Faith is an interesting word. It’s used in religion daily; one hears it in songs and commercials; “Have faith” seems to be as common as “hello;”…but what does it really mean to have faith and what is worthy of one’s faith? Is winning the lottery worthy of faith? Should one have faith in good health or living a long life? How far can this idea of faith really take you?

On the plane ride home a few weeks ago, I sat next to Carey. Carey is a thirty-year-old father and husband, an avid runner hoping to compete in the Boston marathon, a Southern conservative Baptist, and a soldier. Carey was in the United States Air Force and was flying to Kirkland Air force Base before a mission to Iraq, the second year in three years that he has been stationed there.

Because Carey started our conversation and seemed so open to talk, I began asking him more details about his military career. The moment he started talking, however, I felt as though I was listening to a foreign language. While some of the terms he was using I have heard on the news or in papers, I have no military in my family. After a few minutes of him going on about war stuff that I was clueless about, I had to ask him to stop talking and repeat certain words he used so I could define them.

Here are some definitions I learned that he felt were most important:

IED: Improvised Explosive Device (happens on a convoy  from one secure base to another)

Mortar: explosive device of different sizes (similar to a missile) *These are the biggest threats to the military Carey explained

Battery: A test used in the military once training is complete

DLAB: Defense Language Aptitude Test (A test, or “battery” Carey had to take to become a security advisor)

E-1 through E-9: The chain of command with E-1 being the lowest in leadership and E-9 being Chief Master Sergeant

Army Rangers: Hardest leadership school in the military in which men live outdoors in deserts, forests, and other rough terrain to train for being in the militia

After literally taking out my notepad and writing down the definitions word for word, I finally began to understand that Carey was a head officer (he had been in the air force since he was 18) and was a security advisor. His next role in Iraq would be to advise a fellow Iraqi officer on issues of security for the future safety of Iraq. He would be living in 130 degree heat on the base thousands of miles away from his one and three year old daughter and his 26 year old wife because “It is my duty to my country.”

“Okay, so I hate to ask this,” I began, “but aren’t you afraid you might die?” (I tend to get right in there with my questions…) “No, I have faith that I will live. I have faith in God. God’s plan is all that matters.”

While getting off the plane after landing, I asked Carey if he had a ride to the base. “No ma’m,” he responded, “the friend that was supposed to pick me up is sick.” So after my mom’s and my mini reunion of jumping up and down and hugging for five minutes, we waited with Carey to get the bags he packed for his year in Iraq and drove him to the base. While saying goodbye, I asked him for his email so we could stay in touch but he immediately looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know if my wife would like that,” he replied, “why don’t you give me yours instead?” I chuckled and yet fully understood and I wrote mine down as we said goodbye.

As I drove out of the base towards home, I thought about Carey and what I had learned from him. Carey was unlike me in almost every aspect of life. He was a staunch republican while I consider myself very liberal, he is a soldier at war while I am anti-violence, he is Baptist while I am “spiritual” at best…but the faith that Carey embodied was something I felt I could learn from.  So often, we as human beings live our life in constant fear of getting hurt or losing someone or dying. Carey couldn’t live like that for his fears were more real than most of ours, but his faith kept him strong and alive.  Whether the God we have faith in looks or feels different, or has a different name, Carey’s faith is something we can all feel a little more of.

*** While on the plane back to NYC I decided to write this story. As I got ready to start, however, I realized I had forgotten a pen. The young man sitting next to me said he took one from his hotel and he would gladly give it to me.  When I looked down at the “Airforce Inn” pen that I was writing with, I smiled and asked, so are you in the air force? “Yes ma’m,” he responded, “I’m flying back to base.”  “Thanks for the pen” I said and smiled…isn’t it funny how life works?

Because it’s so important in New York City to cut any financial costs that one can, when I first moved into my apartment in Spanish Harlem, I decided to skip the expensive monthly memberships of sports clubs and gyms and instead, pay a $25 per year fee for the recreation center across the street. While I have met quite an interesting group of people lifting weights and doing my aerobic exercises, the conversations between me and the employees of the recreation center are often minimal. The primary reason behind this is that the almost all female, all overweight staff are so busy talking to each other and eating their greasy Chinese food that when a blonde girl comes in with tight yoga pants ready to “feel the burn” they are simply not interested.  (Not all the staff fits this description, but I can assure you that most do). While my “hello’s” usually get brushed off, one woman has always been quite warm to me; a warmth that led to our conversation about the desires she has for her child’s success.

Tammi is an overweight woman in her late thirties who is not classically beautiful, but has a kindness that brings out an inner beauty few possess. After some initial weeks of small talk, Tammi began to open up to me about her personal life. Tammi is a single mother of a first grade boy who was, for the first year of school, going to a Catholic school. Because of her lack of income, however, Tammi had to recently take her son out of the school and is on the search for good magnet and charter schools in NYC that will let her son enroll.  After talking about her frustrations for the lack of good public school systems in New York (something I know quite well, for I’ve worked within them), Tammi pulled out literally an inch- thick stack of what looked to be applications. “Every single one of these is an application that I must fill out. They are all to charter schools around the city and I pray every day that my son’s lottery number will get pulled and he will be accepted into the best one.”

Now for those of you unaware of the NYC charter school system, students and parents whom are unhappy will NYC public schools can fill out application forms to charter and magnet schools in hopes that the schools will provide better services (which many in fact do not). In order to be accepted, however, since so many students apply, there is a lottery system that only lets in a small percentage of the applicants. **For a first hand look at this, watch “Waiting for Superman.”   Therefore, Tammi and her six year old son are in the hands of an all around faulty system… Faulty public schools which lead to faulty systems for choosing enrollment into privately run charter schools that can be just as faulty.

While I promised Tammi that I would do all I can to help her with her search (fortunately a few of my friends work in charter schools that do seem to be supportive and beneficial) I unfortunately could not promise much for the power I as an individual have in this system is slim to none.  I did, however,  ask her to come out with me sometime to get a drink so we could talk more about her life.  While she thanked me and told me she wished she could, as a single parent it was is so hard for her to find a babysitter that she stays in every night…once again, I’m just not ready for that kind of commitment. I told her I would look for a free babysitter and promised that we would go out soon.

Tammi impacted me for many reasons. Reason one: She reminded me of the failing school system that I have been and continue to be a part of. Reason two: She reminded me of why I decided to not have children early, for the dedication and time involved in another being is much more than my selfish young mind can take. Reason three: She reminded me of just how strong love can be. The fact that Tammi is working two jobs, staying home every night to save money, and spending all her free time on filling out hundreds of applications is evidence of the immensity of dedication that love can spark. While in my life as of now, I will continue to go out and enjoy my life of independence,de I will take with me the hope that I will someday be like Tammi and like my own parents, full of the love and selflessness of a great parent.

In New York, as we speak, another snow storm is about to hit. The busy sidewalks clear and the extensive NYC traffic subsides and for

A few days ago, after the second of big storms had just hit, I decided to take a cheaper approach and wait for the bus to get to my job. I waited by myself for at least ten minutes and waited another ten minutes while an older Asian woman was shivering along side of me. I saw cab after cab going by and with no bus in sight, I finally gave in to my aching hands, grabbed yet another ten dollars out of my pocket and hailed the yellow money guzzlers known as NYC taxi’s. As I got in the car and noticed the older woman looking colder and colder I made her an offer, “I’m going to 77^th and second. You can ride with me all the way there and I’ll pay.”  “I’m going to 68^th and York,” she retorted. “Okay, do you want to go with me to my stop? It’s closer for you and you can get out of the cold”…after a few seconds of thinking she politely said no so I closed the taxi door and was off.

Once warm in the cab, the cab driver turned to me and asked, “Did that woman say no when you offered her a free ride?” “Yeah,” I replied, “I think she thought I would try to take her money…oh well.”  After several minutes of silence, the driver responded, “I want to tell you something…In this world there are good people and there are bad people. Good people think everyone around them is good. Bad people think everyone around them is bad. I’m a good person, you are a good person, but most people here? Most people are bad people.”  “Wow,” I responded, a bit surprised at this philosophical outburst, “Do you really think so? You really think some people are purely bad?”   “Yes, I have seeing many in my cabs. They always assume everyone is out to get them. Good people assume the opposite.”

Before we could have any further of a conversation, my stop had already come. I thanked the driver for the ride as well as for the short yet thought provoking conversation and got out of the cab. As I walked into work quickly to get out of the cold, I begin looking around me as the possibilities of good and bad in each human being.   Is the woman holding her purse a bit to tightly in fear of a possible mugger any worse than the girl swinging her purse freely down the street? Is the man smiling to all those around him somehow better than the man snarling with disgust at the world? Though the cab ride was way too short for a solid conversation, the taxi drivers words had somehow stayed with me and produced the need to figure out how much I agreed with this very black and white philosophy.  What did I decide?

Unfortunately, I think much of our good and bad feelings come from where and how we were raised versus what is innately in us. The little boy growing up in the ‘hood surrounded by drugs and violence might have a bit more fear than the suburban child who rode his bike to school. Does that make one boy less good than the other? I think not.   Yet, wherever we grew up and however we were raised, our society has become increasingly more afraid of other human beings. Generosity and warmth has been replaced by greater seclusion and fear (no doubt that the cyber world of facebook and blogs like this don’t help).  While I disagree that no one person is fully good or bad, what I hope (naively maybe) is that we can work towards is the strengthening of our own goodness as well as the kindness we purvey. Maybe then will the next woman I offer a ride to accept, sans apprehension, hesitance, or fear.

Throughout the history of the United States, there have been groups of people whom have been blamed, degraded or simply ignored for their culture or religious backgrounds. For a long time it was African Americans, then the Irish and Polish, the Chinese were thrown into the mix along with Middle Easterners and Indians. While many of these, as well as many other cultural groups are still being met with bias acts and blatant as well as not so blatant racism, the group dealing with the most outward verbal disdain I see during this time period are Mexicans.

From the issues with the fence being built at the border in Arizona to politicians’ push for more restrictive immigration and visa laws, Mexicans are taking a beating. And yet often, this group of people are those who have the greatest impact on the “mundane” everyday aspects of our lives…the parts we take for granted but are, in fact, the most important in something like Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. These people cook our food, clean up our shit, take care of our children. They are the ones making sure our fancy restaurants look fancy and our nails stay polished. And yet often, they walk unseen, for they are beneath the rest of us immigrants. They are the newest to enter the country created from generations upon generations of past immigrants.

If paralleled to high school, Mexicans would be the dorky freshman not quite understanding the politics and language of school popularity and social systems. They would be the ones quietly doing their homework and yet being belittled and beat up by the upper classman with more power and popularity.

While I would like to say that I don’t take part in this classism, just like I wish I hadn’t taken part in the cruel world of high school popularity and social norms, society can have quite an influence on a human being and so, if I really reflect, I myself might at times feel superior to the cooks and cleaners and delivery men who take care of me on a day to day basis.

One of my jobs is playing the role of a bartender at an Upper East Side dive/karaoke bar. While I make the drinks and interact with the patrons, very little of my job involves real work. I barely clean or tidy up for that is not our role; we leave that to the barbacks most of whom are…you guessed it…Mexican.  While us bartenders are not rude to these co-workers, there is definitely a lack of conversation that takes place, partially because of the language barrier, primarily because of the feelings of superiority we all might consciously or unconsciously posses. Though I have said hi and how are you, often that is where the conversation or possibility of connection ends.  Last week however, while there was just me and the barback, Bruno, at my bar, I was tired of the lack of conversation and decided to step outside the traditional hi and bye into the possibility of something a bit deeper. Though I knew Bruno’s English was not fully fluent and my Spanish is almost incomprehensible, I wanted to get to know this man I work with side by side a bit more.

“Bruno, I always say hi to you but we never talk! Where do you live? How long have you been working here? Why are you always so quiet?” I asked.  Forty-five minutes later, I had learned a great deal about this man whom I previously failed to understand. The first thing I was most impressed by was the amount of English Bruno actually knew. In response to my initial question, he had told me that he lived in the Bronx and had worked at this bar and others for over 20 years. He had come to New York from Puebla, Mexico when he was thirteen but “was stupid and never went to school.” He wanted to learn more English but had to work so much that it was hard for him to find time. He told me that he likes to talk to people but more often than not, people won’t talk to him. He didn’t want to take part in conversations unless they were initiated by someone else…understandable. Without even asking, he began to open up further. He told me that he was married for nine months when he was young but got divorced and hadn’t married since. He was an alcoholic for over twenty years until seven years ago when he went to church and found Jesus. He had spent this time with his church finding himself and new joys in life besides alcohol. He also told me that he would wake up at three a.m. to close the bar, go home and sleep for two hours, and wake up again to open one of the other three restaurants that he worked for. When I asked how he was able to survive on such little sleep he responded, “I need the money. Plus, I enjoy my life. I make my own schedule and my own rules.” Amen to that.

While our conversation could have gone on longer, a customer came in to have his afternoon drink (sad but true) so I had to cut the conversation short. But before I did, I thanked Bruno for opening up to me and letting me know who he was sans the title of “barback” or even worse, “Mexican help.” Too often, there are masses of people who are forgotten, who work their asses off to make our lives run smoother and yet who lack a say in the way our and their own lives run. But by taking less than an hour out of my day, I finally heard the voice of one who is never heard.

As I’m sitting down on the plane to go home, I get a call from my dear friend. “Hi!…. I love you too!,” I reply to the other end. “Okay, I will… good luck with your homework, did you do it all?” I ask her as I sit in 24 C, my seat on the flight to Minnesota for a layover that will take me home to New Mexico. “..I promise I will. Talk to you once I land. Bye my love!” and I hang up just as the flight attendants are making the announcement to turn off all electronic devices until we get to cruising altitude.

Smiling to myself, I turn of my phone, get my GRE study book out, and am readying myself to take a practice test when next to me a female’s voice asks, “was that your child you were talking to?” “Oh no!” I respond, still a bit surprised when people think I could be a mother, “it’s my good friend. She’s in law school and studying for finals.” “Oh I see, it sounded like something I would have to tell my sons. I always have to remind them to study,” she replied back. “How old are they?” I ask, expecting an age range of elementary to high school. “Oh, they’re in their twenties. They both hate school but their trying. I don’t know if they’ll ever really succeed at anything.” And this was the beginning of a two hour long, in-flight conversation with Debbie about her sons, her marriage, and her frustrations about the three main men in her life.

Debbie was from British Colombia but was flying home from New York City on a week long trip with four girlfriends. She started by telling me how amazing the trip was which led to thankfulness that her husband had not come along. “He’s a good man,” she told me, “but it would have been a much different trip.” Debbie worked in a customer service job in British Colombia (aka Canada) and had been married for almost thirty years. She had two boys, both in their twenties, who she freely complained about. “My boys try, but they were both in special education classes growing up. It’s like they can’t stay focused. My youngest went to school just to see how bad he could do.” I told Debbie that I was a special education teacher and I understood that school was difficult for those who’s mind’s work a bit differently. While she readily agreed, her frustration for how her boys turned out was evident.

After talking a bit more about school systems and special education, Debbie shared with me the news that her son had been engaged. When I asked about the fiancé, she responded, “She’s nice, but I don’t really know her. They’ve been dating for four years but he doesn’t like her to hang out with our family.” I asked if that bothered her and she said it did but explained that their family was not really warm and outwardly loving, “My son would never give me a hug or tell me he missed me. We’re just not like that.” I couldn’t help showing my surprise for this is very much the opposite of how I was raised. “Doesn’t that hurt you?” I had to ask. “It does but it comes from a decision I made when I married my husband. He has never been warm like that and I had a feeling my boys would turn out the same. You make a choice and you deal with it, I guess.” …I guess…though I couldn’t help prying a bit more. “So is that the secret to a long marriage? Full acceptance?” I asked. “I guess it is, though if I had to do it again, I might have chosen differently,” she said calmly.

After another hour of small talk and Debbie telling me details from her girls’ trip to New York, I gave her my email address and bid her farewell. “Good luck with your boys!” I told her. “Yeah, all three of them!! I need it!” she responded, chuckling to herself. As I waited in the Minnesota airport for my final flight home, I thought about Debbie and her relationships with the important men in her life. I myself have had interesting relationships with men, not all of which one could call healthy. My parents got divorced almost ten years ago which made me question the idea of marriage. I have had a few loving, yet tumultuous relationships with the men in my life. And yet, even with the ups and downs these relationships have brought, they have still been based around verbal and physical love and affection. If Debbie was okay with this lack of outward love, I would commend her and go one my way. But for her, acceptance seemed to be paired with frustration. I hope to have the lasting years that Debbie has had in her marriage, but I hope that in my own life, these years will be coupled with the constant feeling of complete love that Debbie seems to lack. Thanks Debbie, both for letting me know what I want in my life and what I don’t want…. And good luck with your “boys”…

I’ll take you through the night to get a better sense of how special it was. While this eclectic and quite amazing group of women were invited over at 7:00, I had previously tutored and therefore came late, walking into an apartment smelling of roasting turkey and brussell sprouts with bacon (made by a vegetarian Jew and AMAZING).  As I turned the corner to the living room, I was happily greeted by smiling women, all of whom were chatting, drinking wine, and eating delicious cheese and crackers.  Quickly, I rushed to the kitchen to prepare my non-cooked addition to the potluck (thanks Cosco for the cheap veggie platters) and joined in to the conversations about work, life, and love.

While most of these women I rarely see, the conversations flowed freely for though we are very different, we all share a passion for children, working hard, good food, and the search for love.  One friend talked to me about her confusion with a recent tumultuous relationship, while another shared her immense work ethic and the difficulty of finding balance with work and every other aspect of life. One friend is searching for what she wants to do with her career while another is thriving in a career she has been in for almost five years. One amazing woman just moved on from a difficult relationship and another is living happily with her man. Each conversation brought a newfound respect for these women as well as the feeling that I was surrounded by people who were not just ordinary, but living their lives constantly in search of growth and wisdom.

After the perfectly cooked turkey (which is one difficult feat) was served and the corn bread, cranberries, pumpkin bars and crispy cookies were devoured, we all cuddled together and opened the “Book of Thanks” that we had each taken turns writing in throughout the night. As the first woman began her praise of life and friendships, the tears of both joy and difficulty started to fall and didn’t end until every woman had shared her joys and struggles throughout the year. After the final entry was read and the book was closed, we were all teary eyed and snottie, but we were also refreshed with a sense of love only brought on by true friends.

This Friendsgiving, I realized that while I get pearls of wisdom and life lessons from random people I meet every day, the greatest wisdom and joy I get is from the people who will be in my life forever. And for that, I am truly thankful.

So I wrote this awhile back and for several reasons, it is a bit outdated, but I never posted it so here goes…:

I am the Accommodations and Students Services Coordinator at an English Language School. That is a long title for someone who helps International students with where they live, airport pickups, and help around New York City. Part of my job description is to carry an emergency phone for students coming into the United States in case of any situations in which they are stuck at the airport, lost, or confused about where they should be staying. This emergency phone is in my hands at all hours of the day and therefore, I am “on-call” 24 hours a day 7 days a week.  (If it sounds like it sucks…it does). Because of this, however, I am given half a day off on Fridays to make up for much of my weekend being lost on the phone. This Friday, I decided to spend my afternoon lying in Bryant Park. I find that in a city in which one is always surrounded by people, cars, and buildings, the place I find most relaxing and rejuvenating is any park area in which I can feel a bit of nature, even if it’s man-made.

As I lay down on the grass and opened my book, the third book in a popular series by Stieg Larsson, a middle-aged man carrying a guitar and small amplifier put his stuff down very close to me and lied down. “Great,” I thought to myself, “Now I have to deal with some creep that is lying too close to me.” But I quickly forgot about this man and went about reading, though at times I would glance at him to make sure he didn’t come closer than he already was.  There were a few points that I noticed him glancing at my legs and feet, but I ignored this for I was in an exciting part of my book. After 45 minutes of reading and falling in and out of sleep, the man lying too close to me got up, put his guitar case over his shoulders, and grabbed his amp; but before he left, he strolled up right next to me.

“Excuse me miss,” he politely said to me, “I hate to bother you but you have some sexy-ass feet.”  Now I do have to say I have been very into getting pedicures during the summer season and I feel quite proud of my feet, but the comment still caught me a bit off guard. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seeing feet like that. The second I looked at them they gave me chills.”  Okay…we were starting to get into creepy territory so I tried to steer the conversation past this man’s obvious foot fetish on to something a bit more comfortable for both parties. “Do you play guitar?” I asked having previously noted the care with which he held his instrument. “Yes m’am, I am a street musician. I play all over the city. I’m on Youtube too. I sing, I play, I write songs, I even have recorded my own cd.” “Wow, that’s great!” I replied truthfully, for while this man was creepy, I had always had both an interest and respect for street musicians. “Yup, I’m known all over the city. I’m practically famous! People know me. My son is a musician too. My wife isn’t but she likes to hear us play. She doesn’t have feet like yours but they are still okay.” …and back to the feet… “Well, that’s realy great! Ill make sure to look you up. I always wanted to be a street musician myself so maybe I’ll follow in your footsteps!” “Yeah, it’s hard to be famous like me but maybe! Anyway, see you around…and take care of those feet. You know what feet like that do to a man!! They make me sweat just thinking about them!. Bye sweetie,” and he grabbed his guitar, picked up his amplifier, and walked away.

I’m sharing this moment for several reasons, both good and bad. Let’s start with the bad:

The bad is this…this man was creepy. To stare at my feet for over an hour is weird. To walk up to me and make such a sexually based compliment directly to me is even weirder. But at the same time, this kind of thing happens to women all the time. Men (and I guess some women as well) find it socially appropriate to make comments based on fantasy and sexuality in a manner that cannot only be quite uncomfortable, but can border on sexual harassment.  I think that many women, including my self are so used to this behavior that they brush it off without much thought. This is a problem for the more one brushes it off the more it will happen..and yet I digress. Let’s talk about the good:

The good is that this man has been keeping with his artform for several decades and the twinkle in his eye while he was telling me about his music alluded to a fact I had internally inferred, this man loved his job. Was it easy? Most likely not. Was he rich doing it? From how he looked I can confidently answer no. But his confidence with his skills and his love of what he was doing was clear.

This man reminds me of the good, the bad, and the creepy in all people. Do we all have our strange, eccentric, even sexually bizarre sides? Absolutely. But we also have the ability to find what we love to do and stick with it through all odds. Now I just have to find out what that is for myself.

***Just in case one has never heard of the great town of Espanola, it is known as the low-rider capital of the world. Yeah, we’re famous…

My friend and I, after just getting our driver’s licenses, wanted to be a part of this local culture, so we rolled down our windows, turned up Eminem, and started cruising down the main street in my 95’ White Jeep Cherokee (sans the hydraulics). This lasted for about five minutes for as we were following the line of cars cruising around Sonic, we were waiting at the stoplight when a group of three Mexican girls got out of their car and surrounded my jeep with knives in their hands. “Get the fuck out of our town White bitches. Go back to where you come from,”  They threatened. We were too scared to tell these girls that this was our hometown too, and quickly sped away deciding to never cruise again.

Besides this random incident, I never needed to be worried about smiling at people or talking to random strangers though when I moved to NYC, I learned quickly that my constant smiling and chatting wouldn’t exactly cut it in the big city. While I developed a bit of a defensive wall when meeting new people and chose a bit more wisely the people I talked to, I have never developed a tough enough exterior to deny conversations with interesting people who I meet, even if they are a bit strange.  Because of this, I am telling the following story:

The other day, before walking to the recreation center I workout at in Harlem on 134^th street and Lenox, I walked into a small corner store to buy a bottle of water. I was dreading working out for my I-pod had just died and I hate running without some musical motivation, but I noticed that the store sold a number of electronic items made for an I-pod. I asked the owner of the store if I could possibly give him a few dollars to charge my I-pod and he said that it would be no problem and he would do it free of charge.

While I was waiting for the charge to take place, the man who had helped me started talking to me. He introduced himself as Hamad and told me he was from Yemen, a country in the Middle East. He spoke Arabic and English and had come to the United States over 30 years ago. He told me about his wife and five children, the oldest of who was 25; and told me that he, himself, was in his 60’s. He asked me a bit about my job and was impressed that I was in education. He kept telling me that I was beautiful…which was a bit creepy…but he was so nice that I ignored it. Before I left, he gave me free water, a free I-pod charger, and a free I-pod case with headphones. I tried to say no but he insisted that I take these items and told me how happy he was to have met me. I thanked him profusely, said goodbye, and left feeling inspired. “What a kind man,” I thought to myself. From our conversation he seemed to love his wife and children a great deal and seemed quite intelligent as well. I was happy that I had met such a person and was so thankful that I decided to buy him a thank-you card to give to him the next time I saw him.

Two days later, I came in with a thank-you card in hand ready to give a quick hello to Hamad and leave. The second he saw me however, grabbed my hand and would not let go. “I cannot stop thinking about you” he said. “ I would like you to be my wife.”…Hold up, HEY (in Dr.Dre’s voice)…. “You already have a wife,” I responded. Plus you have children my age. “Yes but in my country, we can have more than one wife, it is God’s way. You are stuck in my head and in my heart. I need you to be mine.” In MY head I was uncomfortable as hell but I tried to remain my composed, thanked him for the offer but told him I was not interested, and quickly left the store. I have, and will not return…ever.

I’m sharing this story because my lack of street smarts, while changing on the surface to some degree, has clearly remained with me. I still like to think that everyone is good, that everyone’s intentions are kind and pure. I don’t think Hamad was a bad man, I think I just mis-read the situation and took attraction for simple kindness. I would like to continue to hold on to some of my naivete, for it makes the world a bit easier to live in, but this was definitely a lesson in not assuming too naively the intentions of a human being, no matter how much free stuff he gives you, how old he is, or how many wives he has.

Growing up I was always considered “chubby.”  I would get called names at school by both girls and boys (One boy refused to call me by my name but instead just called me “fat girl.”) Some people would chant “1-800- Jenny Craig” to mock the infamous weight loss commercial and one even called me “tub of lard.” I am not writing this for consolation for now, I can actually see quite a bit of humor in it and laugh, but it unfortunately did a number on my psyche and the way I thought about my body.  It didn’t help that I was in dance classes and the dance company I danced for would ask me to lose 15- 20 pounds in a matter of weeks to fit into the extra small bright green unitards needing to be worn for the dances (We shouldn’t have been subjected to these in the first place, but that’s a whole other topic.) All in all, I didn’t feel so great about my physical appearance.

Once I got to middle school and on to high school, my weight would fluctuate and I noticed that in my thinner times, I was much more likely to be noticed by my male counterparts. Even with more positive attention, however, I never felt completely comfortable in my own skin. Wearing a bikini, for example was completely forbidden. One boy told me he would like me if I didn’t have such big thighs and a “wide butt.” OUCH.

When I decided to go to college on the East Coast, I met new people from different cultures and new positive ideas about my body began to surface. I was no longer fat but instead, I was “thick.” The lone phrase “you have a pretty face” (aka “not a pretty body”) was now accompanied by “I like your body.” My self esteem began to rise and I even decided to do a few campaigns to get other “curvy” women to feel good about themselves. Yet even with this increase in confidence, it wasn’t until I moved to Spanish Harlem this year that I have finally not only accepted my curvy body, but celebrated it. I would love to say that this celebration comes from within but in fact, it comes from the external words that males (and even some females) in Harlem are willing to give. Let me give you some examples:

Example #1: A man at the Park and Recreation Center across the street from my apartment asked me while AI was working out if I was a personal trainer and how many clients I have…. This would never happen in New Mexico.

Example #2: A woman walking down the street stopped me and asked me if I was a fitness model..again, would never happen.

Example #3: Several people on my block who see me going to work out have told me I’m starting to look too thin and should stop exercising so much ….I have never heard these words before.

I am not writing these examples to boast about how good I look or how many people compliment me. I am giving them as examples of what I missed out on for the early part of my life. While some of the comments I have received have been utterly absurd and some inappropriate, these words have all supported a belief that I was never taught, a belief that it is okay to be a little thicker, okay to be womanly, okay to be confident with my body and any extra curve or roll I might have.  I would love to get to the place in which I need no external influences to increase my esteem, but until then, I profusely thank the people in my neighborhood who have given me the ability to finally love the body I grew up to be ashamed of.

In order to describe this situation further, I think I’ll set up a kind of script to better illustrate how strange this situation was:

Scene 1

Setting: On a bus going home to Harlem

Anna: Gets on the bus, walks past an older woman with a walker, and smiles

Older Woman: “Hi, you have such pretty earrings. I love them. Where did you get them?”

Anna: “Oh thank you! I got them at H & M! They were only, like, $5.”

Older Woman: “Wow. I love them. They are just so beautiful. I really love them. They’re really beautiful. Wow, they look so pretty.”

Anna: “Um…thanks! If you really like them, you can have them. I can always get other ones!”

Older Woman: “Oh no I couldn’t, I have a short neck, I couldn’t wear them, they look perfect on you. They accentuate your long neck.”

Anna: “Are you sure? Truly if you love them please take them.”

Older Woman: “No I couldn’t…Oh my god that’s just so sweet.”  Woman starts crying. “Why can’t everyone be nice? People are so mean. I have such a horrible life.” Intense wailing begins…

Anna: “Are you okay? Why are you crying?”

Older Woman: “My husband is such an asshole. He is a horrible person.  I give him money and he takes it and spends it on crack. He stole all my food stamps and gave them to his girlfriend. We were married for fourteen years and I have nothing. My life is so bad. Why god…Why god, why????”  Wailing continues…

Anna: “Wow. That sounds horrible. I’m really sorry. I hope things get better.”

Older Woman: “Why God? Why God? Why…..” Wailing continues…

Anna: “Well um, this is my stop. Good luck to you.” Looking around awkwardly. “Bye.”

Older Woman: “Oh, bye sweetie. You’re so sweet…Why God???” Wailing continues…

END SCENE

Okay, if you couldn’t follow this script, I don’t blame you, for I couldn’t really follow it either. I was in a situation that started out seemingly innocent and became an uncomfortable ride of crying, cursing, and wailing that even after some intense reflection, I still don’t fully understand.  What made me want to share this story, however, was the realization that many people are living in a world completely different than my own. On a day-to-day basis, I meet both acquaintances and strangers that seem be on a completely different plain of thinking than the one I’m used to. In some ways this is interesting, for it provides a contrasting perspective on how to live and think in this world.  At the same time, I like to think of myself as fairly aware others and myself, and when I meet a woman like this one who seems so unaware of what is taking place or who is around her, it’s a bit disconcerting. This woman was clearly hurting. She seemingly had no outlets for getting her emotions out and needed to bombard a random person on the bus (that person being me) with her pain.  There’s something quite beautiful about people being able to so freely share their emotions and life stories, but the beauty kind of fizzles when the sharing turns to pure craziness.  I hope this woman’s life gets better. I hope she gets the earrings she loves, and her food stamps back, and maybe even some love from her husband.   I hope this for the sake of her, but just as much for the sake of others,  for one scene is more than enough. Scene two of this story would just be a blockbuster flop.