One thing you may or may not know about me is that I think all people are born equal. Period! No buts… It doesn’t matter how we look, from skin color to facial features. We’re all valued children of God.
Knowing that, you will understand why I think some races, especially the blacks have gotten a rotten deal here in the U.S. If you’ll recall your history, the blacks were brought here from Africa as slaves. They didn’t want to be here! Thanks to Lincoln, they are a mainstream of our society now. But, they certainly are not treated that way! I get very aggravated when I see racial issues on the news. People, it should not even BE an issue today It’s been over 150 years! Get over it!
Most of you know I am an old Caucasian lady. You have to know that so the piece I wrote and copied here will make sense. I wrote this piece when I lost a dear friend. He was killed by a car at night while pushing his grocery cart down a city street. (I learned his name later.) Here’s the story I wrote afterwards:
I Love You, Stranger
This story is not about me. It’s about regret.
It started two years ago. Driving home from work one day, a certain panhandler caught my eye. There was something striking and appealing about him. He was tall, thin and black with incredibly long dread locks. The camo jacket, crude wooden cane and backpack made him look more like a hippie than a homeless person. I guessed his age to be in his 50s or 60s.
Luckily, a red light gave me the opportunity to pull a dollar out of my panhandler stash, roll down the car window and hold out the money. His long boney fingers wrapped around my hand as he took the bill. He said nothing and averted his eyes. The warmth of his hand and the gentleness of his touch were very comforting. It was the most odd, incredible moment of my life.
Over the next couple of years I would see him a few times a month. He soon recognized me and we quickly became friends. Our meetings were brief, however. A signal light does not provide much time for conversation. Still, we had a connection even though we never exchanged names. He called me “Sister,” and it thrilled me. A few times he even fist-bumped me. He was always respectful and kind. I felt like a beloved family member.
A few of our encounters were memorable. One winter he was standing on the corner in about two inches of snow. His feet had to be cold, as he was not wearing adequate shoes. My heart broke for him and I’m sure my few bucks did nothing to improve his life!
At times I wouldn’t see him for weeks. Once, I didn’t see him for a couple of months and I thought he had moved on. When he finally showed, he told me he had been in the hospital for pneumonia. Another time when he finally appeared at the corner, he was leaning on his cane. He said a car hit him and the driver was a member of the KKK. We didn’t discuss it further so I didn’t know if the driver told him that info or if my friend was schizophrenic. It didn’t matter. He was okay and back at his old spot. I was delighted!
For some reason, I didn’t believe he was homeless. I pictured him living in a small, dilapidated over-crowded house–a house with inadequate insulation, peeling paint, etc. I did not think he was suffering from an addiction, either; but I did believe he needed money.
Recently the weather turned bitter cold. It was before Christmas and I saw my friend standing in the frigid weather. Being in a seasonally jolly mood, I gave him a more generous donation than usual and told him to go home. Stupid thing to tell a homeless person!
Once I retired from my job, I no longer drove past my friend’s spot. It was weeks before I saw him again. When I did, we didn’t have the luxury of a red light. So, I pulled into a parking lot behind him, got out of the car and walked over to him. I wanted to tell him why he hadn’t seen me. I don’t know if he cared, but I didn’t want him to think I had been ignoring him. As luck would have it, I soon moved into a neighborhood not far from my friend’s spot. I was glad to see him again.
Things continued as usual until this fall. My friend surprised me by asking if I wanted to share a meal with him. I told him I couldn’t because it would make my boyfriend jealous, but that was not the reason. Truthfully, I was a little afraid of him—after all, he was still a stranger, much bigger than I and possibly mentally unstable. His suggestion continued to tempt me, though. There was a restaurant very close and it would be easy to walk over, share a meal and visit. I wanted to know his name, his origin… everything. Who was this man?
But, I procrastinated.
Last week the local TV news aired a feature about a homeless man who was struck by a drunk driver and killed. The broadcast gave the man’s name but nothing else. I prayfully thought, “Please don’t let this be my friend.” I was anxious, though, because the news showed an image of the victim’s grocery cart located in an area near me. Recently my friend had acquired a grocery cart. I thought it was just a prop. You know; some panhandlers use dogs, wheelchairs or other items. I still had this crazy notion that he had a home. I finally told myself my imagination was getting the best of me and dismissed the dreadful thought…until yesterday.
Yesterday I passed the sight of two, stacked, milk cartons and some cheap plastic roses. It was one of those makeshift memorials people set up when someone has died from a traffic accident. OMG! My stomach churned as I realized it was my friend’s corner! I tried to calm myself with logic. After all, I really did not know who had been the victim. However, I couldn’t dismiss the horrendous thought.
This morning I drove by the memorial. My eyes moistened as big teardrops ran down my cheeks. Waiting for an answer was not the solution. Maybe the convenience store clerk nearby could help me put a name to the face. I was terrified to ask; fearful I already knew the answer. But, I forged through my fear and asked the clerk if he could describe the man who died. He could and he did.
An old friend and I were talking last night about regret. We were talking about the conventional wisdom concerning dying individuals. It is said that dying people do not regret what they have done, but rather what they haven’t done.
Regrets. Do I have any? Yes is a monumental understatement. I will never forgive myself for procrastinating. I threw away the change to show a little compassion and kindness…and, more importantly, the opportunity to get to know an amazing person.
Goodbye, Arlee. I will never forget you.
© 2017 Diane Blanks
IN MEMORY OF ARLEE WILLIAMSON, JR.