The Uber Vietnam Veteran: Surprises on the road

I meet different people on my commutes – some funny, some intense, some honest and some plain – I like those the best. The conversation begins with a simple question and escalates to a deep human connection, an appreciation for the different journeys we walk.

I watched the Uber driver circle the cul de sac and then leave. Did that just happen? He just turned around and left? I stood out in the cold, checked the app, it was the right number plate. I tucked my hands into the jacket and hoped the car would circle back. It did. He stopped, helped put my luggage in the trunk/boot and apologized. He said he got a little confused with the directions. Well, nothing to add. He was on the older side probably in his mid-fifties. He looked like he’d been in an accident that altered his face a little. It didn’t help that his car was not all that but hey! I trusted it would get us to the destination.

Music whispered through his car speakers – country rock-ish – not really my taste. It streamed in and out of my mind as I looked out the window and pondered the journey ahead, the cars whizzing swiftly by, the highways and the thought that winter was upon us as the temperatures dropped and the cold winds blew.

We drove quietly, for close to an hour engrossed in two separate worlds. Suddenly the silence was cracked.

Uber Driver: (In the most respectful tone) If you don’t mind me asking, do you live here or in China?

Me: I live here. I’m traveling for work. China is a layover on the way to my destination.

UD: That sounds exciting!... Twelve days after graduating college I was drafted into the army to fight the Vietnam war.

You!!! I sat up. Fully attentive. Now I wanted to know everything. What was his experience? How long was he there? Does he have a family?... But his thoughts were swift, darting here and there. He said only that which he wished.

UD: It wasn’t great, it was ok.  But I’ve also been to Japan. I travelled with my father, he was a naval officer, that’s how I got interested in the army. It took us twelve days to get there. We traveled by sea.

I wanted to know his experience on the ship, did he get sea sick? How old was he? What does he remember of the trip?

We run out of time. Before I knew it, I was at the gate. I encouraged him to write a book, he gave me a bored look. Perhaps I should have said – “Let’s keep in touch. Tell me the stories and I will chronicle them.” What was his name again?

Lost opportunity!

I got a glimpse – a bird’s eye view into an aspect of his life. I repented for making assumptions about him based on the first few minutes of our interaction.

I thought about him again today as I listened to Richard Flanagan discuss his book: Narrow Road to the Deep North. He said “What happens in war is that good people are made to commit crimes for which in any other sphere of life you’d be locked up or executed. And then we expect these people, after the war to come back and live as normal human beings. But they are not normal human beings because they carry great sins on their soul for which in the end they are not responsible.”

This now informs my view of veterans but I’m also reminded to embrace humanity in its entirety, to make a conscious effort not to place people in boxes based on external factors.

May God be our constant guide in 2018.

Saxophonist at the Farragut North Station

 

I enjoyed listening to this young artist play his saxophone. Great way to wind down the day.

One Writers Beginnings: Chimamanda's Story Rooted in Africa

Chimamanda gives second annual Eudora Welty lecture. 

I stood a little downcast in front of the Lincoln theatre, the air chill nibbling at my extremities. With hands tucked deep into my jacket, I waited with anticipation for a kind stranger to come along. See, I’d hoped to purchase a ticket to the Second Annual EudoraWelty Lecture but they were sold out. The lady at the ticket booth apologized. I held on to the prospect that someone would show up with an extra ticket. People begun to trickle in. Girlfriends who’d planned an evening out spoke in excited tones and took selfies in front of the lecture poster. They showed their tickets and stood in line, while I a little envious thought about heading home to my family and getting in from the chilly outdoors. Then it happened.  A lady walked up to me and mentioned that her friend had bought an extra ticket and just like that I had a close to front row seat to listen to female African writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche’s lecture on “One Writer’s Beginnings”.

Her lecture centered around four values that informed her writing; home, family, church and school. Her articulate narrative and funny anecdotes sprinkled with a good dose of self-awareness held us captive. Standing in radiant red, in the center of the spotlight, she serenaded the audience with her clear calm voice that peaked and dipped at alternate junctures. She shared stories of her childhood, of life on the University of Nigeria campus. Her reading passion rooted in her father’s study, and watered by books such as Pacesetters, Mills and Boon and James Hadley Chase. These books wonderful but foreign informed her imagination growing up.

   

Her description of life in a middle-income family in Nigeria left the audience a tad jealous. She, a privileged African living in a close-knit family without the need to question her origin. With parents and grandparents, brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, she developed a sense of belonging by simply living in community. I was reminded of Africa’s dynamism. I nodded in agreement occasionally mumbling to myself for she told the African story like I couldn’t and yet I identified as though we grew up together. She painted a picture of a rich and industrious continent. The juicy mangoes picked from a tree in the compound. The luxury of slaughtering one of the chickens for Sunday lunch. The outdoor markets, steaming with life and color and stories with no end. She owned her story and told it well, no one could contend her experience as she talked about the Africa she knew and grew up in. An Africa she loved and was proud of. The audience was dead silent as we each secretly reached back into our past to compare and contrast our origins – some in envy, some in amazement, some in agreement. She weaved in themes from her famous lecture – The Danger of A Single Story. Africa is not all starving, malnourished children or potbellied corrupt government officials, it has educated hardworking, fun loving people too.

Her lecture and in her writing, she shows the power of authentic human truths curved out of experience and conviction. She also shows how being rooted to a physical place  informs narrative and self-awareness. Motivated and inspired at the close of the lecture, I joined the procession of energized ladies and a few gentlemen as we walked out of the theater to parked cars, cabs and Uber drivers. As the crowds thinned, I crossed the road, slopped down into the U Street Metro station. I tucked into a corner train seat for an hour of contemplation thank full for my physical heritage that springs from Usuk, Serere, Kampala, Kigezi, Kisoro, Tororo, America but more my spiritual heritage rooted in the cross of Christ.

Happy Sunday!

Stranger Connection

The Needle Tower (Hirshhorn museum)

Ever meet a stranger and immediately connect?

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.”

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.

Market Day Excites Serere

Market day (Okisoni) in Serere

Early in the morning, before the birds came out to sing, before one could see beyond their nose -  in the pitch-black dark of night, feet shuffled outside; People talked in the distance and footsteps went pitter-patter on the village paths. A special day dawned. A day to buy and sell - to exchange and trade.

People came from miles around, from neighboring towns and villages. Some walked, some rod bicycles, others came by bus or taxi.