Oh your hands can heal, your hands can bruise
I don't have a choice but I still choose you
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
I always will
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Subway
I am sitting in the parking lot of Toys R Us, stuffing a baby shower gift and gift tissue into a bright yellow bag. She makes eye contact through the windshield and I see her mouth move.
Before I realize it, my door is open and I am stepping out to ask her what she wants. I think at some point I made an internal calculation to treat her like "any other person". And by "any other" I mean a human who's hair is more kept, clothes are clean, and doesn't smell of a faint odor. I decide these things don't matter.
I'm just trying to get a little something to eat.
There's a Subway across the lot and we walk over there. Her name is Barbara, and a few short questions prompt open sharing: getting hit by a truck and breaking all the toes in her left foot, getting denied housing offered by a combination of letters and numbers (I realize how ignorant I am about what's even available), a job lost and no more to be found, seven children scattered around, living under a bridge.
I want to ask her if she wants me to take her somewhere, but I don't even know how. After all my connections with the Mission I don't even know what to say. Thinking back now I should have offered because there's at least free food downtown, and shelter. She could get a bed for a night, though after talking with the homeless shelter even enough beds for everyone is hard to get by. But there are other question floating in my mind: do I smell alcohol? Because that would disqualify her. Or is it offensive to offer such a thing?
When we're in Subway I feel eyes on us, though I may be imagining it. We order a sweet onion teriyaki foot-long, and when I ask her when was the last time she had a good sandwich, she can't even remember. Grateful, so grateful, she thanks me when we're walking across the lot, when I offer her a drink, when I buy her chips, when I give her the $2 change (is she on drugs? will she waste it? who am I do judge?). They cut the sandwich in half so she will eat half now and save the other for later.
I pray for her and give her a hug and she is grateful. I think of other things: would she like to make a call on my phone? should I take her to a shelter? is it a bad idea to leave her my number? In the end I just give her another hug and she leaves to find a place to eat her sandwich.
Maybe she doesn't know there are places that will help her, and maybe next time I meet someone like her I will have the guts to tell them what's available.
It seems like the more I let people like Barbara cross my path, the more my soul stirs in unrest. Gone are the feel-good feelings of helping someone in need and doing your part. Instead is the sinking sadness that this is the reality of people in our world. And a hint of shame that you somehow manage to escape life without knowing of their existence.
Before I realize it, my door is open and I am stepping out to ask her what she wants. I think at some point I made an internal calculation to treat her like "any other person". And by "any other" I mean a human who's hair is more kept, clothes are clean, and doesn't smell of a faint odor. I decide these things don't matter.
I'm just trying to get a little something to eat.
There's a Subway across the lot and we walk over there. Her name is Barbara, and a few short questions prompt open sharing: getting hit by a truck and breaking all the toes in her left foot, getting denied housing offered by a combination of letters and numbers (I realize how ignorant I am about what's even available), a job lost and no more to be found, seven children scattered around, living under a bridge.
I want to ask her if she wants me to take her somewhere, but I don't even know how. After all my connections with the Mission I don't even know what to say. Thinking back now I should have offered because there's at least free food downtown, and shelter. She could get a bed for a night, though after talking with the homeless shelter even enough beds for everyone is hard to get by. But there are other question floating in my mind: do I smell alcohol? Because that would disqualify her. Or is it offensive to offer such a thing?
When we're in Subway I feel eyes on us, though I may be imagining it. We order a sweet onion teriyaki foot-long, and when I ask her when was the last time she had a good sandwich, she can't even remember. Grateful, so grateful, she thanks me when we're walking across the lot, when I offer her a drink, when I buy her chips, when I give her the $2 change (is she on drugs? will she waste it? who am I do judge?). They cut the sandwich in half so she will eat half now and save the other for later.
I pray for her and give her a hug and she is grateful. I think of other things: would she like to make a call on my phone? should I take her to a shelter? is it a bad idea to leave her my number? In the end I just give her another hug and she leaves to find a place to eat her sandwich.
Maybe she doesn't know there are places that will help her, and maybe next time I meet someone like her I will have the guts to tell them what's available.
It seems like the more I let people like Barbara cross my path, the more my soul stirs in unrest. Gone are the feel-good feelings of helping someone in need and doing your part. Instead is the sinking sadness that this is the reality of people in our world. And a hint of shame that you somehow manage to escape life without knowing of their existence.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Idioms
"How long have you been in this country?"
I respect the man. The father of one of my best friends. He is half Chinese, half Japanese, married to a Caucasian woman. The question comes up after a young guest at the table asks clarification to a statement regarding a delicious chocolate cake that was made with no sugar by a diabetic woman. "It's to die for," the father said. But the di- in diabetic and the die in die-for got a little mixed up in the quick-moving conversation and perhaps the slightest hint of a Chinese accent and his facial features and all of a sudden we're on this topic.
Twelve years, the young man says. And in a later conversation I learn that he rarely goes back to China. And yet here we are, pointed out as different by a father figure who doesn't look all too different than us. But he is accent-free and knows idioms and phrases so I feel behind.
I think I was instinctively jumping to his defense. "It's okay, I don't know most of the idioms either." The dad looks at me with wide eyes. "Here you are, an ABC, and you don't know the idioms and what they should mean!"
I'm confused with where I missed a beat. My friend tries to explain, "But see, she was born in Milpitas, which is basically China II." (is it now? is it?) I suppose that holds a grain of truth. But perhaps more importantly is my parents were immigrants and most of the exposure came from the books I read (and I read a lot) and movies I watched. And maybe my teachers. Internally I defend myself: But I do know them, I do know them! I just didn't realize people actually used them regularly. And is it wrong if I don't use them?
Eventually the topic fades away and I am left wondering if it would have helped if I jumped in and said, "I know some Chinese idioms," which are true marks of a scholar in our culture (and yours). But I really don't know enough of them to matter, and even so, would that help my case?
I respect the man. The father of one of my best friends. He is half Chinese, half Japanese, married to a Caucasian woman. The question comes up after a young guest at the table asks clarification to a statement regarding a delicious chocolate cake that was made with no sugar by a diabetic woman. "It's to die for," the father said. But the di- in diabetic and the die in die-for got a little mixed up in the quick-moving conversation and perhaps the slightest hint of a Chinese accent and his facial features and all of a sudden we're on this topic.
Twelve years, the young man says. And in a later conversation I learn that he rarely goes back to China. And yet here we are, pointed out as different by a father figure who doesn't look all too different than us. But he is accent-free and knows idioms and phrases so I feel behind.
I think I was instinctively jumping to his defense. "It's okay, I don't know most of the idioms either." The dad looks at me with wide eyes. "Here you are, an ABC, and you don't know the idioms and what they should mean!"
I'm confused with where I missed a beat. My friend tries to explain, "But see, she was born in Milpitas, which is basically China II." (is it now? is it?) I suppose that holds a grain of truth. But perhaps more importantly is my parents were immigrants and most of the exposure came from the books I read (and I read a lot) and movies I watched. And maybe my teachers. Internally I defend myself: But I do know them, I do know them! I just didn't realize people actually used them regularly. And is it wrong if I don't use them?
Eventually the topic fades away and I am left wondering if it would have helped if I jumped in and said, "I know some Chinese idioms," which are true marks of a scholar in our culture (and yours). But I really don't know enough of them to matter, and even so, would that help my case?
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Dancing
“All around you, people will be tiptoeing through life, just to arrive at death safely. But dear children, do not tiptoe. Run, hop, skip, or dance, just don’t tiptoe.”Shane Claiborne, The Irresistible Revolution
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