:: Wednesday, December 25, 2002 ::

"Come on people, now, smile on your brother..." (Chris Gaines)

Since long ages past, there has been an unspoken rule that strangers are to remain strangers.

His name was Charles.

Eye contact and polite necessities are the only interaction permitted by tradition.

I couldn't tell at first what he was thinking... Usually, unknown men in airports looking intently into my eyes and offering me "somethin' pretty dat your mommy would like" do not have pristine motives.

Wouldn't want to make anyone uncomfortable, you know.

Thick country accent. "Where are you goin', ma'am? Why do all da sistah's run away from me?" Something caught me, intrigued me. I stayed.

No one must invade your personal bubble.

His name was Charles. He was homeless, a Baltimore street bum. He was 55 with an estranged family and a girlfriend named Sharon.

Neither must you invade anyone else's personal bubble.

He gave me a little porcelain bell, handpainted with delicate scenes of Maryland. I didn't understand--"For me?" "I gave it tah you, din't I?" "But why?" Slowly. "Because I have a big heart, ma'am."

Blend into the crowd, but keep your personal space sacred.

His family has left, and no one cares for a worn out homeless man. However, this worn out homeless man gave me a bell because of his big heart, to show me that someone cares. Something about the situation is horribly twisted.

Voices of our predecessors... We are all islands.

His name is Charles. Yesterday was his birthday. He is now 56, still homeless, still worn out, still left behind in the wake of modern life.
But he will not be forgotten.

Labels: Yore

:: Bethany Bassett - 8:49 PM :: + ::