A Blind Mind
Monday, May 1, 2006—4:00p—Shattuck Ave, Berkeley
It’s crazy, isn’t it? How, at one moment, the world could be at your feet, and the next, their awe, respect, and dedication gets snatched away in a second. It’s amazing, isn’t it? How, your entire life, you’ve been living healthy; happy. It’s devastating, isn’t it? How one call, one message, one letter can change your life forever. I was on my way to see her, that’s when she contacted me. She’s in the hospital.
Now I’m waiting on the street for my mom to pick me up. Poor baby, huh? Yeah, whatever, I didn’t finish. Poor baby? When life could be so much fucking worse. Poor baby? In contrast, I’m lucky. We all live our self-involved lives, complaining about what’s wrong; we’re complaining, we’re whining, we’re screaming for our mommies to make what’s wrong, better.
I say all of this: this sudden realization, because I am here, waiting on the street, for my mom to pick me up. And I don’t even realize I have such a luxury. I’m sitting here with…what would we call them? The less-off? The less-fortunate? (Why must everything be so negative? Why must we focus on the less as opposed to the more?) Forgive me. The more-cold. The more-hungry. A woman sits next to me, staring at a specific space in the nothingness of the air, cursing and yelling, and screaming, and shouting…such profanity…so much anger. …And it’s funny and sad all the same, because all I can think about is if she’s mad at someone else (let them gain or lack substance or existence), she can’t be mad at me, she can’t hurt me. She won’t…
But why am I so terrified of her? Because I don’t know her? (No…I’m not scared at all of the man to my right: white with dreadlocks…this woman is black, skinny.) Is it a racial judgment? (Maybe? I’m scared, more than of her, that this may be, possibly, true.) Is it her social status? Or her flamboyance? I wish I knew. Desperately. I keep looking at her, not to stare, but to observe. Frightened the she might think I’m judging her. But one last look. Ok: another. One more time. What if she catches me? Shit. What if she starts yelling at me the way she’s yelling already?
She gets up after a few minutes of vocal rest. What’s that in her hand? Oh. Oops. How quickly I was to judge…how American of me. Still some obvious problems, I’m thinking as she walks away, that classic can’t-miss-it red and white stick in her hand, she’s blind, but my mind hasn’t changed. I’m still terrified of her.
My mom’s here. I’m walking to her car. He approaches me. I’ve definitely seen it before, and what happens next doesn’t surprise me.
“Hey Pretty Eyes, can I have a sec?”
I know what you’re thinking, what you’re envisioning… but he’s white, well cut, with a collared shirt on.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have any money.”
“I don’t want any money.”
“Then how can I help you?”
“I want to know,” he sticks his hand out, he’s walking with me now, “how many boyfriends you’ve had…ha-ha, no I’m just kidding.”
“Okay. You’re making me feel really uncomfortable,” he looks perplexed, “can you please leave me alone?”
I walked away feeling very confident and proud of myself. And for that second, for that moment, in that atmosphere, with those people, with just those words, I felt safe. Isn’t it crazy how that happens?
It’s crazy, isn’t it? How, at one moment, the world could be at your feet, and the next, their awe, respect, and dedication gets snatched away in a second. It’s amazing, isn’t it? How, your entire life, you’ve been living healthy; happy. It’s devastating, isn’t it? How one call, one message, one letter can change your life forever. I was on my way to see her, that’s when she contacted me. She’s in the hospital.
Now I’m waiting on the street for my mom to pick me up. Poor baby, huh? Yeah, whatever, I didn’t finish. Poor baby? When life could be so much fucking worse. Poor baby? In contrast, I’m lucky. We all live our self-involved lives, complaining about what’s wrong; we’re complaining, we’re whining, we’re screaming for our mommies to make what’s wrong, better.
I say all of this: this sudden realization, because I am here, waiting on the street, for my mom to pick me up. And I don’t even realize I have such a luxury. I’m sitting here with…what would we call them? The less-off? The less-fortunate? (Why must everything be so negative? Why must we focus on the less as opposed to the more?) Forgive me. The more-cold. The more-hungry. A woman sits next to me, staring at a specific space in the nothingness of the air, cursing and yelling, and screaming, and shouting…such profanity…so much anger. …And it’s funny and sad all the same, because all I can think about is if she’s mad at someone else (let them gain or lack substance or existence), she can’t be mad at me, she can’t hurt me. She won’t…
But why am I so terrified of her? Because I don’t know her? (No…I’m not scared at all of the man to my right: white with dreadlocks…this woman is black, skinny.) Is it a racial judgment? (Maybe? I’m scared, more than of her, that this may be, possibly, true.) Is it her social status? Or her flamboyance? I wish I knew. Desperately. I keep looking at her, not to stare, but to observe. Frightened the she might think I’m judging her. But one last look. Ok: another. One more time. What if she catches me? Shit. What if she starts yelling at me the way she’s yelling already?
She gets up after a few minutes of vocal rest. What’s that in her hand? Oh. Oops. How quickly I was to judge…how American of me. Still some obvious problems, I’m thinking as she walks away, that classic can’t-miss-it red and white stick in her hand, she’s blind, but my mind hasn’t changed. I’m still terrified of her.
My mom’s here. I’m walking to her car. He approaches me. I’ve definitely seen it before, and what happens next doesn’t surprise me.
“Hey Pretty Eyes, can I have a sec?”
I know what you’re thinking, what you’re envisioning… but he’s white, well cut, with a collared shirt on.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have any money.”
“I don’t want any money.”
“Then how can I help you?”
“I want to know,” he sticks his hand out, he’s walking with me now, “how many boyfriends you’ve had…ha-ha, no I’m just kidding.”
“Okay. You’re making me feel really uncomfortable,” he looks perplexed, “can you please leave me alone?”
I walked away feeling very confident and proud of myself. And for that second, for that moment, in that atmosphere, with those people, with just those words, I felt safe. Isn’t it crazy how that happens?
posted by Kelsi Jensen | 3:34 PM
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