leaving my prejudice behind

 

The Gloves

Her name is Debbie. I didn’t know that until today. My walking buddy and I have seen her many times, sitting on a piece of cardboard near a chain-link fence at the liquor store. No matter the weather, she hovers, bent over in her squatting position. On our daily walk we quietly wonder what her story might be, sympathizing with her for what we have that she does not. We wonder where she is when we don’t see her, and we even put a care package in the car during this winter so we could give it to her.

 I walk alone on Wednesdays and I tend to lose myself in thought, head down, unaware of my surroundings. One Wednesday I heard her calling out for me to be careful because with the large piles of snow cars couldn’t see me.  I yelled, “Thanks.” Though I was deeply moved that a person of the streets cared to caution me, I kept going.

Everything changed today when I walked over to her and began a conversation. It was shortly after ten in the morning, she sat on her cardboard, with bottles, cigarette butts and old lighters scattered in the dirt around her. She was drinking a super-sized can of beer.

I asked her name and she willingly told me, she asked mine and I did the same. Our conversation quickly moved from the weather to our nationalities, families, and surprisingly whether we believed in life after death. I learned that she grew up in the neighborhood, went to the school we could visibly see from where we were talking and that she is one year younger than I.  She asked if I lived nearby and I said, not far, but we drive to this area to walk because it is flat.  I told her the hill we live on is a bit too steep for our old bones.  She advised me, “You would be amazed if you started walking up that hill, it will really do you some good.” “You really should start walking your hill.”  I made note of her prophetic tone.

Debbie always thought she was Irish but found out late in life that she is Swedish, this troubles her. She was married and lived in Beirut, where “all people care about is whether you are Muslim or Catholic”.  We talked about growing up in a racially diverse world. She said when she lived in Beirut it reminded her that she grew up with whites, blacks and Hispanics and race wasn’t  “a thing” until she traveled the world. I told her that having grown up in a small country town I never met a person of color until I went off to college. She was shocked.

Debbie doesn’t believe anything happens to you when you die. She asked what I thought about the afterlife. I said I believe we are souls living in human bodies and that before and after our human life we are a soul.  “We return,” I said, “to the single soul existence, the heart of God, from whence we came.”  She loved that answer but concluded we don’t really know, “because no one has actually come back and told us.”   I agreed.

Although I never imagined what talking to this woman might be like, I was surprised and delighted with our talk. The stream-of-consciousness nature of the conversation was probably due to her drinking. Unmasked, she never stopped sipping her beer the entire time. From my point of view, I was grateful she wasn’t smoking, a more dangerous COVID-19 spreader. 

After talking for half an hour, I said, “Debbie, it’s been nice talking to you, but I have to move along. I am really glad we got a chance to meet.”

 “Me too”, she said as she put her hand in her pocket. Taking out a pair of gloves she said, “Someone lost these and I found them. I already have a pair, maybe you could take them and give them to someone else you talk to.”

 “Actually Debbie,” I said, “Why don’t you keep them, we can still have some pretty cold days out here, and you may need a second pair?” 

 “No, really, I want you to take them and find someone who needs them,” she said. 

 “Thank you Debbie,” I said.

 I took the gloves, turned to go, and knew I was leaving some of my fear and misconceptions about street people behind.

 March 10, 2021