I spotted the three men in work-gears and signs at the mouth of my regular trail. The mornings are becoming nicer––suddenly the air of fall has begun to float. Climate is becoming impulsive.
"What's happening here?" I like to connect with the co-habitants around my regular, precious-special-own-universe of walking, shopping . . . or whatever . . . I find it easy to start a conversation with total strangers, anytime. (However, I used to be quite shy till my mid-twenties).
"We're working on the power lines on this trail," one of the men said while the others nodded. "We're from Dominion-electricity services."
"We are Dominion customers. You're doing a good job, keeping us happy." I saw the smiles––recognition that carried pride.
In 2015 after I returned back to D.C., America was in the change-mode, it wasn't hope . . . it was different, skewed in the pungent strength of racism, fear, conspiracies and mistrust. Obama was outgoing. I joined Hilary Clinton's campaign––registered new voters. My co-campaign volunteers were all young. Every day I walked about a radius of 4-6 miles, knocking at doors. Too much was at stake––we had to stop the Trump-vulgarity.
Some folks were nice––we high-fived, laughed, talked. Some bore distrust, veiled disliking––a mature- brown-woman with a message of democracy wasn't welcome. Those days when passersby didn't respond to my greetings or averted smiling back, I took it personally––thought they rejected me for who I was, how I appeared to them . . .
I have become wiser . . . people carry the burden of their own life-stories in their hearts as they navigate through their days. Difficult, impossible times.
The white young woman who didn't smile back must have had too much to cope with––sickness, sadness, helplessness, . . . going through a difficult divorce? The white old man who didn't respond to my greetings possibly was lonely, struggling with financial issues, loved ones' death/s . . . the African-American woman at the store counter who was brisk, edgy, cold––perhaps her teenage son had a brush with the police . . . Or she didn't have proper childcare support for her toddlers at home . . .
It had nothing to do with me. People aren't prejudiced about who I am . . .
I tasted freedom when I decided to be unprejudiced. I take joy in my interactions with fellow passersby––people who collide with my world in some moments in time.
The world is a good place if we have the courage to see it, if we have the audacity to embrace it.
Workers on my trail
"What's happening here?" I like to connect with the co-habitants around my regular, precious-special-own-universe of walking, shopping . . . or whatever . . . I find it easy to start a conversation with total strangers, anytime. (However, I used to be quite shy till my mid-twenties).
"We're working on the power lines on this trail," one of the men said while the others nodded. "We're from Dominion-electricity services."
"We are Dominion customers. You're doing a good job, keeping us happy." I saw the smiles––recognition that carried pride.
In 2015 after I returned back to D.C., America was in the change-mode, it wasn't hope . . . it was different, skewed in the pungent strength of racism, fear, conspiracies and mistrust. Obama was outgoing. I joined Hilary Clinton's campaign––registered new voters. My co-campaign volunteers were all young. Every day I walked about a radius of 4-6 miles, knocking at doors. Too much was at stake––we had to stop the Trump-vulgarity.
Some folks were nice––we high-fived, laughed, talked. Some bore distrust, veiled disliking––a mature- brown-woman with a message of democracy wasn't welcome. Those days when passersby didn't respond to my greetings or averted smiling back, I took it personally––thought they rejected me for who I was, how I appeared to them . . .
I have become wiser . . . people carry the burden of their own life-stories in their hearts as they navigate through their days. Difficult, impossible times.
The white young woman who didn't smile back must have had too much to cope with––sickness, sadness, helplessness, . . . going through a difficult divorce? The white old man who didn't respond to my greetings possibly was lonely, struggling with financial issues, loved ones' death/s . . . the African-American woman at the store counter who was brisk, edgy, cold––perhaps her teenage son had a brush with the police . . . Or she didn't have proper childcare support for her toddlers at home . . .
It had nothing to do with me. People aren't prejudiced about who I am . . .
I tasted freedom when I decided to be unprejudiced. I take joy in my interactions with fellow passersby––people who collide with my world in some moments in time.
The world is a good place if we have the courage to see it, if we have the audacity to embrace it.
Workers on my trail
Nuzhat Shazadi, delighted to hear your loud thinking, so beautifully expressed. Certainly we live in the time of hopelessness and our world needs some “wiser” breeze. Thanks for reminding me that our life is like a candle in our hands with which we walk in the wind.
ReplyDelete“ Shikwa a zulmatay shub say tow kaheen bahtar thaa;
Apnay hissay ki shama tow jalatay jatay.
Khush raho.
Naseem ur Rehman
Many thanks Naseem. I think we have met––at one time you were the communication officer with UNICEF-Islamabad, right? Those days I was with with ROSA. I visited our offices in Pakistan several times.
ReplyDelete