The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

I didn’t know the movie “Baby Driver” was set in Atlanta until Baby, the main character, walked out of Octane Coffee Bar holding a to-go carrier with four brown cups. I guess I could’ve looked at the movie poster, with the gigantic Atlanta skyline in the background, but I hadn’t.

“Baby Driver” is a heist movie. You’ve seen this kind of film before. Big guns, wads of money, car chases, fast women who like the rush of breaking the law, men who don’t give a damn about consequences, brooding men, sinister men, and sweet women who see the hero for who he really is.

What you haven’t seen is a movie like this set in Atlanta. Baby Hollywood.

Most movies filmed in Atlanta aren’t set in Atlanta. Most movies about Atlanta aren’t really about Atlanta. “Baby Driver” was a fast-paced tour of Atlanta without having to hop on a Segway.

Someone in New York will watch “Baby Driver” and think, “Octane is a funny name for a coffee shop in a heist movie.” They won’t realize that it’s real coffee shop. I’ve been stone-cold drunk on coffee from Octane at 11 o’clock in the morning while straddling the barista’s motorcycle in the parking lot. I probably could’ve robbed a bank that day.

If Hollywood is a town of failed actors turned waiters, Atlanta is a town of aspiring poets turned coffee baristas. The best places to drink coffee across the city don’t have coffee in the name. Dancing Goats, Java Monkey, Karvana, Ebrik, and Octane. That part of the movie was 100 percent realistic. The rest was ridiculous fun.

The audience did a collective gasp at the sight of our local coffee place. Then someone whispered, “That’s not where Octane is!” They stuck a fake Octane in place of a regular pizza place. They interspersed quite a few real Atlanta places with fake places. That was my signal that we were entering Hollywood Atlanta.

If L.A. is a town of fast and furious car chases, ala O.J., then Atlanta can be a city of silly and speedy car chases. Everyone knows you can’t be a getaway driver in this city unless you ride in the HOV lane and have a Peach Pass. Even then, only rob banks on the outer rim of Gwinnett County while heading north on I-85. Do not rob a bank on college football game days. Or any other day with a sporting or concert event. This includes the University of Georgia. Tailgating 60 miles away in Athens, Ga still causes a traffic jam in Atlanta.

Better yet use a helicopter for your heist. Better yet, set your heist movie in Moline, Illinois. I should know. I once raced from Dubuque, Iowa to the airport in Moline, Illinois. No other cars. No potholes. No delays. I drove like the cops were chasing me, and I made my flight with time to spare.

I don’t need accuracy in a heist movie. I need a predictable storyline, a look at my favorite places around town, some music, and a few laughs.

In Atlanta, the real reason you need a getaway driver is not for the fast getaway, but so the A/C is already running when you get into the car.

No diner in Atlanta is empty at 2 a.m. Even in the suburbs. The night clubs might be closed, but someone in this city is always hungry. Waffle House would’ve been packed.

The chef at the diner is both white and without gold teeth? Y’all, please. If you’re cooking my food at a diner, please have at least one gold tooth. This is Atlanta not Poughkeepsie.

A cheerful woman who works at the post office? For a second, I thought it was “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” I actually shouted, “Run, Baby! It’s a set up!” before I realized they wanted us to believe that a happy person worked for the United States Postal Service.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the Postal Service. I’ve got a great post office in Decatur. They are really nice to me and provide exceptional service. They’re also across the street from the good coffee shop. I’m not saying the two are related, but it’s something to think about.

The movie got a few things right.

Baby’s foster dad.

Doc’s nephew, the observant indifferent savant.

The soundtrack. Atlanta is a city with different melodies. We aren’t a one-trick Trap town. We like all kinds of music.

It was the first movie set in Atlanta that didn’t have an ensemble of bad Southern accents. Thank you for giving me us even 15 minutes of Jon Bernthal. Every time he sets foot in Atlanta an angel gets his wings. Thank you to all the actors for showing the range of accents that you will find in Atlanta. It’s the city. We speak mostly neutral with a hint of twang.

Even Baby’s love interest Debora did all right for a British actor. Hollywood, please remember two things about our accent:

One, don’t use “Gone with the Wind” as your accent tutor any more. Women in the South aren’t that out of breath. The breathy Scarlett O’Hara voice is so 1860. I’ve sat at Margaret Mitchell’s desk. I’ve touched her typewriter. I know these things.

Two, the true accent isn’t about the breath, it’s in the extra syllable. Southerners speak like slightly pissed off teenagers. Mom is Ma-um. You’ve seen the movie “Arrival.” If Amy Adams can talk to aliens, Hollywood can figure out a way to talk to ATLiens.

Bacchanalia is not the best wining and dining in the city, but it is the most expensive. I can thank that restaurant for once serving me the thymus gland of an animal under the guise of fine dining. But their cold cucumber soup is good if you can’t get to Waffle House.

“Baby Driver” was about as much Atlanta as I could handle. Then I saw “Spider-Man: Homecoming.” Atlanta overload. There is so much ATL in Hollywood right now. I can’t complain. It is fun. It is a thrill. We should enjoy the ride while it lasts.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

We were scared the first time we went to Lake Allatoona. Rightly so. Wrongly so.

We were immigrants, legally documented, and naturalized citizens. In those days it didn’t matter. Immigrant was immigrant. I guess it doesn’t matter today. Immigrant is immigrant. I arrived in the U.S. at the age of two. Despite my Southern ways, I have almost always felt foreign.

My father had a degree from Rutgers University. My mother thought he was very American when she met him. Anyone who ever knew my dad will have a good laugh about that. Then again he was very American. What is American anyway?

Being American is going to see fireworks at Stone Mountain Park. Being American is going to the lake in the middle of July.

My mother would say, “I’m not American. You are. I’m doing these things for you.”

American things are strange. We gave out the best Halloween candy on our street. The good candy. Name brand chocolate. Snickers and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Kit Kats. Newly bought. Nothing strange. That’s American.

My mother would make a big Thanksgiving turkey. “You know I don’t eat turkey,” she’d say. But we needed it to be American. The turkey would sit in the middle of the table surround by Jamaican rice and peas. Some guests would bypass the turkey and eat my mother’s curry chicken.

We had a lot of people in our house on Thanksgiving. Often times real red-blooded Americans.

Our lawn was perfect. Our American flag never flew at night or in the rain. We were trained right in the ways of a strange country and strange region.

Being American meant a week at the lake every summer. Lake Allatoona. Cherokee County, Ga. A place named by the people who came before all of us. It made me feel less alien to remember that.

The lake was made by man and not nature. The lake did not always exist. It was strange. It was foreign.

Back then, we would leave the Atlanta suburbs for unlit highways and gravel roads. We were excited and American and immigrants and scared.

My mom would pack a cooler full of food. Eggs, bacon, milk, cereal, and meat for the grill. She would bring bleach and Pine Sol and rubber gloves and sponges. The cabin in the woods, by the lake, had to be cleaned when we got there. She could abide rustic, but not dirt. At the end of each week, the cabin was always cleaner than we found it.

My dad would tune up the car. Having a breakdown on desolate roads was unimaginable. He would check the oil, water, wiper fluid, and tire pressure. He would fill the gas tank past full. That’s how he always filled it until died. He never let the car get close to empty. That was being American, for us.

We spent a week in an A-framed cabin next to Lake Allatoona. Because of all the trees I don’t have many memories of the sky. When we saw it, the universe seemed dark and beautiful and deep like the ocean. Like us. We traveled with Scrabble and chess and books of poetry and Shakespeare. There was no TV. There were decks of cards when the rain came.

We weren’t afraid of the rain. We knew to expect rivers of red clay when the sky opened up. It was summer. It was America. I loved every minute of our time at the lake including the rain. If you ask me, I will tell you I had a perfect childhood with perfect summers. But something always bothered me. It was the lake. It was always having to be a little bit scared.

The lake water is murky. There is no natural shoreline. When a drought comes, trees begin to grow in the lake. If the water dried up, the lake would return to being a forest.

I grew up cautious. That little bit of fear followed us down deserted roads.

I grew up longing. Longing is wanting to be something and not knowing that you are already that thing. That’s part of the American dream.

I sent my children off to the lake. Same lake as my childhood. Their experience will not be mine. I don’t think they are afraid of anything except missing me. Even that they won’t do too much. The gravel roads have been paved. Neighborhood have turned those desolate highways into a regular town.

I am American.

Red flags and fireworks.

I am proud. Then I am disappointed.

I like the sound of gravel under my feet and rain on unsure roofs.

I am American, I think. I am the whole Earth.

I am all of other places I’ve never seen, but am from.

I am all the unseen place I still want blessed.

I am the water that glistens in the night.

I am the earth that muddies the water.

I am trying to be American.

I am tired of being American.

I am trying to be human when I don’t know what else to be.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

When I’m alone, I eat everything bagels. It’s a silly bit of decadence. I love the crunch of onion, salt, and garlic. I enjoy the strange confetti of sesame, caraway, and poppy seeds. But only when I’m alone.

When I’m with my kids, I eat plain bagels.

In my early years as a mother, I would eat the skin off an apple and then give the fruit to my kid. Peeling an apple seemed like a waste. If you peel the skin with a knife you end up throwing the skin away. I got in the habit of eating the outer layer right off apples, plums, and even grapes.

I wondered if my existence was to eat only the skin of the apple while passing the fruit along to my offspring. I wondered how many more times I would stare at a plate of strawberries, bitten at the bottom with the fruit of the top and the stem intact. How many times I would eat a plain bagel, when I wanted everything?

This is motherhood. It is some regrets. Some hunger.

I’ve tried to figure out why some of us want to have kids, why some of us decide to have kids, what happens to those of us who can’t, and those of us who do and despise it.

Parenthood isn’t a riddle easily solved. I thought about parenthood as Roxane Gay spoke at Agnes Scott College thanks to Charis Books.

Gay’s book “Hunger” is a “memoir” of her body and society’s perception of our bodies. It is also a memoir violence and an assault that occurred when she was 12 years old. Someone’s child.

As Gay talked about her life, I had a strange feeling that I had made a mistake. That I shouldn’t have become a mother. It is difficult to explain, but other people might understand.

She was gang raped at age 12. It was not her fault. Or her mother’s fault. Or her father’s fault. It was fault of an evil group of young men with the intent to hurt and show power and dehumanize another person. Another girl could have been the victim. Another boy could have been the victim. It could have been me.

I sat in the audience thinking of kids at age 12. Those kids could be my babies. Even though my rational mind knows her assault had nothing to do with me, I feel blame. I think I could have prevented it. I don’t see a 42-year-old woman on the stage. Same age as me. I see a child age 12 and think of all the wrong the world can do.

I think quite rationally that maybe none of us should have children. I remember hearing something similar a few years ago.

“The world is a terrible place. No reason to bring children into it.” I thought it a cruel statement. Now, I’m not so sure.

Women who avoid motherhood are deemed selfish. Parents, particularly women, who express disdain or disappointment with parenthood are vilified. We are supposed care and love children. Selfless at each moment. Exhausted with worry. Sleepless with so much more to do. There are hands on our bodies, bodies in our spaces. Toiling the fields. The words we use to describe parenthood remind me of physical labor and being hungry.

There is nothing rational about it.

When a child is born, a parent is born. The unpredictable chemicals go off in our brains. I can see how the brain might reject parenthood. It is a good defense mechanism.

The decision to become a parent, once made, can’t be undone. A parent must be happy from day one, every day of the week, every day of the year. It’s a trap. And a lie. It doesn’t work the same for everyone. There is no switch to make the regret go away, but maybe there should be rules for regret.

• Seek professional support. Find a safe space where you can express how you feel without someone judging you.
• Your feelings are valid. It is okay to say your regrets.
• There is no such thing as perfection.
• Instead of saying “I made a mistake” say “I made the best decision at the time.”
• You don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations except your own.
• Find what you do like and focus on those things.

I have a friend who feels lost because she cannot have children. I have another friend who despises motherhood. She hates it. It isn’t the despair that concerns me, but the fact that this kind of despair is frowned upon.

I remember the day I thought I was the apple. My skin had been gnawed off by my offspring and work and life and exhaustion. There were hands on my breasts, on my body, and in my mind. I couldn’t find peace. I was tired of the lemons and didn’t want to make lemonade.

I make a conscious effort to live without regrets. I am fortunate. I actively create happiness each morning. It isn’t an easy thing. I conjure it with a prayer and magic. I conjure it in habit. It is difficult to create. Some of us can’t overcome the chemicals in our brains. Some of us can’t overcome our disappointments, worry and regrets. Some regret goes deep. Some hunger cannot be fed with food.

I remember the day stopped worrying about the apple skin. I can’t control the universe of regret and evil and despair. My desire for control is no better than a gang of boys who want to hurt the world.

I know why I eat everything bagels when I’m alone.

The seeds and spices cling to my teeth and tongue. It is messy. It is ugly. I can be imperfect when I’m alone. I can love the bitter and strange and salty when I’m alone. That’s wrong. I’ve been wrong. You only eat the skin off the apple for a short period of time. I haven’t done it in ages.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

I wonder why my body curves into this shape like the ocean curves into the shore.

I wonder why we don’t judge the waves for being calm and deep. I wonder why we don’t worry when the water creates a storm.

I wonder what makes me a woman. Is it the womb inside me? Is it my mind? I wonder.

I wonder about women.

I wonder why some men hate us. The energy we emit is powerful. We create such fear, such disdain, such obsession. My body creates chemical reactions that cannot be contained.

My sweat and breath are honeyed milk. I make no apologies for my sweetness.

I am strong. I do not compare myself to men. Men have been good companions to me. I neither revere nor disdain them. You might say I am as strong as or stronger than a man. But I compare myself to no one. I am the power of me. I am stronger than you think.

I wonder why some women hate themselves. Our sweet breath is both life and venom. I look for women who love me without asking me to change, without asking me to be just like they are. That is strength. That is power.

My tears are a gift. My kindness a privilege. My hands can both heal and strike. It makes you wonder about me.

I wonder about strapless swimsuits and high heel boots and pushup bras. I wonder about the armor we wear underneath our clothes. I want to know why our soft places must be held into an hourglass shape.

My irregular body, my warmth, my jiggly bits do not weaken my strength. There is power in my movement.

I wonder why people hate that movement. I am learning to love it again.

I wonder about the suit I wear. Sometimes with a skirt. You want to see my legs. Pants offend you. But not too much leg. I wonder about this balance I must maintain each day. Sexy prude. I’ve forgotten how to show some decency. But you are the indecent one. I am perfect. Woman. Wondering.

I wonder about the suit I wear. Sometimes pants. I’m not trying to be a man. Men don’t own the legs of my body or the slacks I wear. I like flexibility. My cool aloofness frightens you. I need this outer shell some days. The shield. I am tired of being battle-scarred. I wonder about this.

I am thoughtful. I am decisive. I do not compare myself to anyone. I tell you what I think. I write to be heard in the middle of the night in places too far to hear my voice.

My indifference unsettles you. You think my longing for solitude is unnatural. Can’t I also be Superman? I wonder why you call my directness being cold. I am a queen of many things including snow. Remember that ice also burns.

I watch a woman at my feet scrubbing my soles with a pumice. She is scrubbing my soul with a pumice. She is scrubbing my feet like I am a disciple, and she is my savior.

“You have nice feet,” she says. I have heard this over the years.

There are no calluses. No hard places. My feet are soft like a baby’s. The woman scrubs nonetheless.

“I wear good shoes,” I say. She stares at me in wonder, in confusion. I clarify, “I wear practical shoes.”

She understands. I have not pinched my toes or hobbled on high stilettos. I have a strange superpower. I wear plain shoes. I have pretty feet.

I wonder about the intimacy of hands on feet. She, with bent back and eyes downcast, is also a hero.

I look at the armor we put on our face. It is not the makeup, but the expressions of blank acceptance. I’d rather wear mascara and scowl. Other days I like smiling. I am both smiling and unsmiling. I make no apologies for the range of my expressions. I wonder if that’s what makes them most afraid. I can heal. I can strike.

I wonder.

I dream about Wonder Woman. She was my first hero. I still have the powers she taught me. I find the truth. It is rarely found in words. Still I find it.

Wonder about women.

I dream about Wonder Woman. Would she be so wonderful if she were ugly? If I stood next to her would you ever choose me? I don’t worry. I don’t compare myself to anyone. Not even her.

It makes me wonder about all women. We are so different from each other. We pull on our tall boots, because the only universal truth in our lives is how often we wade through shit. That is our sisterhood.

Wonder Woman can’t touch me. I know this. We seek the truth. We fly.

I wonder. I wonder if I am really the ocean. I’d never ask to be a man, but for a day it might be nice to be water.

Calm. Deep. Dreadful. The same things I am now.

Does the ocean wonder about me?

I am a wonder woman. I wonder. I was born without superhero strength, and they still expect me to fight. And they wonder if I’ll win.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

And love and loyalty would pour out with that look, and as long as I had that, there was very little the human race could do to harm my self-esteem. – Lewis Grizzard

In my early years of marriage, every person asked me about having babies. Don’t do this. It is a strange thing that people encourage other people to saddle themselves with offspring. Marriage is one kind of human condition. Parenthood is distinctly another. Marriage was enough during those years. I never once dreamed of babies.

By the time we were married for two years, the baby questions became annoying. I’d say, “I’m never having kids,” just to panic my mother and mother-in-law.

One morning, a co-worker sent an email to the office. She’d found a litter of discarded kittens on the side of the highway. They were in a shoe box at her desk.

I didn’t worry about motherhood. Cats, on the other hand, had been a part of my life since childhood.

I knew better than to look at the kittens. I would have to have one. I spent the day wondering how many kittens were left. I was glad someone had been kind enough to save them from near certain death. I remembered how much I loved all the cats in my life. At five o’clock, I took the long way out of the building to walk by that desk. To see if any cats were left.

There was one.

She fit in the palm of my hand. A black piece of fluff crawled up my arm and perched on my shoulder like a parrot. She meowed at my face.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.” She was mine.

At home, I set up food and water and a soft bed. She meowed loudly. She climbed up to my shoulder. That night my parents had tickets to the Braves game. We went on a lot of double dates with my mom and dad in those years. When we left for baseball, the cat didn’t have a name.

Greg Maddux was the starting pitcher. It was his last season with the Braves. My mom and I debated names for the cat between innings. Salem. Midnight. My husband and my dad enjoyed cold beers. Maddux pitched one of the best games of his career.

As we left, my husband said, “Why don’t we name the cat Greg Maddux?”

His idea seemed ridiculous for about 10 seconds. A girl kitten named Greg Maddux? But my husband knew I loved baseball and knew I loved cats. “We can call her Maddux or Maddie,” he added. I agreed.

Greg Maddux Salcedo entered our lives at the start of baseball season. She left us on a Thursday, 14 years later, a few month into baseball season and the day before the last day of school. Maddie entered our quiet married life and watched us grow into a family with four children.

My heart is breaking.

Maddie liked the warm crook of my husband’s arm. No matter the time, if I left the bed, I’d return to find her in my spot. If I was gone for one minute, she’d jump up and claim my pillow. She liked his heat. She loved my indifference. She sat at my feet every day as I wrote.

She followed me everywhere. I haven’t peed alone in 14 years. She followed me into the kitchen even though she never jumped on counters or tables. Not once in 14 years. But she begged for cereal milk. It was such a specific thing. She never wanted cheese or tuna or Thanksgiving turkey. I wondered if it was the sound of the spoon and bowl that attracted her. She never begged when we had a glass of milk, but if you poured a bowl of cereal and milk she would appear with her loud meows.

She meowed constantly. Loudly. Never in complaint. The first vet who saw her as a kitten told us she was part Siamese. “She’s a talker,” the vet said. This was true.

Maddie was reclusive. Many friends over the years have been surprised to find out we had a cat. She would appear when it was quiet. Even the kids didn’t see her in the early years. After they would go to bed, Maddie would appear to show her love. She was, after all, our first baby.

Maddie alerted me when I was pregnant. She was sweet and sassy, but not a lap cat. When I was pregnant, she would find a way to sit in my lap or lay on my belly.

She did this for each of my pregnancies. The last time she did it, I had no idea I was pregnant. She climbed on to my stomach and started to purr loudly.

My husband said, “You better get a pregnancy test.” I thought this was ridiculous for precisely 10 seconds. Then I went to the pharmacy.

Maddux was right. She slept next to each baby after they were born. She was a protector.

Maddux meowed loudly. She purred every day of her life. I knew it was her last night when we pet her and she stayed silent. She blinked slowly as the kids got ready for school. They pet her to say goodbye. She gave her last breath as my husband held her. She needed his heat one last time.

Frisco was my first cat. He was named after Jack Wagner’s character on General Hospital. Ginger was an orange tabby named for her color and our favorite spice. Brandy was named for our neighbor’s cousin. I have been a cat sitter for many sweet cats over the years. Morgan, Soap, and Legolas.

I have known this joy before.

I wish I could find the person who dumped a litter of kittens on the side of the road in Fayetteville, Ga. at the beginning of baseball season. I wish I could tell him that the cats all found good homes. I wish I could tell that person even the last of the bunch was loved. She was mine. She had a man’s name and was a good friend.

“Someone thought she was garbage, but look at all the love she gave us.” I didn’t know what else to tell my kids when they got home from school.

The floor underneath my desk is empty. I have known this grief before. It is the kind of grief you will eventually be grateful for. But not today. Merci, Maddux.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

“If you can’t dance sober, you shouldn’t dance at all.”

That was the best advice I could muster as I watched my nephew and niece graduate from high school this week.

I’m not a very good dancer. It doesn’t matter. I dance anyway. People who’ve seen me at weddings and parties know this. I like to dance. I silly dance. I sexy dance. I jump up-and-down dance. That’s my thing. I’m first on the dance floor. Sometimes I’m the first to dance and the last to leave.

I’m shy and awkward in so many ways, but not when I hear music.

When I went to college, I didn’t try to reinvent myself. The first version of myself was still forming. I knew college would involve drinking. I knew college would involve dancing.

I had two simple rules.

• Dance sober.
• Say “yes” if anyone asked me to dance.

My graduation advice should be about the importance of finishing your calculus homework the day it’s assigned. You should read the entire book before writing a paper about it. Attend office hours with your professor before you start failing a class. These things will help you make the grade and establish good habits. These things are true, but so is the value of dancing.

I spent my college years dancing with the boys the other girls turned down. Boys from neighboring colleges. Boys who weren’t in college at all. I danced with short boys and strange boys and nice boys. I danced with boys who had the courage to ask me to dance. This mattered to me. What good was the cute or tall guy or my crush from calculus if he never noticed if I was alive?

I noticed lots of things on the dance floor. Because I was sober.

This doesn’t mean I didn’t drink. I did. This doesn’t mean I didn’t make drinking mistakes. I did. Both during and after college. But my mistakes were few.

I still have a reputation with my current colleagues as the sober driver.

I hear “Nicki doesn’t drink” all the time. Yes, I do drink. I’d rather drink with my real friends, no offense. The ones who will notice if I’ve had too much to drink. The ones who are willing to meet me on the dance floor.

You can’t dance all night, if you drink all night. It’s true. Alcohol and dancing dehydrate you. I’m sure my niece and nephew don’t want a lecture on hydration on the eve of leaving for college. But here it is.

Stay hydrated, young college friends. Dance with a red Solo cup of water in your hand.

If you feel like you need a little alcohol to loosen you up, maybe you aren’t a dancer. That’s okay. I love pulling people on to the dance floor, but only the willing. There isn’t anything wrong with people who don’t like to dance. I get it. You feel vulnerable and foolish and uncool and insecure. Dancing is like being naked. If you drink, drink because you want to not because you need courage.

Why not dance? You should. When you dance the world shifts into perspective. The calculus crush boy seems less cute. The main thesis of your Shakespeare paper will become clear to you on the dance floor. You will notice that the strange boy you are dancing with has a nice smile and good dance moves.

For my nephew and niece these are my parting words:

• If you can’t dance sober, you shouldn’t dance at all. This is a rule for the rest of your life.
• Discover the world outside the gates of your college. You will meet people from all over the world. Now you are part of that world. Experience it.
• Sometimes “fun” is taking a long nap. Like an all-day nap. You will need to recharge eventually.
• Maximize your academic opportunities by having a plan. That means going to office hours and study sessions from day one.
• Arrive at class and lectures early. Stay late.
• Arrive at parties late and plan to leave early. Don’t be that kid at the party that looks desperate. Always travel to and from with a buddy.
• Find your tribe. Make a reference to Dr. Who see who gets it. That person can be trusted. Never ask a potential friend to choose between Star Wars and Star Trek.
• Success is not a destination. It’s a journey. Part of that journey is perseverance. Anything worth having is worth working for.
• An aunt is a friend who looks like your mom, but who doesn’t pay your tuition. You can tell me anything. You can call me. Or use the snapchat thingy.
• Become the kind of person who can give your aunt advice when she needs. Become the kind of person I can call when I need to talk.

Thank you for letting me tease you about the Hottie McHighschool boys at your graduation and in your yearbooks. I am not at all sorry for this. Remember to laugh. You have already made me proud. I look forward to the day when you pull me on to the dance floor. Congratulations.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories will appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.

The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta. Zero Mile is a series of sometimes fictionalized and sometimes real stories based on life in Atlanta, Georgia.

By Nicki Salcedo, contributor

I’m a terrible speller, and my grammar is questionable. Writing is my way of documenting what I see in life. The things I see are also terrible and questionable. It’s hard to get the words right. I start by looking in the mirror. I’m the first monster I see each day.

I am female by birth, in mind, in body. But I’ve been mistaken for a man at various points in my life. I have a husky voice. I wasn’t curvy in my adolescent years. With a baseball hat on I could easily be confused for a boy. I was cast as a man in my middle school play. I wore a mustache and played the part of the professor.

Parents came up to me after the show and said I was a “nice young man.” I didn’t correct them. I felt proud. That’s real acting. I thought about Shakespeare and all the women who never stood on his stage. I took my gender neutrality as progress and as a compliment.

It wasn’t until I grew older that the word tomboy began to bother me. What did being a tomboy mean? Is there an opposite of tomboy? I still don’t know. I was a girl who liked Hess trucks and snakes and Barbie dolls. I am a woman who likes earthworms and construction cranes and red dresses.

Because I am terrible at grammar and gender, I’ve always loved the word “they.” For years I tried to use “they” and was forced to use “he or she.” It felt wrong. I would write “she or he” for my own empowerment until the grammar police would correct me.

Then we were allowed the “she/he” that was written as “s/he.” I hated this one with a passion. How do you read that? And I’m not a slash person. I am not a she-he. I’m me. I’m they.

I love this old show called “Sisters” for the sole fact that the four female leads all went by a masculine derivations of their names. Alex, Teddy, Georgie, and Frankie. I adore androgynous names. This might explain why I have so many kids, but was only successful of giving one a gender neutral name. This is also why nicknames are so important. If I shout out Squid or Goose or Captain, you really have no idea if I’m calling for my daughter or my son.

If you want to be on my good side, don’t hug me and call me Nick.

In my professional life, I have colleagues all over the world that I’ve never met in person. We work by email and instant message. I have no idea if they are male or female. Sometimes their names are foreign to me. Sometimes the names are known to me, but gender ambiguous. Kyle? Jamie? Dagmar? Azaria? What about my favorite May name, Juno?

I have a colleagues in Ireland and France. I communicate with them regularly. And based on their names, I have no idea if they are men or women. If they are she, he, or them. And I don’t worry about it.

But then I do worry. I worry about everything.

I worry if I am a true ally. I think we are all the same and know that we all have different perspectives.

I worry about our strange obsession with sex and sexuality. Our bodies are taboo on one hand. Then we define everyone we meet by their genitals and use of sexual organs. How does this even make sense?

I worry about the soccer cheer the girls say. I cringe when they chant, “We don’t need Barbie dolls. We like kicking soccer balls.” We can’t you like Barbie dolls AND soccer balls? I love balls. I can say that. I’m a married lady, and I enjoy sports.

I worry that I have a lot to learn about “they” and “them” meaning every person I meet.

I worry that I’m not the ally I should be.

I worry.

I wonder.

I wonder. A word like “they” used to mean other. You woman. You black. You blind. You queer. They can now mean us. All of us. No matter what secrets our bodies hold. No matter who we love. No matter.

If you see my name, if you hear my voice, if you see my body, and call me they or them. I will feel proud.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. Zero Mile stories will appear on the Atlanta Loop on Wednesdays.