This post is about Belonging… and its darker side, Tribalism.

My self-described tribe is a motley crew. Many are (or were) teachers, therapists, nurses, musicians, artists, or writers. What they all have in common, and the reason they are my chosen family, is that they are curious, kind, and friendly folks. I adore people who like to look and listen. When I have a bit of free time, as a writer and artist, I indulge in two deep pleasures: people-watching and eavesdropping. Remember: when artists and writers are looking and listening, we are actually on the job, which was the case in this first story.

This week I am offering two stories. The first is about a chance encounter with a person I could have easily dismissed. The second is about a successful man who discovered that he had been dismissive of people for years without even knowing it. Both stories are about the moment-to-moment choices we all make: to see or not see the Other.

~~~~~

May 2, 2018 – Wednesday afternoon

I did the beginning of a pencil sketch on April 2^nd and went back today to finish it, adding ink and watercolor. That interruption a month ago was a gift in disguise.

April 2nd had been one of the first warm sunny days this year, finally free of icy patches on the sidewalks. I scouted out a good place to sit outside to draw and ended up in Eagle Square, next to the granite-block mound that becomes a beautiful waterfall fountain in the summer. As I began sketching, a clean-cut young man walked past me, down several granite steps, then laid down his backpack and pulled out his cell phone.

Many minutes later, I looked up at the same moment he glanced over. He smiled, and quietly said, “Excuse me, do you mind if I look at your drawing?”

“Not at all,” I replied, so he walked back up the stairs to where I was sitting.

Soft-spoken and friendly, he began telling me about his artistic 15-year-old daughter, and how she would love to see what I was doing. After a while, he asked if he could sit down. His politeness impressed me. It’s a public park, after all, and I appreciated his gentlemanly style.

During the next two hours, Jasen, this charming forty-year-old man (“100% Polish,” he grinningly told me), recounted his life story and joined me in an interesting conversation. We took turns being captivated by what the other one had to say, chatting in the most naturally polite and deferential manner. His demeanor brought out the best in me, inspiring me to be positive and generous toward a total stranger. He treated me like a wise woman, and I’m so glad I took the time to listen attentively to a rare human being whom I’ll probably never meet again.

At the end of our conversation, without a drop of self-pity, he acknowledged he was homeless, but that he knew things would get better soon. When we parted, I asked, “Is a hug okay?” and he beamed. “Of course, wow, thanks.”

I went back today, a month later, to finish the sketch. It was another sunny day, and I half expected to see him there, two kindred spirits returning through a rare portal in time. I took a deep breath, smiled, and felt so grateful for that chance encounter that would have never happened if I hadn’t made the time to do some urban sketching.

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The next story happened a long time ago, but it is also timeless.

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It was late October 1941 when Dr. Elmon Johnson took to his bed. My grandfather did not know that he had only days to live. After all, his plan was to rest and recuperate from an inconvenient series of minor strokes, then return to being a full-time doctor and the same domineering patriarch he had been for four decades. Despite Elmon’s dismissive attitude, Clara, his wife, had quietly called all five of the adult children home to be nearby, “just in case.”

This particular evening, the family had gathered in the main bedroom in a semi-circle surrounding the bed as “Puppa” held court, sitting upright against the headboard.

Clara stood near the doorway by the head of the bed, at Elmon’s left hand, and all the “children” (age 43 to 21) encircled the bed, lined up by age. Charlie the eldest stood beside his mother, Elmon Junior and Marge were at the foot of the bed, and finally Lula and Ruth stood before the window to the right side of the bed.

After exchanging uncomfortable pleasantries with the irritable patient, Clara said, “Let’s let Puppa rest now.” One by one, they followed Clara out of the room, walking single file with their heads bowed. The youngest, Ruth, had almost reached the doorway when Puppa grabbed her wrist. Startled, she looked over and saw that her father was terrified.

“What’s wrong, Puppa?”

His trembling hand patted the side of the bed. Ruth sat down.

“What is happening?” he stammered in fear. “They all disappeared; will you disappear too?”

Desperately needing Ruth to listen, he gripped her wrist again and continued. After a while, she understood. Apparently, the family had looked perfectly normal to him when they were facing him, but as soon as each one turned to leave the room, they turned into a walking cardboard cutout. His wife first, then his sons and daughters one-by-one had become two-dimensional, like paper dolls.

“I never really saw any of you, did I?” he said to Ruth, or perhaps to himself.

Ruth, my mother, had never witnessed her father looking vulnerable, or even human. That experience unnerved her, as it did me when she recounted the story decades later.

These two stories may sound like metaphors, but they’re not. They’re the truth. The easiest, most efficient thing to do in life is to dismiss a stranger. Or to lump them into a group and see them as unworthy of your full attention.

All of us do this at times, including me. But if I’m lucky, I now remember Puppa. And perhaps now you will too.

~~~~~

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 As always, thanks for spending some time with me “aloft.” Happy sketching!