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| The Needle Tower (Hirshhorn museum) |
For the longest time such stories were safely locked in a box I labeled "Movies" - guy sees girl at bar counter, guy buys girl a drink and they lived happily ever after. I mean yeah right! Coming from a small city like Kampala chances that one would befriend an outright stranger in the middle of the day were slim. America on the other hand is huge, people leave familiarity and travel to new
cities for school and work among other reasons. And that is how I met this guy.
The museum had closed and I was taking photos of the Needle Tower in the Hirshhorn gardens when
he came over. We exchanged a few remarks on angles and lighting then I decided
I best get on home.
He said “There’s going to be a photography club meeting here
on brutalist architecture. I don’t know much about it, but you might want to
stay.”
I thanked him and said "Sure, why not." It was going to start
in 20 minutes.
We met up again at the venue and he signaled me to sit with him.
There were a few moments of silence before he said, “Hey, I would like to smoke, come with me.”
We met up again at the venue and he signaled me to sit with him.
There were a few moments of silence before he said, “Hey, I would like to smoke, come with me.”
The casual expectation that I would willingly tag along came as a surprise. His carefree nature and humor had me
intrigued. We went to the designated smoking zone and he blew clouds into the
fading sun. Labels made loops in my head: Black woman. Black married woman with 2 kids. Black
married woman with 2 kids and a strange accent. Black married woman with 2
kids, a strange accent - a Christian. All little boxes society made me conscious of. Boxes I
carried around for identity. He didn’t peek into any of them. He didn’t
seem to care for them. His freedom to live outside the boxes of societies expectations held my intrigue. We laughed and talked about shared interests. He
mentioned a museum he thought I should visit called “Post Secret” and I immediately
recalled listening to a fascinating story about the same on National Public Radio (NPR). It
was a cool Saturday afternoon about 3 years ago, a guy talked about how he’d
asked people to anonymously send him their secrets on post cards and how he’d
received an overwhelming response. “Yes, yes” I said with excitement, "I
remember that guy." Then he showed me some photos he’d taken there. I was amused at our connection, at how in less than an hour of meeting he knew something that would interest me. He showed me photos on his phone, occasionally handing it to me with ease. I guess he felt safe with this stranger.
We attended the meeting, listened to a talk on brutalist architecture and mingled with other photographers. At some point he turned and said, “I’m Brian by the way”, “I’m Mary. Nice to meet you”. We shook hands.
As the sun disappeared over the horizon, I bid Brian adieu
and run along home to my family. I don’t know if I’d recognize him if we met again but I was glad for the brief, meaningful connection. Something about human beings wading past stereo types to appreciate human connection beyond race to deconstruct that single story.
