It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life."
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“Yes, sure, I’ll give you a ride.”
It was a split-second decision on my part. Whether good instinct or wild impulse, I am not sure. I simply said yes.
I happened to drive by after going on my weekly trail run with my friend. I slowed my car as I approached the intersection where she was waiting. To my eye, she was Vietnamese, older than me (elderly?), walking with a cane, and stuck at a bus stop on Memorial Day. (I wondered, how frequently do the buses run on holidays?) She lifted her cane and pointed at me, and I thought she wanted to cross the street. She called through my open window –
“Will you give me a ride to Safeway?”
“Yes, sure, I’ll give you a ride.”
I cleared my things from the front seat and she climbed in.
I smiled at her,
“Hi, I’m Maureen”
She smiled back,
“I’m Kieu. I like your teeth.”
Her words send me into two places at once – no, not two places, many places. I’m conversing with this stranger in my car and simultaneously thrown into all these parallel thoughts inside my head. I’m trying my best to be fully present with her yet I can’t stop wondering,
- Anxious thoughts: She likes my teeth? What a weird thing to say. Is this person sane? Who have I picked up? No one even knows I’ve picked up this stranger; what was I thinking?! Breathe, Maureen. Center yourself. Remember: Choose kindness. You’ve got this. She needs help, you have time and ability to offer her some, just do this small thing.
- Rationalizing my situation: This split-second decision of mine, was it BECAUSE it is Memorial Day? Is it BECAUSE she looks Vietnamese to me? Vietnam holds a tender spot in my heart. My Dad served there for an extended tour in the early 1970s. While he was posted in Saigon, my mother – raising five kids alone, ages 7-17 – began having severe mental challenges. We children, not understanding what was happening, lived alongside her psychotic breaks from reality. ‘Vietnam’ is synonymous with tough, overwhelming times; Memorial Day makes these emotional memories all the more accessible.
- Tapping into more memories: Later, a family of Vietnamese refugees moved in across the street from us, in Norfolk, Virginia. One was a sweet little boy, orphaned from the war, now living in the midst of extended relatives – he was all of three years old. This little guy was fixated with sixteen-year-old me (and I, him – this was perhaps the genesis of my love for preschoolers). Khunh didn’t speak English, he hardly had any language at all. Here’s the thing – I kid you not, he loved my teeth. He wanted to sit on my lap and touch my teeth, to run his fingers along my teeth – and he’d give me this big smile with every attempt. Over and over, I would redirect him, holding his hands and speaking gently with him. This strange sensory movement of his was my first insight into what trauma looks like in young children. Is it not some bizarre coincidence that this Vietnamese woman mentions my teeth?
- Fast forward to my sweet life now: Last week, I’m snuggling between Frog and Bird, reading book after book after book. The four year old holds my thumb as she sucks her own. The two year old burrows under my arm. This one book absolutely mesmerizes me – wishes, written by Mượn Thị Văn, illustrated by Victo Ngai. With precious and poetic words, the author shares her family story of migration, how they made the perilous trip across the ocean, filled with hope for a new homeland…think how many families experience such frightening journeys, fleeing dangerous worlds, in pursuit of a better life.
“Can you give me money for groceries?”
I snap back into the present. I’m here in my car, driving this stranger to the store.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t have any money with me. I was on a run with a friend and I didn’t bring any money with me.”
“How about a credit card? You could come with me in the store and use your credit card to buy my groceries.”
“I’m so sorry. I only have my driver’s license with me.”
Now, I can’t placate the anxiety within. This split-second decision of mine has me feeling on edge. When she goes into the store, I send my husband a text – letting him know where I am and what I am doing. (I’ve watched too many Law and Order shows…I need to leave a clue if I go missing, right?)
As I wait in the car, my thoughts are still firing in so many directions – Why do I feel fear and anxiety when faced with her needs? Was she ‘out of line’ to ask me for money? I don’t think so. That’s ‘my privilege’ talking. Yes, it was a bit uncomfortable for me – but, hell, maybe I should feel uncomfortable about my good fortune in life. She simply “sized me up,” made a split-second decision, assessing me. Which is no different than what I did when I stopped to give her a ride. If this dear soul is down on her luck, living without means, why shouldn’t she ask me for money? That is called using her resources, isn’t it? What are we doing as a society to make life easier for the impoverished?
When she comes out of the store, her eyes light up with a smile of relief, seeing I am still waiting. Truth be told, I thought about driving away and leaving her be. But, I didn’t. She tells me her address and I drop her off at her home. As she gets out of the car, she calls out –
“Thank you. I love you.”
As I retell the story here, my eyes are glistening. You know as well as I do: I did so very, very little for her. I am undeserving of her dear sentiment.
I am painfully aware of how fragile, uneven, and broken this world is.
Yes, sure, I gave her a ride.
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