to “consistently,” because sometimes practicing compassion is even more important than feeling it.
Belinda Ray is a homeschooling mother and freelance writer who finds time to write when her children and their friends have lightsaber battles in the yoga room (but only if the laundry is already folded and everyone’s been fed).