Timing. Here's my mom's story of how she became friends with a stranger.
My mom has a friend named Peter. I've only seen Peter maybe 3 times in my life. But I know that he's a friend of my mother's. He once brought me to the airport for my Europe trip in high school. He saved my butt when he volunteered to be my interviewee for an academic paper. And now, he's helping me seek employment by setting up an interview with his company's human resource manager. Peter has a booming laugh, sparkly smile, and tells his stories with his hands.
I always assumed Peter worked with my mom in the same company. But, it turns out, Peter worked in the building next door. They never worked in the same building together, nor are their companies affiliated.
Confused, I asked my mom how she met Peter. And it went like this-
"I always see him on the train. Every day, after work, we'd be at the same train stop at the same time," she laughed as her eyebrows lit up with excitement.. "Until one day, I asked him which department he worked in. Turns out, he works right next door! All this time I thought we worked together."
"So..." I wanted to figure this out. "Do you hang out with Peter a lot?"
She shook her head. "Now I don't see him anymore. Usually, we both get out at 10:00PM and we would take the train together." My mom opened her daily newspaper and turned to the entertainment section. I looked at her paper and saw Hong Kong celebrities waving back at me with her plastic smile.
She took a sip from her coffee mug and pointed at me, "But now I get out 10 minutes earlier. And I do not see him anymore." She shook her head and laughed at the irony. Mom went back to her celebrity news.
All it took was for one person to step forward, break the ice between them with acknowledgment and the possibility for a friendship flooded in. Timing brought my mom and Peter together. And now just because of 10 minutes, their paths cross and they don't see each other as often anymore. Yet, I always know that Uncle Peter is a phone call away.
We walk by millions of people each day. But how many of the same people you walk by everyday? How do you choose to interact with them? Do you walk past them? Do you just make eye contact and continue on with your day? Have you acknowledged them? How about your neighbor? Do you say 'good morning'? Your neighbor who sits at the stoop to smoke a cigarette? How about the person who delivers your mail? The bus driver? The taxi driver? The cashier at your deli? The person who takes out your trash? The person who makes your soy latte every morning? Do you even acknowledge the person currently living in the same home with you?
How about the person you're sitting next to on the train? Do you sit in silence? Move around them like they don't exist? If so, why? Or why not?
My challenge for you is to look at yourself in the mirror. Smile, notice your smile, and then get lost looking into your deep, beautiful eyes. See yourself.
And then the next time you're sitting down on the bus, train, getting into the taxi, grabbing your coffee, or walking past the same person you see every day, stop them. Acknowledge them and say 'hi.' Because you see yourself and you see them too. We don't just exist, we're all important, we all matter, and we're all living. And we are alive.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Monday, April 15, 2013
8. Ken
Day 8- Ken
When you're an alumni visiting your friends at the college you've graduated from, it's always... interesting. There's the old things like the yummy mozzarella sticks at the favorite bar, the office to your academic adviser, dining hall food, and the favorite spot by the lake. Then there are new things like the speedy construction of the new academic building, the new plasma TV to the lobby of your dorm, and seeing friends studying when you don't have any school-related things to do. Bottom line- it's interesting to see how life has moved on without you.
Another example would be the rules for college taxis. My friend and I was sitting in a taxi, heading to our favorite Mexican restaurant. It was a silent ride until I saw the sign on a white computer paper, printed in 22-size Verdana font, it read boldly, "IF YOU PUKE, THERE WILL BE A FINE OF $50."
I had to break the silence. I giggled, "Is the really true? Your sign? If people puke, they have to pay $50?"
He shook his head and let out a tired groan. Then he scoffed, "Oh yeah, it's true."
I looked at the sign and then at him, "So... has it ever... happened? People really puke in this van?"
"Oh yeah. It has happened." My eyes widened as I looked around the clean van, looking for any clues of vomit remnants. "It has happened a few times... when these kids puke, I have to clean it. And it takes a long time to clean. The place gets wet and it takes time to dry... and then you have to stop service for the night...then you lose money!"
I watched him from the rear view mirror as he spoke. He wore circle glasses, a Syracuse baseball cap, and a faded blue jean jacket over his black fleece coat. His driving was sharp, smooth and as slow as the city speed limit. There were hints of soft wrinkles around his eyes and his thin, smiley mouth. Both of his hands were wrapped on top of the wheel. He was a townie, raised and grown in the beautiful grey landscape of Fulton.
On his dashboard, a picture of two beautiful women covered his speed meter. I pointed as if he could see me, "Are those your daughters?"
He immediately smiled, his green gallant eyes glistened with adoration, "That's my wife and daughter."
"May I see?"
"Yes, of course!" He reached forward, grabbed the picture, and handed it back to me, eyes on the road.
The two women were beautiful. Even though they were daughter and mother, they looked young and almost identical. True story, I couldn't tell which was who. Both had long, iron-straight, black hair, pearly white teeth, almond shaped eyes, painted rosy lips. Both were wearing blue colors. Their arms were wrapped around each other tightly, both smiling at me, "If you don't mind me asking, where is your wife from?"
"The Philippines," he said proudly.
"Have you ever been?"
"Oh yes! We visit Cebu almost every summer. Whenever we can, we go," he said excitedly. His voice instantly came alive when he spoke about his wife. He shared with us the vast beauty of the Philippines, his love for the culture, listed all of his favorite Philippine food, and even started to teach me a few words in Tagalog.
Before I knew it, we arrived at our destination. Before I closed the door, I asked, "I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."
He smiled at us. "My name is Ken."
When you're an alumni visiting your friends at the college you've graduated from, it's always... interesting. There's the old things like the yummy mozzarella sticks at the favorite bar, the office to your academic adviser, dining hall food, and the favorite spot by the lake. Then there are new things like the speedy construction of the new academic building, the new plasma TV to the lobby of your dorm, and seeing friends studying when you don't have any school-related things to do. Bottom line- it's interesting to see how life has moved on without you.
Another example would be the rules for college taxis. My friend and I was sitting in a taxi, heading to our favorite Mexican restaurant. It was a silent ride until I saw the sign on a white computer paper, printed in 22-size Verdana font, it read boldly, "IF YOU PUKE, THERE WILL BE A FINE OF $50."
I had to break the silence. I giggled, "Is the really true? Your sign? If people puke, they have to pay $50?"
He shook his head and let out a tired groan. Then he scoffed, "Oh yeah, it's true."
I looked at the sign and then at him, "So... has it ever... happened? People really puke in this van?"
"Oh yeah. It has happened." My eyes widened as I looked around the clean van, looking for any clues of vomit remnants. "It has happened a few times... when these kids puke, I have to clean it. And it takes a long time to clean. The place gets wet and it takes time to dry... and then you have to stop service for the night...then you lose money!"
I watched him from the rear view mirror as he spoke. He wore circle glasses, a Syracuse baseball cap, and a faded blue jean jacket over his black fleece coat. His driving was sharp, smooth and as slow as the city speed limit. There were hints of soft wrinkles around his eyes and his thin, smiley mouth. Both of his hands were wrapped on top of the wheel. He was a townie, raised and grown in the beautiful grey landscape of Fulton.
On his dashboard, a picture of two beautiful women covered his speed meter. I pointed as if he could see me, "Are those your daughters?"
He immediately smiled, his green gallant eyes glistened with adoration, "That's my wife and daughter."
"May I see?"
"Yes, of course!" He reached forward, grabbed the picture, and handed it back to me, eyes on the road.
The two women were beautiful. Even though they were daughter and mother, they looked young and almost identical. True story, I couldn't tell which was who. Both had long, iron-straight, black hair, pearly white teeth, almond shaped eyes, painted rosy lips. Both were wearing blue colors. Their arms were wrapped around each other tightly, both smiling at me, "If you don't mind me asking, where is your wife from?"
"The Philippines," he said proudly.
"Have you ever been?"
"Oh yes! We visit Cebu almost every summer. Whenever we can, we go," he said excitedly. His voice instantly came alive when he spoke about his wife. He shared with us the vast beauty of the Philippines, his love for the culture, listed all of his favorite Philippine food, and even started to teach me a few words in Tagalog.
Before I knew it, we arrived at our destination. Before I closed the door, I asked, "I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."
He smiled at us. "My name is Ken."
7. Shirdula
Day 7- Shirdula
The sun is out to play today, with the wind skipping along the grass- perfect tee shirt weather. I was walking casually to my bus stop. Smelling the roses, taking my sweet time, without a care in the world, even though I was on a time crunch. And then, half a block away, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bus that waved in sea green colors, "Q27."
That's my bus.
I was more than half a block away from the bus stop. I looked straight ahead and saw the white walking man icon on the street light. I gasped. My heart started pounding. I had to make it for this bus. Or else I would have to wait 10 minutes for the next one.
Holding my Kathy Cidston satchel by my side, I booked it. In my thin, black, shiny, pointy flats, I stretched my legs and ran like I never did before in my life. I flew. I thought to myself, 'Maybe, if I made my running dramatic enough, the bus driver will notice, stop, and wait for me regardless if I make the light or not.' I opened my arms and flaring them like I was a bird trying to take off.
The pavement flew beneath my feet. As I ran, I wondered when I would start feeling the pain in my body, my shortness of breath, and my mind to screaming me to stop. I waited, but it never came. As I got closer to the edge of the sidewalk, I anticipated the calm, white walking man to trade off with the angry, Halloween orange hand. As my feet touched the white painted crosswalk, each step towards victory, the angry hand never came.
I let out a laugh as I saw a woman standing at the bus stop. As I got closer to her, I slowed down, catching my breath. I joined her, spread out my arms in victory, and politely screamed, "I made it!" I looked at the woman next to me. Shirdula was a shorter than me, long, frizzy, black mane, wore dark red lipstick, with a red tilaka on her third eye. She was smooth and calm, facing the direction of the bus.
Dissatisfied with her reaction, I caught eyes with Shirdula, jumped up, and said again, "I made it!! Yay!"
Shirdula nodded, "Yeah, good for you." She smiled softly and continued, "I didn't make it."
"I didn't make it."
"I didn't make it...."
For some reason, 'I didn't make it' really resonated with me. Perhaps, just 10 minutes prior, Shirdula was in the same situation as me- she saw the bus coming. She was probably very close, but she just didn't make it. But I made it. The bus we were hopping on together was my victory, but to Shirdula our bus was her alternative. As Shirdula was elated about me making for my bus, I can tell she really wanted to catch the bus from 10 minutes ago.
Things are just things. We put our own interpretation to things. We put our own story to the thing. Whatever it is, we are the story tellers, interpreters, and critics to these things. In this case, the thing is our perfect timing for catching the bus.
The bus was crowded, but I was able to stand next to Shirdula. We exchanged smiles and soaked in each other's silence. As she got off for her stop, I waved, "Have a good day! Hope you make your bus next time."
She waved back just as the back doors slammed shut and the bus continued on.
The sun is out to play today, with the wind skipping along the grass- perfect tee shirt weather. I was walking casually to my bus stop. Smelling the roses, taking my sweet time, without a care in the world, even though I was on a time crunch. And then, half a block away, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bus that waved in sea green colors, "Q27."
That's my bus.
I was more than half a block away from the bus stop. I looked straight ahead and saw the white walking man icon on the street light. I gasped. My heart started pounding. I had to make it for this bus. Or else I would have to wait 10 minutes for the next one.
Holding my Kathy Cidston satchel by my side, I booked it. In my thin, black, shiny, pointy flats, I stretched my legs and ran like I never did before in my life. I flew. I thought to myself, 'Maybe, if I made my running dramatic enough, the bus driver will notice, stop, and wait for me regardless if I make the light or not.' I opened my arms and flaring them like I was a bird trying to take off.
The pavement flew beneath my feet. As I ran, I wondered when I would start feeling the pain in my body, my shortness of breath, and my mind to screaming me to stop. I waited, but it never came. As I got closer to the edge of the sidewalk, I anticipated the calm, white walking man to trade off with the angry, Halloween orange hand. As my feet touched the white painted crosswalk, each step towards victory, the angry hand never came.
I let out a laugh as I saw a woman standing at the bus stop. As I got closer to her, I slowed down, catching my breath. I joined her, spread out my arms in victory, and politely screamed, "I made it!" I looked at the woman next to me. Shirdula was a shorter than me, long, frizzy, black mane, wore dark red lipstick, with a red tilaka on her third eye. She was smooth and calm, facing the direction of the bus.
Dissatisfied with her reaction, I caught eyes with Shirdula, jumped up, and said again, "I made it!! Yay!"
Shirdula nodded, "Yeah, good for you." She smiled softly and continued, "I didn't make it."
"I didn't make it."
"I didn't make it...."
For some reason, 'I didn't make it' really resonated with me. Perhaps, just 10 minutes prior, Shirdula was in the same situation as me- she saw the bus coming. She was probably very close, but she just didn't make it. But I made it. The bus we were hopping on together was my victory, but to Shirdula our bus was her alternative. As Shirdula was elated about me making for my bus, I can tell she really wanted to catch the bus from 10 minutes ago.
Things are just things. We put our own interpretation to things. We put our own story to the thing. Whatever it is, we are the story tellers, interpreters, and critics to these things. In this case, the thing is our perfect timing for catching the bus.
The bus was crowded, but I was able to stand next to Shirdula. We exchanged smiles and soaked in each other's silence. As she got off for her stop, I waved, "Have a good day! Hope you make your bus next time."
She waved back just as the back doors slammed shut and the bus continued on.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
6. Aasim
Day 6- Aasim
This is a fun one.
It was snowing. Not fluffy snow, but hard ice sprinkles. The kind of snow that will stay in your hair and make you look all mystically pretty. I was walking in Flushing and really had to use the restroom. I walked passed everyone's favorite Flushing-Halal cart, on the corner of Main Street and 40th Road, right by TD Bank. I briefly glanced a look over at the man inside the cart.
Before I was able to escape, I felt a fish hook tickle my ear, "Ehhhh.... pssst. Hey! Yoohoo!" I turned around and saw a little face peek through the window, "Long time no see sweetheart..."
I walked up to the window and came face to face with a man I had a brief interaction with 9 months ago on a hot summer evening. Although my memory of him is foggy, I do know for sure my order was chicken over rice. He had a short, stubby white beard all over his face, colorful eyes shining with brilliance. He was wearing a brown beanie hat and a comfy navy sweater. With his multi-tasking skills, he was stirring chicken on the grill and glancing at me.
"Where have you been?"
My eyes widened with amazement. For our less than 5 minute conversation during a hot summer night at 4AM and all of the customers in between these 9 months, he remembers me? Wow. So I briefly told him about my internship with LiNK: Liberty in North Korea, travelling the states for the past 6 months, fast forward to coming back for the Christmas holidays, settling in New York City looking for next big move. "How have YOU been?"
His name is Aasim. "Oh you know... the same. Working..."
"Busy today?"
He stopped what he was doing and looked out the window. He scrunched his face and shook his head, "No, not really. Later busy. Same thing everyday, you know? Do you want something?"
"No, thank you," I said politely.
He works at the cart 4 times during the week. "Are you meeting your boyfriend?" he asked. I laughed. I shook my head no. "You Chinese?"
I smiled, "Yes, I am."
"Oh... I can tell... You don't have boyfriend?" By now, he was finished cooking and was beginning to clean, putting things away. I shook my head. "Oh? Why not?" He leaned forward and said, "You know, I am single. Looking for a wife."
"Oh really?" I laughed, "I'll be sure to keep an eye out for you," by now the snow was coming down harder and my bladder wanted to go to the restroom. "I'm going to get going. Great seeing you again."
"You sure you don't want anything? It's okay! What do you want?" He said offering me some yummy foods on the grill.
I wish I was hungry, but I was full from my lunch earlier. "Thank you, I appreciate it, but I'm good. Thank you!" Before I walked away, I asked for his name.
"Aasim. My name is Aasim."
"Ah- Aasizz?"
After dancing around with the pronuciation of his name for a minute, I finally left knowing I would have cravings for some Halal food later, knowing exactly where to go when the craving came. There's always a time for some chicken over rice. Be sure to stop by and say "hi" to my awesome friend Aasim!
This is a fun one.
It was snowing. Not fluffy snow, but hard ice sprinkles. The kind of snow that will stay in your hair and make you look all mystically pretty. I was walking in Flushing and really had to use the restroom. I walked passed everyone's favorite Flushing-Halal cart, on the corner of Main Street and 40th Road, right by TD Bank. I briefly glanced a look over at the man inside the cart.
Before I was able to escape, I felt a fish hook tickle my ear, "Ehhhh.... pssst. Hey! Yoohoo!" I turned around and saw a little face peek through the window, "Long time no see sweetheart..."
I walked up to the window and came face to face with a man I had a brief interaction with 9 months ago on a hot summer evening. Although my memory of him is foggy, I do know for sure my order was chicken over rice. He had a short, stubby white beard all over his face, colorful eyes shining with brilliance. He was wearing a brown beanie hat and a comfy navy sweater. With his multi-tasking skills, he was stirring chicken on the grill and glancing at me.
"Where have you been?"
My eyes widened with amazement. For our less than 5 minute conversation during a hot summer night at 4AM and all of the customers in between these 9 months, he remembers me? Wow. So I briefly told him about my internship with LiNK: Liberty in North Korea, travelling the states for the past 6 months, fast forward to coming back for the Christmas holidays, settling in New York City looking for next big move. "How have YOU been?"
His name is Aasim. "Oh you know... the same. Working..."
"Busy today?"
He stopped what he was doing and looked out the window. He scrunched his face and shook his head, "No, not really. Later busy. Same thing everyday, you know? Do you want something?"
"No, thank you," I said politely.
He works at the cart 4 times during the week. "Are you meeting your boyfriend?" he asked. I laughed. I shook my head no. "You Chinese?"
I smiled, "Yes, I am."
"Oh... I can tell... You don't have boyfriend?" By now, he was finished cooking and was beginning to clean, putting things away. I shook my head. "Oh? Why not?" He leaned forward and said, "You know, I am single. Looking for a wife."
"Oh really?" I laughed, "I'll be sure to keep an eye out for you," by now the snow was coming down harder and my bladder wanted to go to the restroom. "I'm going to get going. Great seeing you again."
"You sure you don't want anything? It's okay! What do you want?" He said offering me some yummy foods on the grill.
I wish I was hungry, but I was full from my lunch earlier. "Thank you, I appreciate it, but I'm good. Thank you!" Before I walked away, I asked for his name.
"Aasim. My name is Aasim."
"Ah- Aasizz?"
After dancing around with the pronuciation of his name for a minute, I finally left knowing I would have cravings for some Halal food later, knowing exactly where to go when the craving came. There's always a time for some chicken over rice. Be sure to stop by and say "hi" to my awesome friend Aasim!
5. Felipe
Day 5: Felipe
As wonderful and efficient as public transportation can be in New York City, the weekends on the MTA is- le blow. Let's paint the scene- lost, angry, and confused faces, lots of foot stomping, cramped trains, plasters of posters for alternative routes, arrows for shuttle buses, and people getting off from work, heading to work, heading to their own weekend fun. You'll hear- people sucking their teeth, angry groans, kids shouting, rumbling of the train tracks, and the conductor yelling over the screechy speaker at every stop to warn passengers of the fate of their ride, unless they choose something else. And if your train is not in service, well, it's like a hectic and fun scavenger hunt.
As wonderful and efficient as public transportation can be in New York City, the weekends on the MTA is- le blow. Let's paint the scene- lost, angry, and confused faces, lots of foot stomping, cramped trains, plasters of posters for alternative routes, arrows for shuttle buses, and people getting off from work, heading to work, heading to their own weekend fun. You'll hear- people sucking their teeth, angry groans, kids shouting, rumbling of the train tracks, and the conductor yelling over the screechy speaker at every stop to warn passengers of the fate of their ride, unless they choose something else. And if your train is not in service, well, it's like a hectic and fun scavenger hunt.
With the craziness, the chance of sparking up a conversation with someone on the train is incredibly high and very simple. That's exactly how I met Felipe.
The doors of the subway pulled open. I walked in and quickly plopped down on an empty bench. He came in after me and squinted above me to check the stops for the train. The bright colored computer screen winked back at him. He looked at me and pointed above me, "Is this train going to Queens Plaza? To the 7 train?"
I nodded, "Yes."
He shook his head, his short black hair swinging along. "These trains on weekends... no good. So confusing."
"Especially on weekends..."
"...Especially weekends!" He raised his arm and held onto the pole. He skin was summer brown, hands roughly wrinkled, strong nails cut short, and a little bit of dirt between his nails. His facial hair was vividly black, Van Dyke style. "And then they want to raise the price."
"...And charge a dollar for a new metro card!" I sank into my seat, "I mean, I guess it's good. They're going green." I smiled and gave him two thumbs up.
He softly chuckled and shook his head, "No bueno. Raise prices and service stays the same."
Felipe is from the beautiful islands of "Guatemala, Guatemala," where the "weather is always hot" and the "water is very blue." As much as he misses home, he loves New York City. He's been here for over 20 years now, working and living on the west side of Manhattan.
We were on the train heading towards Queens. With curiosity, I asked, "Where you headed?"
His eyes lit up. He turned to face me and with the brightest smile I've ever seen, "I am going to see the love of my life."
"Queensboro Plaza," the electronic sang over the intercom. We both got up, left the train and walked across the platform. We stepped through the open doors of the 7 train heading to Queens. I looked at him, unsure of where to sit.
'Should I sit next to him? Would it be creepy if I did?' Question after question ran through my head. And then a little voice said, 'Why not? It would be awkward if you didn't sit next to him and you're both on the SAME train.' I proudly choose the bright orange seat next to him.
We continued to chat about Guatamala, New York City and his job in construction. He asked me what I was doing. I told him I was currently seeking employment. His phone loudly started belching the Entertainer. With snail speed, he fumbled to get his ancient flip phone. He looked at the caller ID and nodded with excitement, "Hola?"
I twiddled my thumbs as he chatted away in Spanish. People around the train were looking at us with a surprised-are-you-really-talking-to-a-stranger face. He finally hung up and said, "Sorry, that was my daughter, Caroline." Caroline is currently in college, 19 years old, and living with her mother in Queens. The more he spoke about Caroline, the bright rays peeled away his lonely mask, his voice nurturing, filled with love. Caroline, his daughter, is the love of his life.
He placed his hand over his heart and choked, "She has my heart." I smiled, touched, thinking about my mother.
Felipe gave me his business card and got up for his stop. Before he got off the train, he looked at me and said, "Maybe he will help you find a job."
"What?" I asked, confused.
He pointed up to the ceiling, "God. He has helped me a lot. He will help you." And the Felipe vanished within the masses of passengers trying to find their way.
"Especially on weekends..."
"...Especially weekends!" He raised his arm and held onto the pole. He skin was summer brown, hands roughly wrinkled, strong nails cut short, and a little bit of dirt between his nails. His facial hair was vividly black, Van Dyke style. "And then they want to raise the price."
"...And charge a dollar for a new metro card!" I sank into my seat, "I mean, I guess it's good. They're going green." I smiled and gave him two thumbs up.
He softly chuckled and shook his head, "No bueno. Raise prices and service stays the same."
Felipe is from the beautiful islands of "Guatemala, Guatemala," where the "weather is always hot" and the "water is very blue." As much as he misses home, he loves New York City. He's been here for over 20 years now, working and living on the west side of Manhattan.
We were on the train heading towards Queens. With curiosity, I asked, "Where you headed?"
His eyes lit up. He turned to face me and with the brightest smile I've ever seen, "I am going to see the love of my life."
"Queensboro Plaza," the electronic sang over the intercom. We both got up, left the train and walked across the platform. We stepped through the open doors of the 7 train heading to Queens. I looked at him, unsure of where to sit.
'Should I sit next to him? Would it be creepy if I did?' Question after question ran through my head. And then a little voice said, 'Why not? It would be awkward if you didn't sit next to him and you're both on the SAME train.' I proudly choose the bright orange seat next to him.
We continued to chat about Guatamala, New York City and his job in construction. He asked me what I was doing. I told him I was currently seeking employment. His phone loudly started belching the Entertainer. With snail speed, he fumbled to get his ancient flip phone. He looked at the caller ID and nodded with excitement, "Hola?"
I twiddled my thumbs as he chatted away in Spanish. People around the train were looking at us with a surprised-are-you-really-talking-to-a-stranger face. He finally hung up and said, "Sorry, that was my daughter, Caroline." Caroline is currently in college, 19 years old, and living with her mother in Queens. The more he spoke about Caroline, the bright rays peeled away his lonely mask, his voice nurturing, filled with love. Caroline, his daughter, is the love of his life.
He placed his hand over his heart and choked, "She has my heart." I smiled, touched, thinking about my mother.
Felipe gave me his business card and got up for his stop. Before he got off the train, he looked at me and said, "Maybe he will help you find a job."
"What?" I asked, confused.
He pointed up to the ceiling, "God. He has helped me a lot. He will help you." And the Felipe vanished within the masses of passengers trying to find their way.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
4. Marcella
Day 4- Marcella
I was in the mood for some street food. Radius check- Halal cart...peanuts... more halal... hot dogs... waffles... and across the street, I spotted an evergreen truck with Lady Liberty screaming, "TriBeca Tacos." And with my California blues lusting for some tacos, I crossed the street.
There wasn't a line, so my instinct was to walk right past it. But then... my tummy REALLY wanted tacos. So I turned around to have thankfully been face to face with a friendly chalkboard. Having made my decision, I got on line.
The gentleman before me was speaking with the taco truck lady in Spanish. They were speaking fluidly, laughing, and really hitting it off. As I stood there, it hit me- I could talk to her too... I could be that person!
Finally, it was my turn. The woman looked like she was in her mid-thirties. She was fun-sized with deep sun-kissed skin, sharp gentle eyes, and strong dark hair wrapped in a hair net. She was wearing a tight hot pink tee shirt that brighten up the inside of her small food cart. With her clear gloves and spatula in hand, she pointed to me, "What do you want mami?"
"I want two tacos. The first one is tofu. And the second one... which do you think is better? The one with the pineapple of the one with the pork?"
"Pork," she said wisely, like Yoda. She turned around and started putting magic on the grill. We listened to the tapping of her spatula on the grill, scooping and soft dropping of the ingredients, and with her eyes on the grill, her hands systematically moved around taking things from their home.
I leaned my chin on the window, watching her performance, "Busy today?"
With her eyes on the grill, "Ehhh..." Flip, chop, and sizzle. "You know... this push cart- not a lot of money. You know, no permit," She made a square gesture with her hands. "So no body... yeah, you know... Maybe... 20... a day..."
"So how long are you usually here?"
"Eh, maybe till 8pm. Working... 5 times a week. I no cook when I go home..." we both laughed. She continued, "I cooking all the time here... so I no like to cook at home."
She is originally from Mexico. She came to New York City 23 years ago and although she likes New York, she often misses home. She has been working with the TriBeca Taco truck for almost 5 years. I asked for her name.
"Marcella... Mar-SEE-el-LA," she said proudly. She grabbed a to go box and grabbed two tortillas. She began scooping the goodies on top of the tortillas.
"MAR-see-EL-lah," I repeated.
"Si! Marcella... What sauce honey?"
A platoon of sauce bottles glared at me. Pressure.... "-I don't know. What do you think is best?"
She looked at the sauces, "Em..." She pointed to the bottle that looked like the rest of the bottles, "The verde sauce is I like the best."
"Okay, sure," I said.
She picked up the bottle and painted my tacos, "I have son." Marcella smiled as she handed me my box, "I have two sons... $6 honey."
She was leaning outside the window where my chin once was. I was fished inside my wallet for money. "How old?"
"One is 9, the other 14..." She smiled as we exchanged box and money, "I love them very, very much."
We lingered for a moment and made eye contact. I smiled, "Thank you Marcella. Have a good day. Bye bye."
"Bye bye now," her voice faded into the soft melodies of Soho. I felt Marcella and her truck get sucked into a time warp as the next customer stepped up. That was it. That was my 10 minute opportunity with Marcella.
I was in the mood for some street food. Radius check- Halal cart...peanuts... more halal... hot dogs... waffles... and across the street, I spotted an evergreen truck with Lady Liberty screaming, "TriBeca Tacos." And with my California blues lusting for some tacos, I crossed the street.
There wasn't a line, so my instinct was to walk right past it. But then... my tummy REALLY wanted tacos. So I turned around to have thankfully been face to face with a friendly chalkboard. Having made my decision, I got on line.
The gentleman before me was speaking with the taco truck lady in Spanish. They were speaking fluidly, laughing, and really hitting it off. As I stood there, it hit me- I could talk to her too... I could be that person!
Finally, it was my turn. The woman looked like she was in her mid-thirties. She was fun-sized with deep sun-kissed skin, sharp gentle eyes, and strong dark hair wrapped in a hair net. She was wearing a tight hot pink tee shirt that brighten up the inside of her small food cart. With her clear gloves and spatula in hand, she pointed to me, "What do you want mami?"
"I want two tacos. The first one is tofu. And the second one... which do you think is better? The one with the pineapple of the one with the pork?"
"Pork," she said wisely, like Yoda. She turned around and started putting magic on the grill. We listened to the tapping of her spatula on the grill, scooping and soft dropping of the ingredients, and with her eyes on the grill, her hands systematically moved around taking things from their home.
I leaned my chin on the window, watching her performance, "Busy today?"
With her eyes on the grill, "Ehhh..." Flip, chop, and sizzle. "You know... this push cart- not a lot of money. You know, no permit," She made a square gesture with her hands. "So no body... yeah, you know... Maybe... 20... a day..."
"So how long are you usually here?"
"Eh, maybe till 8pm. Working... 5 times a week. I no cook when I go home..." we both laughed. She continued, "I cooking all the time here... so I no like to cook at home."
She is originally from Mexico. She came to New York City 23 years ago and although she likes New York, she often misses home. She has been working with the TriBeca Taco truck for almost 5 years. I asked for her name.
"Marcella... Mar-SEE-el-LA," she said proudly. She grabbed a to go box and grabbed two tortillas. She began scooping the goodies on top of the tortillas.
"MAR-see-EL-lah," I repeated.
"Si! Marcella... What sauce honey?"
A platoon of sauce bottles glared at me. Pressure.... "-I don't know. What do you think is best?"
She looked at the sauces, "Em..." She pointed to the bottle that looked like the rest of the bottles, "The verde sauce is I like the best."
"Okay, sure," I said.
She picked up the bottle and painted my tacos, "I have son." Marcella smiled as she handed me my box, "I have two sons... $6 honey."
 |
| Front: TriBeca taco itself and Tofu taco with Verde sauce, by Marcella! |
"One is 9, the other 14..." She smiled as we exchanged box and money, "I love them very, very much."
We lingered for a moment and made eye contact. I smiled, "Thank you Marcella. Have a good day. Bye bye."
"Bye bye now," her voice faded into the soft melodies of Soho. I felt Marcella and her truck get sucked into a time warp as the next customer stepped up. That was it. That was my 10 minute opportunity with Marcella.
Monday, April 1, 2013
3. George
Day 3- George
This one is short and sweet.
I was picking up some print outs from my local Staples store in Bayside, Queens. An elder gentleman was waiting behind me and picking up his things as well. I smiled at him. He smiled back.
"Happy Monday!" I said cheerfully. "How's your Monday going?"
George has pure white hair and was wearing gold-rim glasses. He was wearing blue jeans and a green and black water-proof jacket. He leaned against the counter casually and looked at me with surprised. Surprise that I was speaking with him. There were wrinkles around his eyes from age, life, and experiences. I just wanted to put my hands on his face and ask him to tell me what he has seen.
"My Monday? Well, I'm just happy to be alive today." George looked at me with a serious face. "I am grateful to have gotten up to see another day."
'I am grateful too, so that I could have met you,' was my thought and wished I said it. Even the smallest interaction with someone in the same room as you, who you may not even exchange a word with, may change your life forever. One of my favorite books by Mitch Albom, "Five People You Meet in Heaven," touches upon this idea.
Strangers are intriguing to me, because with a simple, "hi," the course of your life will go in a completely different direction. I'm obsessed with Ted Talks, so here's an awesome video for you to watch. My main takeaway from Kathleen Taylor is this- "People at the end of their lives are incapable of bullshit."
With that said, we should be living our lives true to ourselves, all the time.
2. "The Subway Artist of New York"
Day 2- Enrico Miguel Thomas
Grand Central Terminal. It's like a whole other world. So much to soak in! There are people found peacefully snoozing away on benches while others are booking it to make their departing train. Some are trying to find their way while some are admiring the architecture- from high ceilings, chandlers, and little boutiques along the way.
I was one of those on a mission. My buddies and I was let loose in the wild jungle to do whatever it takes to create a result of inspiration. Here we were, getting ready to leave, when at the corner of my eye I caught an easel with a subway map and an artist deep into his work, gracefully drawing every well-thought-out stroke.
Yes, an artist was drawing on a subway map with a sharpie. Too cool.
So I skipped my way behind him and excitedly shouted, "Hey! What are you up to?"
He jumped, startled., "Oh god, you scared me."
He glanced up, his eyes confused, as if my voice broke him out of his deep trance. He rubbed his hands to his face and let out a soft chuckle. He looked at my friends and me, and says, "You guys aren't the jebeezus people, are you?"
We laughed. Nope, we just wanted to stop and chat. His name is "Enrico," Enrico Miguel Thomas. His smile was smooth, sly, and shining with authenticity. Enrico spoke softly, a deep humbleness in his tone. He held his Sharpie uniquely, strongly between his thumb, index, and middle finger trio, his heart and soul bleeding across the map with his every stroke. He may often be spotted sketching away in the underground subway. As the weather gets nicer, he'll take his art outside. Sometimes it would take him 6-7 hours or more!
Enrico excitedly pulled out some of his other artworks from his packed bookbag, his proud creations on a subway map, as well his feature in Time Out magazine. He is coming back from a break and looking to come back into the world of art.
By now, more people were looking, and even stopping to chat with us. He asked us to watch his things as he ran quickly to the bathroom. I couldn't believe it, he left everything with us. In only chatting with him for 20 minutes, he trusted us with his belongings.
When he came back, I asked him for his favorite quote. He thought for a long while, running through his brain for his favorite. "There's this quote that I've read from a book when I was younger. And this quote has stuck with me since then..."
"Well, what is it?"
He smiled and said, " 'The patient knows.' "
There's something comfortable and trusting about strangers. It's all about the way YOU are being, how you choose to show up. Everyone is always in reaction to you. So if you think it's awkward... it's is awkward because you say so! Enrico is AWESOME and when you catch him sketching away on his easel, be sure to stop and say "hi." Promise he's an amazing and inspiring friend you'd definitely want to meet!
Be sure to check out Enrico's artwork and learn more about him here! Shalom and there are plenty of artists running wild in the jungle waiting to meet you.
Grand Central Terminal. It's like a whole other world. So much to soak in! There are people found peacefully snoozing away on benches while others are booking it to make their departing train. Some are trying to find their way while some are admiring the architecture- from high ceilings, chandlers, and little boutiques along the way.
I was one of those on a mission. My buddies and I was let loose in the wild jungle to do whatever it takes to create a result of inspiration. Here we were, getting ready to leave, when at the corner of my eye I caught an easel with a subway map and an artist deep into his work, gracefully drawing every well-thought-out stroke.
Yes, an artist was drawing on a subway map with a sharpie. Too cool.
 |
| What Enrico was currently working, until we said, "hi." |
He jumped, startled., "Oh god, you scared me."
He glanced up, his eyes confused, as if my voice broke him out of his deep trance. He rubbed his hands to his face and let out a soft chuckle. He looked at my friends and me, and says, "You guys aren't the jebeezus people, are you?"
We laughed. Nope, we just wanted to stop and chat. His name is "Enrico," Enrico Miguel Thomas. His smile was smooth, sly, and shining with authenticity. Enrico spoke softly, a deep humbleness in his tone. He held his Sharpie uniquely, strongly between his thumb, index, and middle finger trio, his heart and soul bleeding across the map with his every stroke. He may often be spotted sketching away in the underground subway. As the weather gets nicer, he'll take his art outside. Sometimes it would take him 6-7 hours or more!
Enrico excitedly pulled out some of his other artworks from his packed bookbag, his proud creations on a subway map, as well his feature in Time Out magazine. He is coming back from a break and looking to come back into the world of art.
By now, more people were looking, and even stopping to chat with us. He asked us to watch his things as he ran quickly to the bathroom. I couldn't believe it, he left everything with us. In only chatting with him for 20 minutes, he trusted us with his belongings.
When he came back, I asked him for his favorite quote. He thought for a long while, running through his brain for his favorite. "There's this quote that I've read from a book when I was younger. And this quote has stuck with me since then..."
"Well, what is it?"
He smiled and said, " 'The patient knows.' "
There's something comfortable and trusting about strangers. It's all about the way YOU are being, how you choose to show up. Everyone is always in reaction to you. So if you think it's awkward... it's is awkward because you say so! Enrico is AWESOME and when you catch him sketching away on his easel, be sure to stop and say "hi." Promise he's an amazing and inspiring friend you'd definitely want to meet!
Be sure to check out Enrico's artwork and learn more about him here! Shalom and there are plenty of artists running wild in the jungle waiting to meet you.
 |
| The amazing Enrico with a completed work he was sharing with us. |
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