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

On the news, images of men carrying flames flash on the screen.

I am hated again. They want me to die. They want to hurt and kill me. Again. I am not hiding in an attic. We haven’t been moved to internment camps. Yet. I wait to hear the sounds of dogs barking as they chase me. I haven’t been hunted. Yet. Still they sniff for my blood.

I think of my grandmother. Is this what she wanted for my life? Was the land of opportunity all that she hoped for?

I think of your grandfather. Were the trenches cold? Did he fight for our freedom?

I think of Moses, our teacher, the Egyptian prince. Did he fight against brutality and slavery? Did he escape oppression and stand at the edge of the Red Sea?

My grandmother, she leads me back to the man they call president. She cared for his children. She was a nanny, domestic help. She cradled his babies. I’ve been thinking about all my grandmother did for us. Those babies she held are not her legacy. I am.

Your grandfather fought in World War II. He fought and killed. Killing was the thing that made him a hero, but he came home shell-shocked and scared. He kept his battle scars secret until he died. Even then he knew that hatred had a price and killing killed a part of you. Your grandfather fought against tyranny. He killed and he died. It was for me and for all of us. It was a different kind of fighting and different flames.

He did not die so I could be hated.

Your daughter fought in Afghanistan. Your son in Vietnam. Your uncle in Korea. Your great-great-grandfather held a musket. They told him to fight. He didn’t completely understand the reasons. Neither do we. We don’t understand. No one told him both sides could be wrong in a way. I’m not liberal, I’m not conservative. But hatred is not right. What makes us rage? What make us fight?

I want to look away from the news. Instead I watch men carry flames in the night.

Your grandmother picked cotton. She was white. You know from oral history, not school, that white people picked cotton. You know that Koreans came to Georgia a long time ago. You know that Jewish people help build Atlanta. We have all been on our knees. Every one of us.

We all know lack and wanting. Fighting and flames. We don’t understand hatred.

They want me to die. I am hated again. You are also hated. Your skin, your religion, your love is so dangerous. Again. They want to destroy us. We ought to die.

I ought to die.

I’ve been thinking about it.

Maybe I shouldn’t be here. My grandmother sacrificed her whole life, so I could have more and do better and still be hated.

They want me dead. They want my friend Christian dead. He teaches kids math. They want my friend Dina dead. Her God has a different name.

It’s not just hate. They want to kill us. Free speech is important. I don’t mind angry words. They want to be free to hurt and free to kill. You need to know this. They won’t be happy until the attics are empty, the fields and factories silent, and the whole world is underground.

Maybe I should die. You bristle at words like abortion and suicide, but accept the kind of hate that leads to murder. They are coming for us all. You forget, if given the chance they will kill you, too.

If they killed me would you say it was wrong? I am asking for a friend. The friends who are silent.

I am asking those eyes filled with rage, hate, anger. What do they want? I would give it to them. I would listen to them if they said anything other than rage. If they had a request other than me beaten and dying, I would help them. I would take their hurt away, even though they hate me. Even though their eyes are already dead. All those dead eyes, silver mirrors for the flame.

Who decides who should live and who should die? The soldier, the mother, or the men in firelight. Who decides to carry the flame?

I want you to say, “This is wrong.” I am asking the ones who’ve never said it. The ones who feel safe and distant from both the rage and the fear. The raging ones will always rage, the protesting ones will always protest. I need help from the ones who have never raged and never protested.

Sometimes the protest happens in the boardroom and across the dinner table. You don’t have to go out into the night with fists held high to fight. I want you to say, “This is wrong” in the face of those who say it is right.

Silence is also contagious. It has an echo that cannot be ignored.

I will end up dying.

Some days I don’t mind the thought. Don’t tell me this is wrong when you won’t denounce the hate that causes it.

I am guilty of many things. I long for death. I long for change. I long for peace. I am not more worthy of this life than any other person. I know the privilege of happiness. Every day I go on my knees and pray. I give thanks to this God and those ancestors who sacrificed everything so that I can suffer less. I am guilty of optimism. I am guilty of hope. I am guilty of having a voice of ink on paper. I don’t apologize for the things I am.

On Sunday I should have been in church, but I sat in bed thinking about Moses and fighting and flames. Those men holding torches are blocking the Red Sea.

Maybe I should be forced to leave this country, put back into slavery, I should be whipped and killed.

I think of Moses. They would have hated him, too.

They can’t take my flag, my worth, my life. It is my flag. I want it back. It is my fire. I know how to blaze.

Hate me. There are so many reasons to despise me. I enjoy picking apples and making homemade apple pie. I like to dance. I hold the door for strangers. I can catch a firefly, but would never put one in a jar. I have tasted honeysuckle and tears. I have stood through storms and not blinked for lightning. I have worked and worked and worked to make this city better, this country better, this planet better.

Now I think about flames. And Moses. And fighting. I think about all our grandparents did for us. Optimism and hope are not enough. I need your voice in the quiet hallways of your church and during lunch with your friends and at family reunions. I need every kind of warrior and every kind of fight.

I want our hearts to be healed. But maybe I am wrong. If everything catches fire, maybe everything should burn.

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 saw a woman with a baby strapped to her chest walking through the DeKalb’s Farmers Market. My first thought was, “Look at that baby carrying a human on its back.” But then I took a second look and wondered where the woman was from. Clearly not Atlanta. Come on, lady! Put a hat and some socks on your baby before you go into the Farmers Market.

The coldest winter I’ve ever spent was a summer inside in Atlanta.

There are rules in this town. Please follow them.

Walk through the Farmers Market like it’s Thunderdome. Grab some animal skin and war paint and push your way past old people to get to the hummus. It’s cold. Dress your kids accordingly.

Use nice manners and proper maneuvering skills in Kroger and Publix. People forget that Kroger was Tinder before Tinder was Tinder. When you get to the end of the aisle, yield the right of way. You can’t swing out of the aisle without stopping. Follow the proper flow of traffic. You’re a salmon swimming upstream in the grocery store. That means start with produce and end at frozen goods. I wonder where some of you grew up not knowing these rules.

Stroll through Ponce City Market very slowly. Like you don’t have a job. Like you don’t have credit card debt accruing interest. Protest every bureaucratic thing in the world, but revel in your days at PCM. Don’t question your purchases and why all your food and makeup items are sold in apothecary jars.

How do you say Atlanta? Atlanna. That’s right, the last “t” is silent. You know how Jamaican’s don’t sweat? Well, Atlantans don’t pronounce the last “t.”

Speaking of pronunciation. Ponce de Leon. After Peachtree (see below), Ponce de Leon is the most important street to know when you come to Atlanta. Don’t pronounce Leon “Lay-un” the way a Spaniard would. Say “Lee-on” like your daddy’s barber. Better yet, don’t say Ponce de Leon at all. Real Atlantans just call it Ponce.

Peachtree. Forget all the books that say Atlanta has a gazillion streets name Peachtree. Like Neo in the Matrix, there is only one. In downtown, it is Peachtree Street, but a few miles up near Buckhead it’s Peachtree Road. Like Ponce, just call this street Peachtree. The so-called other “Peachtree Streets” are named “Peachtree Battle,” “Peachtree Corner Circle.” You wouldn’t confuse these with good old Peachtree now, would you?

Downtown. Peachtree Street from Five Points to Ponce. Center of Atlanta. But I’m really not sure what is south of Downtown.

South of Downtown. Oh, yeah. I remember. The airport. Hartsfield-Jackson. The Spaceport. The true Zero Mile and best intersection in the world.

Midtown. Business district north of Downtown. Ponce de Leon to Amtrak. Y’all forgot we had Amtrak didn’t you? You spend all of your time South of Downtown, aka at the airport.

Buckhead. Shopping. There used to be other stuff, but now it’s just $10,000 pairs of shoes. Makes PCM seem not so bad.

ITP. Inside the perimeter. Technically, inside highway I-285 which circles Atlanta. Philosophically, this is New York South or San Francisco East or Miami North. Nobody really has to say ITP when they live ITP. Outside of ITP it is just flat Earthers.

OTP. Outside the Perimeter. Everyone who lives OTP says this. “I live WAY OTP,” as an excuse for even living half a mile OTP. We aren’t judging you OTPers because you stole the Braves, you bastards. We are judging you because you complain about the traffic and congestion in the city, forgetting you are the reason for the traffic and congestion. Don’t knock OTP, though. You can get a very big house out there. On a golf course, even.

75, 85, 285, 400, 675, 575, 985, 20, and 78. These aren’t the numbers from Lost. These are the highways that get you either ITP or OTP. 285 will just get you ATP (around the perimeter). Do not say “THE” in front of any of these roadways. There is no such thing as “The 85.” This isn’t Lodi, California (That’s on The 5).

Perimeter. You would think this means around Atlanta, but it specifically refers to 285 due north. Near Perimeter Mall, businesses, and Northside Hospital.

MARTA. Public Transportation. In the old racist days of Atlanta, people used to joke that MARTA stood for Moving Africans Rapidly Through Atlanta. Those bad mean racist people are all dead OTP now and would be happy to know that MARTA now accepts Africans, African-Americans, Latinos, Asians, and white people. Still rapidly, too. Be cautious in Atlanta as you would in any big city taking the public transportation. I love Marta, not only is it Smarta, but it is the easiest way to get to and from the airport and other central locations in the city.

Smile. If you can’t smile, make eye contact. This is the South. Pretend to be courteous while you’re here.

You cannot say “Bless her heart” unless you’re Southern or Sally Kilpatrick. Otherwise you just sound like a b*tch.

Don’t judge. So, a guy you pass on Peachtree has gold teeth, dreadlocks, and smells like weed. This doesn’t make him a drug dealer. No matter what you heard about that movie ATL. He might be: 1) an entertainment professional 2) an athlete 3) a local politician or 4) a high school lit teacher. Pay him some respect. He might be able to buy and sell your podunk hometown.

Oh, this goes for rednecks and country boys, too. Don’t assume that nice Southern boys are dumb or racist just because they talk with a twang. It’s really offensive to tell them that you want them to join your zombie apocalypse team. White boys in Georgia are not Daryl Dixon from “The Walking Dead.” Stop thinking this: “You’re white and Southern, so you must own a crossbow.” Don’t profile people.

Pick up your discarded chicken bones, Atlanta. You know the gas station next to the wing place has really big trash cans.

Real Southerners aren’t afraid of rain. We will still go to a soccer game or music festival or fish fry regardless of rain. We all have a coat with a hood and an umbrella that collapses into our back pocket. A Southern lady is never embarrassed to wear a shower cap in public or a grocery store bag on her head. Rain can’t stop us.

We are an ever evolving city. Hollywood might visit, but some of us plan to stay for a while. You need to know how to shop, what to say, and when to be nice. This is Georgia, y’all. The nice thing is every day.

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

Parents get grumbly around back-to-school time when the supply list is not posted. By goodness, there’s only a week to scavenge for Little Johnny’s needed supplies. Hurry. Run. The anticipation. The agony.

I’ve had all sorts of experiences over the years. I hate school shopping. I love the preassembled box of school supplies that I can purchase without having to enter a retail store. It’s delivered by magic, by stork, by all things holy straight to my kid’s school. Why can’t every school system do this?

One year during a dramatic thunderstorm, we were in the checkout line at Target. The cashier had rung up almost $400 worth of school supplies when the power went out. We stood in darkness, learned the actual reboot time of Target registers (it is a long time), and had to rescan every item in our cart. The universe was trying to warn us of something. Resistance is futile.

This year, I’m trying to be calm and prepared. I’ve compiled all four of my kids’ school supply lists into one giant spreadsheet for fun. One hundred and ninety-eight line items later I have my shopping list.

If your child is old enough to have their own phone, they’re old enough to do their own shopping for the school supply list. You can sit in the Target Starbucks, and they can do the dirty work. Have them flag you over when it’s time to check out.

Little Janie is more than smart enough to figure out the list. After all, she knows what a “folder with brads” means. She’s closer to the ground and will be using this crap all year. I say crap affectionately, as well as f*ck and sh*t. I f*cking love summer. I f*cking love back to school, but not school supply shopping.

It’s Elementary, Dear Ms. Watson.

Expo Dry Erase Markers. Crayola Crayons, Crayola Colored Pencils, Crayola Standard Markers (not neon). Do not deviate from the brand. I regularly buy Kroger brand cereal, but this is not a drill. Buy Crayola. The other brands don’t work and aren’t up to the industrial strength exerted by a kindergartener.

You don’t need the crayon box with the sharpener. Crayons are sharpened once, at purchase, then worn down to a stubby nub by day two of school. Crayons can continue to be used in this fashion including stripped of label and broken in half. I promise you the color composition has not changed. The crayons called Apricot and Dandelion will continue satisfy the artistic endeavors of your kid as they draw a picture of you with an extra-large head and a torso shape like a lower case “i.” Trust Crayola. Don’t fool with the other on crayon brands.

Ticonderoga pencils (12 pack). Pre-sharpened. The other brands don’t sharpen. At. All. Unlike crayons, the #2 pencils get sharpened regularly. I know you don’t believe this, because you’ve only seen your child writing with a broken lead and trying to peel back the wood with her fingernails, but trust me, these things can be sharpened. Keep a sharpener at home. One day a week, go to school and sharpen the pencils in the elementary school. You don’t even have to ask. Just walk into any class room and start sharpening. The teacher will look at you, shed a single tear, and go back to teaching.

Wide-ruled composition notebooks. This one is a bit controversial. Buy it, but don’t be upset at the end of the year when these notebooks only have 3 pages used out of 100. This year, I’m determined to repurpose the old ones. Jane won’t even notice that her writing notebook has two pages of math at the front of it. Tell her she it’s time she reduced her carbon footprint.

Glue Sticks. The teachers ask for two packs. The truth is that they really need 200 packs, but there isn’t room to store 4,000 glue sticks in every classroom. Buy the other 198 packs and drop them off at school 5 sticks per week when you go to sharpen pencils. (This is a math puzzle, but it works out.) I’ve seen a kid use an entire glue stick to attach a single googly eye to a piece of construction paper.

Clorox wipes. Tissues. Hand-sanitizer. Paper towels. Guess who gets to clean up vomit, pee, and wet sneezes? Your child’s lucky teacher. Every teacher is a part-time member of the custodial staff.

Band-aids. I once asked a teacher if the kids got scrapped enough to warrant 30 boxes of band-aids in a school year. The honest reply was, “Yes.” But what I saw in her eyes was, “We give the band-aids so they shut up and go back to work.” Noted. Adhesive bandages. Check.

Big Kids Don’t Cry

Graph paper also known as grid paper. Copy paper. Notebook paper. Binders. Spiral Notebooks. Plastic three-pronged folders also known as folders with brads. What the hell are brads?! He was the kid who didn’t graduate from my high school. Index cards. Post-It notes. These kids will be writing. There will be paper and paper holders and binders to bind papers. Oh, the papers they will tote.

Earbuds for tablets and laptops, but not the fancy ones. The $2 ones from the airplane are fine. Get the cheapest ones you can find. The ones where only the left side works. These will be lost or stolen at some point. Keep them safe and close, but don’t cry for me Argentina when they disappear. Buy a stylus to poke at the technology without grubby finger prints and germs on everything. See Clorox wipes.

De-f*cking-odorant. Buy this for home. Buy this for the backpack. Tell them to use it. No matter how smart you think your kids are, they stink to high heaven.

While you are torturing them with bodily changes, buy some sanitary napkins. Even if you have a son. Kids who carry around maxi-pads will think about teen sex differently. Tell them that you are not afraid to talk about deodorant, menstrual cycles, hormones, sex, and condoms. Tell them the less school work they do, the more you will talk about sex. Suddenly those composition notebooks with be filled with algebraic equations.

Scientific Calculator. Scissors. Pencil Pouch. Metric Ruler. Protractors. Compass. Let these kids get their STEAM on.

Colored Sharpies. This is on our list! What the hell? Why don’t you just ask them to carry a switchblade? I know this is for older kids, but by God, Sharpies are permanent.

Magic Erasers for the walls. White Erasers for math. Eraser tops. Red erasers. You know what paper needs? Erasing. Giant holes made by obsessive kids who don’t want to waste a new sheet of paper. If your kid needs to erase more that the width of their pinky finger, get a new sheet of paper. I once watched a kid erase an entire 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper. Which leads me to the optional items.

Optional That is Required.

Buy the stuff that you can. Sandwich bags, batteries, crickets for the classroom pet. Every kid and every family cannot do this. Do not complain. Some kids would love to go school shopping and get a new pack of pencils and cannot afford to do so. That’s right, kids your same neighborhood struggle financially. Even kids in middle class homes might not be able to afford to buy everything. If you can buy, do buy. Don’t put your name on anything except the earbud and stylus. Don’t make a big show it. Drop the supplies at Meet and Greet and run away.

At the Meet and Greet, greet your teacher with a beginning of the year gift. Gift cards to coffee shops will make your teacher smile. By teacher appreciation week, that same teacher will not appreciate your appreciation. By then, they hate your child and you. Do it now. During the honeymoon period. Do it often. Don’t wait for a special holiday to thank your teacher. Whisper in your teacher’s ear that you want to buy them whiskey, but cannot do so morally. Don’t wonder if your teacher drinks coffee. One, coffee shops have all manner of beverages and snack treats. Two, all teachers drink coffee.

I like gift cards to Target and Walmart, but a coffee gift card is a gift that can’t be spent on the class. Your teacher is a human no matter how many band-aids they dole out. Take a breath you are almost done.

The end of the supply list is like a hand reaching from the grave. In italics it reads, “Additional items may be requested by teacher at the Meet and Greet.” Add one more item to the list. For you. A flask. For coffee, of course.

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 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.