I was trying to finish a book on the beach that I bought and started over a month ago when I heard the softest voice approach me — one that was hard to be startled or scared by. I’ve yet to recall what those first words were but after our encounter, I don’t assume his greeting was of much importance. Today I met a wonderful old man whom, after seeing scars decorate his body much like my own, I asked to sit next to me and graced me with his presence. He talked about a lot of things, but mostly all of the “adventures” he’s had in his life thus far. Each story seemed to carry a hardship along; pebbles turning into stones turning into boulders. You could see pain and heartache in his eyes and on the calluses that covered his hands. He told stories like they were questions, all of which asking, “don’t you understand?” or “do you know what that feels like?”. I wanted to nod my head to let him think that I understood, that I could empathize with him, but I couldn’t. I just felt my throat tighten up and my heart trying to wrap it’s imaginary arms around his. He’s been through so much. He talked about living through segregation and all of the racism and hardships earlier in the 20th century. He said he should have turned to violence from all the anger he had welled up inside of him, but he didn’t. He lost his wife and children due to mistakes that he wished he never made. He showed me his family tree in pictures that he’s kept and collected, starting with his great grandfather who was a slave in the 1850’s. Though it was long and an “undesirable” one, he managed to laugh about his life despite its many moments of difficulty. In doing so, he reminded me that there are always people who are able to make the best of what life gives them. He had many stories, much advice, and jokes that were worn like dirty rags on a line, but he had lived, he was living, and he was proud.
I tried to share words of love and encouragement, but I couldn’t help but just want to listen. Many words were exchanged but before we parted, he chuckled and shook his head as he spoke, “Anyone who says those were the good ol’ days is wrong, but back then we were certainly getting close to the good ol’ days. I think we’re still getting there, and I hope I’m playing a part in that.”
My boulders turning into stones turning into pebbles.
I know that for me, it’s so unsettling to think about how maybe I don’t really know people at all. I can fool myself into thinking that I do simply because I know where my cousins go to school and what hobbies they participate in, or that the man that I see on the corner of the street every week is homeless and that’s all there is to it. I was reminded today that that is not the case — there’s always something more intricate that you’d need to see to understand. There is something so significant but so well-hidden between the ribcage and the lung: there are so many things I have to find to see a person, like hide and seek, I may see black and white on the surface, but what’s in between and underneath? Can I learn to touch the childhood of the lady that I sit next to at the doctor’s office? Can I see the book that my best friend carried around with her everywhere she went until all of the pages fell out? Can I attach myself to the memory of a man who eats alone at the same restaurant every Tuesday? How many things am I overlooking, mistaking, misinterpreting and missing?
How many people walk up to me on a daily basis with a soft voice that I merely look at, but I never really see?
Thank you, Richard, for allowing me to have a glimpse into your life and for restoring my zeal to make these days “the good ol’ days.”
P.S. You are. You are certainly playing a part