The Zero Mile Post marked the meeting of two railway lines and possibly the beginning of the city of Atlanta.

I lazed in bed and tried to imagine I was home. Instead I was trapped in a hotel room in Las Vegas. My eyes had opened at 3 a.m., but I forced myself to stay under the covers. It would be a long day if I woke that early every day I was gone. East Coast Girl. West Coast World. That’s how business travel goes.

At 4 o’clock in the morning, my phone chimed. I was glad for the company even though it was all the way back in Atlanta.

The text message contained four words.

Go outside. Look up.

I remembered immediately. It was the morning of the Super Blue Blood Moon. I slid out of bed and found my shoes. I brushed my teeth in a hurry. I’d gone from lazing to full speed in a matter of moments. I didn’t want to miss it, so I hurried through the hotel and down into the casino. People were everywhere. It could’ve been 4 o’clock in the afternoon. I didn’t seem out of place as I wandered toward the exit.

There was no way I would be able to see the moon. The strip in Vegas is bright. Times Square bright. You can look up if you want to see neon and Godzilla-sized billboards. Donnie and Marie are twenty stories tall and looming outside my hotel room window. I bet they are just going to sleep.

You don’t look up in Vegas if you want to see the stars. You don’t look up in Vegas if you hope to see the moon.

But I did.

I have a great sense of direction. I can almost always find East. Even in the darkness of night. Even in the frightening light of the city. Still I hesitated. In the bright lights, the whole world was spinning.

I stepped outside. I looked up.

There was the moon, like a trick of the eye. Large, pulling, red. I’d seen the moon so many times before. Yellow. Orange. White. But not like this.

I was witnessing a celestial event that last occurred in 1866. This was a rare Super Blue Blood Moon. A Blue Moon is the second full moon of the month. A Super Moon is when the moon’s orbit is particularly close to the Earth. The Blood Moon is the red color that happens during a total lunar eclipse.

By chance, I happened to be in the perfect viewing zone. West Coast. My reminder was from home in Atlanta. Another text came through.

We saw the moon as we drove to school.

It was in the early pre-dawn hours, and the sky was clear. I could see the moon, and I could see the stars.

I stood there for a long time before the shadow started to appear. A few passersby spoke to me. I guess I didn’t blend in. I wore yoga pants and my college t-shirt. I lacked a sequined top and stiletto heels. My face was scrubbed clean. No makeup. No jewelry. I was looking at the sky.

Eventually the moon disappeared. To know the moon is gone, you’d first have to know it was there. There was beauty in the sudden loneliness. I felt lost for a moment. I was too far from home and then suddenly on another planet. My breath won’t remain steady. What if the moon didn’t come back?

I would stand there forever waiting.

Only I didn’t have to wait forever. The shadow that became full darkness became a glow red again. I felt a burst of happiness as the first glimpse of the moon reappeared on the other side. The happiness and the loneliness swirled around me. I looked at the moon for a long time.

Love is sometimes being alone, but also being remembered from far away. That was my Valentine’s Day. January 31. I remember now not to discount the bright or busy places. There is always time to send a brief message. Into space and back again. I can always make time to go outside and look up.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. The Zero Mile column appears 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.

My hair is a fascination. I cannot explain why. I have spent my entire life ignoring it. It grows. I cut it. I wear it curly. I wear it straight. I twist it in two strands. I braided in close to my scalp. I wait for my hair to give me strength like Samson.

I think of Delilah. She was right. I dream of cutting it all off.

My hair is a fascination.

I don’t understand why people want to touch my hair.

I don’t want to touch your hair.

I don’t want to touch your bald head.

I don’t want to touch your beard. Or your leg hair. Or the toes on your feet.

A few weeks ago, a woman I didn’t know looked at me longingly.

“I want to touch your hair,” she said.

“I can tell,” I said.

She thought I might say, “Go ahead.” I didn’t.

“I really want to touch your hair,” she continued. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

My hair must have beckoned her. The dark twisted strands moved like snakes. Some strands of black. I’ve recently added a little blue. Blue snakes on my head. Blue wires. Black hair. Blue spirit. She wanted to touch all of me. Afro, dreadlocks, twists, braided, high-top fade.

I smiled at her. I could have said, “Don’t touch my hair,” But I didn’t. I only smiled.

I wish she had stopped for a moment to think of how I felt as she stared at me. Like a meal. Like she wanted to consume me. It didn’t feel good.

“It’s a compliment,” a friend said.

Being reminded that some people view me as different is not a compliment. A compliment is someone saying, “Nice hair.”

Instead it is, “I want to touch you.”

“I want to inspect you.”

“I want to know if you are real.”

I live. I breathe. I feel.

Your stares.

I appreciate curiosity. I don’t mind it at all. But I don’t like when someone looks at me like I’m an object.  I’m not an alien. I’m not an animal.

Should I touch your belly? Should I ask you about your scars and trace the wrinkles of your face?

Black hair grows from my head. Nappy hair. Kinky hair. Hair that defies gravity. I defy gravity.

But I don’t want you to touch my hair.

My hair belongs to my husband, my mother, my children, and cats. I love when cats touch my hair. I am a willow tree. I am Spanish moss.

I’m learning to let my hair grow wild. I am letting my strands turn gray. The gray hair listens to no one. They are old and wise. They gray can’t be controlled.

Don’t touch my hair. Do stare at me. I know that the best compliment is eyes meeting eyes. Look at my eyes.

Don’t worry about my hair.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. The Zero Mile column appears 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.

I say to my children, “Your willingness to learn impacts your teacher’s willingness to teach.”

It is my job as parent to teach my kids to be good students. I do not teach math. I do not teach science. I wish I did. I wish my job was to teach all the things of the world. Including the bad and especially the good.

Instead I teach my kids to be curious, to care, to be respectful. I remind them it is okay to challenge the status quo and argue a different view point. I don’t want them to think the way I think just because I do. That’s dangerous. I want them to think for themselves. At home. And at school. I need them to think. I want them to learn.

I say to my teachers, “Your willingness to teach impacts my child’s willingness to learn.”

It is my job as a parent to advocate for my teachers instead of making demands for my kids. By the time my kids leave high school, they will have had about 40 teachers. In those same years, one teacher may teach 400 kids if they teach elementary school. Or 2,000 kids if they teach high school. What my kid wants cannot supersede the needs of a teacher who serves so many.

I think of my kid’s teachers every day. I watch the teachers save lives.

Teachers save lives without carrying guns.

Teachers save lives without wearing bullet proof vests.

I want my teachers trained to use technology.

I want my teachers skilled in the art of a calligraphy pen.

I want my teachers able to speak another language even if they teach math.

I want my teachers to show my kids the world and this country and space and the world under the sea.

I want my teachers to grow a garden. I want them trained to teach that life is not only fetuses and soldiers, but flowers and earthworms. Life is a little cabbage too beautiful to eat.

I want them trained in the science of the seasons. Of planting and growing. Of harvesting and dying.

I don’t want my teachers trained in death.

They have seen dead eyes in students who don’t want to learn.

They have seen dead spirits in the students who don’t think it matters.

They have seen the stress and anxiety. They have seen drugs and alcohol.

Our teachers have seen enough of our students dying without having to worry about guns.

We have become a society that is good at killing ourselves. I’m tired of counting all the different ways.

I believe in prayer and silence. I believe in magic and science. Because of good teachers. I still think of all the teachers who saved my life. The teacher who noticed I was good at math. They teacher who noticed my writing.

Any one of my teachers would have died for me. I know this. Just as I know, this wasn’t a problem in my childhood. My biggest fear as a kid at school was standing in front of the class to read a book report.

We were trained to protect ourselves from fire and tornados. We knew how to evacuate the fields when lightning shattered the sky. But I was never afraid. I was never afraid as a student. Now my kids and my teachers are afraid.

I don’t know what to say. As much as I love my kids, their teachers shouldn’t have to die for them. That is my job. I’m the one who should protect my kids. We are learning. All of us. We are changing how we use our voice. We are training ourselves for new and quieter battles. We are learning that we will also have to be the ones to protect our teachers.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. The Zero Mile column appears 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.

Spider-Man was my first Superhero. My sisters gave me a comic book one Christmas when I was a kid. I liked Peter Parker. He wasn’t super like Clark Kent. He wasn’t wealthy like Bruce Wayne. He was a kid who liked science.

He was a white boy from New York who worked for a newspaper.

I was a Black girl from Stone Mountain, Georgia with comic books under her bed. And still I believed Peter Parker and I were the same.

Over the years, I got more Spider-Man comics. I got Spider-Man anthologies. But I haven’t read every Spider-Man comic book. Don’t quiz me on what issue, what year, what villain. I like comic books, but I’m not an expert. I think it is okay to like something without having a PhD in it.

It took me a while before I discovered any Black superheroes. I learned about the X-Men when I was in high school. That was the first time I saw Storm. If you ask Black women across the world where they were the first time they saw storm, they’ll each have a story, a memory.

After a life time of being invisible, you can’t help remember the first time you’ve felt seen.

Storm was beautiful and powerful, like an angel with brown skin and white hair. I loved her, but I never thought that I was like her. It was my greatest wish to be like Storm. She, unlike Spider-Man, was too amazing to be me.

Everything changed this weekend when I went to see Black Panther. I decorated my face like Princess Shuri. I walked into a movie theater and closed my eyes. When I woke up, I was in Wakanda. I was there on the screen.

I was the child grieving over the death of my father.

I was the mother worried about the fate of her children.

I was the spy willing to hold my love’s hand as he grieved.

I was the sister. Silly and smart and best friend.

I was the warrior who thinks her country is worth fighting for.

I was the villain who dreams of fighting back and rising up.

I am the friend who makes mistakes.

I am the neighbor who might take you in when you have fallen.

I woke up in Wakanda, and it was too much for me. I was everywhere. I was everyone. I wasn’t just seen, but I was heard. The sound of my breathing and dancing and fears. The sound of my fighting. The sound of my tears.

I wish I could say it wasn’t a movie about being Black. But it was. It was a movie about being Black and being super. It was a movie about being just like everyone else. In Korea. In Costa Rica. In Oakland.

There are kids who will look at T’Challa, the Black Panther, and feel like they are just like him. Strong and fighting for justice. There will be little girls and boys who want to be Okoye, the general and warrior. They won’t worry if she is Black or a woman. They will only care that she is a good friend and soldier.

I still love Spider-Man. I do. I will always be a kid who likes a microscope and dreams of a radioactive spider bite. No matter how old I get. I will want to be changed into a superhero.

I still love Storm. She can control wind and lighting. She is the most amazing thing I ever saw on the pages of a comic book.

I now a love Wakanda. Not a person, but a land of people who are super. Can you imagine living in a world where everyone you know is super? I didn’t want to blink as I watched Black Panther. I didn’t want to breathe. I wanted them to bury me in the red sand and white ice. I wanted to see my ancestors and tell them so many things.

There is still time for me to be super. There is still time to be amazing. I feel it in my blood. That’s the power of story and the power of being seen. I can be super. Every day.

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. The Zero Mile column appears 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.

Germs love me. I used to be a great host of bacteria and viruses and allergens. I would take pride in the fact that my body was hospitable for microscopic organisms. In fact my body was so smart, I only ever got sick over vacation. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Never on actual work days. One day, I’d had enough. No more illness. No more nose rubbed raw. No more broken blood vessels in my eyes from coughing. I’ve started researching strategies for avoiding getting sick or reducing my sick time.

• Wash your hands. You think you wash your hands properly because you are an adult, but you probably don’t. Wash under water by rapidly rubbing your hands together. Clean under your nails. Sing your ABC’s. Sing the Bohemian Rhapsody.
• Keep your hands away from your face and head. If dirty fingers touch your mouth or eyes, the germs have a fast track into your system.
• Shower at the end of the day. Bathe your kids every single night. I’m not sure why this isn’t already a thing, but kids in daycare crawl on the floor all day. Kids in elementary school are around other kids all day. Kids in middle school really don’t want to shower, but make them do it anyway. A morning shower means you’ve slept in yesterday’s cooties all night. Yum. Your bed is an incubator of germs.
• Get lots of sleep. Just go to sleep right now. Losing sleep means your body is too tired to fight of any illnesses going around.
• Avoid touching handles, door knobs, shopping carts. I wear long sleeves and used them as a barrier between me and objects I have to touch during flu season.
• Wipe your desk and keyboard. Wipe down your airplane arm rests and trays. Wipe down your gym equipment before and after. Don’t worry if people think you have OCD. There is nothing wrong with having OCD. There is nothing wrong with having flu season OCD.
• Get your vaccines. Put it on your calendar. Depending on your age and health different vaccines are available for flu and pneumonia and other fun illnesses like chicken pox and measles.

I have four kids, so I don’t have time to be sick. I can’t afford to have sick family members. But it happens. The most important thing I’ve learned over the years is to take immediate action if you feel sick. There is always a breath that you take that feels weird. The back of your throat feels cold as the air comes in. You detect a headache or body ache, but think you can push through it. You are tired, but you don’t sleep. Don’t do this. Do not wait.

• Take immediate action if you begin to feel sick.
• Read the ingredients of over-the-counter medicine. If you aren’t coughing, you don’t need the medicine with a cough suppressant and expectorant. Taking too much medicine isn’t really helpful. All the cold and flu brands repackage the exact same medicine under 20 different names and 20 different price points. Learn to be an educated consumer of your medicines.
• Have a relationship with a primary care provider. This is your Internist, General Practitioner, and Pediatrician. It helps if they know you so they know you when you are sick. The Emergency Room is a pretty terrible way to waste 12 hours and a pretty great way to get new and unusual viruses.
• Stay home from school if you suspect you are sick. Stay away from school until you are better for a full day. That’s 24 hours. Going to school with the flu is like sending your kid to school with a peanut butter sandwich knowing every other kid is allergic peanut butter. Don’t do this.
• Stay home from work if you suspect you are sick (if you can). Stay away from work until you are better for a full day. Sounds like I just said this about school. I did. Going to work with your phlegmy cough and fever is dangerous and selfish. You don’t know who in your office has a compromised immune system. Assume we all do.
• If you take prescription meds, take them the right way. Take every pill. Drink every drop of the medicine as prescribed.
• Know the side effects of your meds.

Inevitably we have done all the right things, but we are still caught by the bug. I have some secret strategies to get better faster and keep future illnesses at bay.

• Brush your teeth a few extra times a day. Brush the heck out of your tongue. Floss. Trust me on this one.
• Gargle with real Listerine. The yellow one that looks like a cross between apple juice and pine sol.
• Take a hot bath with a few cups of cheap white rum mixed into the water. Do not drink the bath water.
• Take a bath with Epsom salt or apple cider vinegar or both. Only take a bath if you think you are strong enough and it is safe. Otherwise ask a friend to sit next to the tub to make sure you are okay.
• Take a hot shower and use a wash cloth to scrub off the dead skin and germs. Enjoy the steam to help you breathe. Try to do this as often as you can.
• Learn how to use a Neti pot or sinus rinse device. The water must be purified or distilled water. You should not use tap water or spring water for the nasal cleansing. Yes, I want you to clean your nose from the inside.
• Whenever you blow your nose, wash your hands.
• When your hands and nose get rubbed raw, use coconut oil to soothe skin and promote healing.

Drink a tonic. A tonic is a beverage designed to promote the body’s natural healing process. Nyquil only targets symptoms. If you are brave, you can be on the road to recovery if you try one of these home remedies.

• Chicken soup is the real deal. If you don’t eat meat, try a vegetable broth. Spice either variation with turmeric, cayenne pepper, and black peppercorns.
• Tonic 1: Vinegar (1 oz), honey (1 tsp), warm water (7 oz). When you get used to the taste of vinegar, you can add more. Be careful with vinegar. It can strip the enamel off your teeth. Drink with a straw. Rinse your mouth with plain water after you have any beverage with vinegar.
• Tonic 2: Cayenne Pepper (1/4 tsp), honey (1 tsp), lemon (1/4 of whole lemon), warm water 7 oz.
• Water with a tiny pinch of salt or some lemon. Stay hydrated at all times. Coconut water is good if you can’t stomach water while you are sick.

Drink tonics 1 and 2 as often as you can as soon as you feel the first symptoms of cold or flu. A variation for both is with cold water. It still works. Depends on what you are in the mood for. The advice listed above is not a substitute for medical advice. Doctors are our friends. Nurses save our lives. We can help them by being proactive with our health especially since this flu season has been expensive and deadly. Take care of yourself. Check on your neighbors. Tell them the Flu Guru sent you!

Nicki Salcedo knows the loops and the back roads of Atlanta. She is a novelist, blogger and working mom. The Zero Mile column appears 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.

I enjoy sitting in the sunshine. I love looking up at the sky during the rain. I hate the cold, but I endure it. I like thick winter boots with wool socks. I pretend that my hands are android hands when I wear gloves.

I spend most of the year outside. My kids play outdoor sports. Maybe I should have put them in volleyball or gymnastics or basketball, but we didn’t. I have to be weatherproof year round. Because we live in Atlanta, I carry both a winter coat and sunscreen just about every day of the year.

I like being outside. I love watching sports. But I don’t like the other parents. In fact, parents really bother me. I avoid parents at school during curriculum night. I worry about the parents on the sidelines of a sporting event. I usually park my chair at the far end of the field. I’m an empath. Being surrounded by angry raging parents makes me feel claustrophobic. I don’t like being around parents who project their desperation for a win and angst at a loss on their kids. I don’t like parents who keep score. Our kids are watching us and how we act.

My job is transportation and positive reinforcement. There is a ref to monitor the game. There is a coach to provide guidance. Like my gestational years, I am not a participant in the sport. I’m barely a spectator. I am the vessel who delivers my child to practice and games. At the end of the game, we merely ask these questions:

How do you feel?

Did you have fun?

Did you do something well?

Did you notice any good players on the other team?

Did you try your best?

Did you thank you coach?

Did you thank the ref?

I watch parents shouting at the referees. I see kids, young kids, shout at the referees. I cringe. I imagine someone might have spoken to a slave in the same tone of anger and dismissal. How would you feel if someone did this to you while you were at your job? How can that shouting, that rage, ever be a good thing?

Why would they want to ref?

Why would they want to play?

We wonder why our kids are terrible human beings. We are surprised when a group of privileged boys attack another boy for his pocket change. They are not Jean Valjean. They are not poor kids who need a loaf of bread. I make no excuses for poor kids who commit crimes. It is wrong. Even if they have grown up in a society that encourages this behavior, it is wrong. But worse are the kids from big houses who have no regard for other people and no respect for society.

I don’t have to wonder about this. No one wants to admit that our kids are terrible people, because we are terrible parents.

They watch us shouting at the refs, acting like everything in the world should go their way. They watch us rage over baseball. They watch us turn an afternoon of soccer into a Greek tragedy. These kids know nothing of true suffering and loss.

My kids participated in a tournament this past weekend. It was a fundraiser. An actual soccer event with zero stakes and a 10 cent trophy at the end of the day. A day of fun. High school kids were the coaches. High school kids were the refs.

It was a gray sky day. It was chilly, but not too cold. At some point a drizzle of rain fell, and I thought how lucky my kids were to be able to run around having fun. It was my favorite kind of day. Good, but without the illusion of perfection.

I asked my kids what they thought at the end. They complimented their coaches. They had laughs with their friends. But my daughter noted this, “Mom, could you hear the parents yelling from the stands? They were being so mean.” She is 12 years old, but even she can see you.

If you can’t respect the ref, why would you respect a cop or a teacher or a nurse? You wouldn’t. You will grow up thinking you can never be wrong. You can never be corrected.

I like to spin my umbrella in the rain. I used to do it as a kid. All week, I am trapped at a desk at work. It can be defeating. Sports have taught me how to persevere, how to try harder when I think I’m too tired, how to deal with different kinds of people. Not everyone is like me. I look for the good players even when I’m at work. Even when they are on the other side. Sports have improved who I am. And I know sports can bring out the worst in people.

We tell our coaches thank you.

We tell the team manager thank you.

We tell the ref thank you. Every time.

I try to teach my kid that you don’t have to win to feel proud of yourself. You don’t have to shout at the ref, just because you’re losing. Or winning. Don’t keep score. Ever. Just look at the sky. Swim. Run. Play. Every child does not have this opportunity or freedom.

Sometimes they see me on the sidelines away from the crowd. I might have a book or my computer. I like to write when I’m outside. I try to glance up so I can see them, but I try not to put myself into the game. They are playing for themselves. Not me. I am the vessel. If our eyes meet, they should see in my eyes that I am happy to be there. I am happy for both the clouds and the sunshine. They should know this.

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