Presuming Positive Intent in a Not-Always-Positive World

I recently shared the following experience on my personal social media, and it deeply resonated with many. It reminded me that we often have false narratives in our heads about people at work. Whether it is due to previous rough experiences in our careers or personal lives, or because cynicism flourishes in hostile work environments, it is easy to create negative stories about those around us. These narratives can lead us astray.

I share my recent experience here with my professional network as a cautionary tale to remember that we do not always truly know what is going on with a person. We should presume positive intent, treat our colleagues with full respect at all times, and save our skepticism to challenge our own thoughts.

#humansnotresources #biases #growthmindset #peopleneedpeople

An Unexpected Encounter on Apple Valley Rd

On my way to drop off my child at school I drove past a stationary vehicle on Apple Valley Road behind MARTA, its dark-tinted windows concealed its interior, making it impossible to discern if anyone was inside. The car was parked awkwardly, mostly within the turning lane. Was it a breakdown? Or perhaps someone had pulled over for an urgent call?

A fleeting thought crossed my mind, "Should I stop and check on them?"

However, the impending school bell and the relentless flow of traffic in both directions urged me forward. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I thought I saw a silhouette in the driver's seat.

I dismissed it. After all, we live in an era of mobile phones, a stark contrast to the days when I would regularly stop to assist stranded motorists. I was confident that if someone was indeed inside, they would have already called for help.

On my return from the carpool, I usually avoid retracing my route on Apple Valley Road. But this time, an intuitive whisper urged me to check on the car to see if there was trouble...

The whisper was right. The car was still there, parked in the same awkward spot. As I approached, I slowed down, straining to see if there was someone inside. Sure enough, a human profile was barely visible. Was this person in distress? Or could they pose a threat to me?

I activated my emergency lights and pulled up alongside the driver's window, rolling mine down. The driver did the same - a young woman. At sixty-one myself, most women seem young to me.

"Are you ok?" I asked.

"No," she responded, her voice quiet and slow.

"What's the matter? Is someone on their way to help you?"

"No. I've run out of gas."

That was unexpected. Running out of gas is a rarity these days. My internal alarm bells started ringing. Was this a scam? What was I getting myself into?

"I can try to help. Do you have a gas can?"

"I do."

That could be a good or bad sign. Maybe she frequently ran out of gas? Or perhaps it was a prop and just part of a scheme.

"All right. There’s a Chevron just up the road. I’m happy to take you there."

The woman slowly exited her car and began rummaging through the back seat, which was packed as if she was moving. Another ambiguous sign.

She found a gas can and joined me in my car, seeming distracted or distant.

"Buckle up, please," I instructed. She smiled and complied. "If you ran out of gas, I’m guessing you’ve run out of money."

"That’s right," she replied in a monotone.

"Well, I can spot you a gallon of gas, for sure. Where are you trying to get to?"

"Up to the University library."

"Oglethorpe?" "Yes," she confirmed.

"Oh. Are you a student there? I noticed your out-of-town plates." I always make sure strangers know I'm alert and observant.

"No. I live here."

"Do you need internet access or something?" I continued, my skepticism guiding my questions.

"No, I just need a quiet place to work."

"Do you ever try the Brookhaven Library right there?"

"No, they don’t open early enough."

"Good point. They do have limited hours these days."

After a pause, I asked, "Do you have anyone around here that can help? Or, are you on your own?" I couldn't help but pause internally, wondering if my interrogation was making her uncomfortable.

"My husband is here, too."

"He’s at work?"

"No, he’s at dialysis." Her situation was becoming clearer. She was under a lot of pressure.

"Wow, that is rough. How long?”

"A year."

"My goodness, that is so difficult. I’m sorry. Is it routine for him or is he really laid out?"

"He is on disability."

"I see. That’s tough right there. Sorry."

As we drove to the Chevron, I pondered the daily challenges she must be facing. "Well, I guess if you are struggling with keeping gas in the tank, I’m guessing you are struggling to keep food on the table, too, no?"

"You ain’t wrong."

"Have you had breakfast?"

"No."

"I haven’t had breakfast either (a lie). Would it be ok if you joined me at the McDonald’s for a drive-through breakfast on the way back? I’d like to buy your breakfast."

"That would be nice," she said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

We arrived at Chevron and I grabbed the gas can. She excused herself to use the bathroom.

My background in risky places made me wary. Could this be where the elaborate con takes a twist? I casually scanned the lot. Was there a conspirator waiting here? But wait, I suggested Chevron. But it’s the only gas station for miles, dummy. I shook off the paranoia and focused on pumping the gas.

She returned and we headed back to her car. I asked her to stay in the car for safety while I filled her tank. It was peak rush hour and cars were whizzing by us in both directions.

I let my optimism run wild for a moment, expecting someone to see our situation and stop to help or slow traffic. No one did. It’s not like that anymore. We are on our own these days.

She mentioned that the gas spills easily when filling. I looked at the gas can and saw why. Without a funnel, there was no way for the nozzle to clear the tank’s cover. I began to pour the fuel at a slow drip to prevent overflow. She needed every drop.

Standing on the white line marking the lane, I was acutely aware of the danger. Folks routinely do sixty-plus miles per hour in this thirty-five zone. A slight mistake or distraction by a passing driver could be fatal. Some slowed down, but most sped past, oblivious to our predicament. I needed to speed up the refueling process.

“Let me see if I have something in my wife’s car that I can use to poke this cover open to pour faster.” Rummaging through my wife’s car I find dozens of children’s books she uses to stock little libraries around the community, canvas shopping bags she uses religiously to save the planet, and absolutely zero tools of any kind. I’m shaking my head.

Then I spot a toy hammer from a set she had been keeping around our house for a visiting child. She must have it here to take to Goodwill. The little hammer’s handle just might do the trick. It does.

The gas quickly emptied and the car started just fine.

"Did that register on your fuel gauge?"

"It doesn’t work."

I couldn’t help a quiet laugh. "I guess that explains running out of gas. You can use your odometer to estimate your fuel level. Check it now and with a car like this you should be able to get about thirty miles safely from that gallon and a half."

"Thank you," she said as quietly as the first words she spoke this morning.

"You are very welcome. Good luck and have a better morning!"

She drove away.