It was, I think really, the silence that finally did me in. I walked away and nothing crashed, no blinding finger of god struck me. I broke his heart and lived to tell about it. Or, really, lived to pretend it had never happened, that our friendship and my life were both intact and unharmed.
Funny, that.
The challenge is perfect honesty. To acknowledge first and foremost that I am not nor will I ever be a perfect human being. That I will always and forever make mistakes, forget birthdays, trip over my own feet, break hearts, burn dinner. That I will avoid responsibility, sidestep issues, bury my fear, shy away from pursuing my dreams. I may never be able to handle my anger or practice yoga every day. The challenge is to look all that in the face, look myself in the eyes, and smile. Forgiveness, we learn slowly, is not saying that what has happened didn’t hurt or that things that aren’t okay somehow miraculously are. Forgiveness is merely letting go of the anger, moving to a higher place. I say merely as though this were less than an act of will, as though it could be an easy thing. You broke my heart: I don’t pretend to be whole, but I will not hold the grudge. I broke your heart: I don’t pretend to be whole, but I will not remain in chains to that memory, I will not dig daily into the slowscabbing wound. In forgiveness I am free.
Honesty in action, perhaps even harder. To take his hand when I want it, to step away when fear takes me, to eat when I am hungry and only until I find myself full. It is so hard, paralyzing, to take a true stock of your actions. That day I let them tell racist jokes, I didn’t laugh but neither did I stand up and leave. Neither did I weep. Every day I walk past a group of latino men waiting for day work by the library, and every day I turn my eyes away. For weeks I had convinced myself that there was a particularly interesting reflection of light on the roof just across the street from the library; not until today did I realize that I was ashamed to meet their eyes.
Here I am, in clothes with no holes, backpack full of books, and they lean against the wall of the library – the library, for god has no fear of irony – men who may have held doctorates in their own countries, came here for opportunity, and wait in the cold to be taken to a restaurant or steaming field. Labor, we call it. Not even a job.
Today I look up, turn my head, say goodmorning in my shitty Spanish of which I am also ashamed. They smile, buenos dìas, and I finish my walk to school. Perhaps it is nothing, but at least it wasn’t a lie. To be fully true, I should stop and tell them: I am sorry that we are divided, sorry that the election spun the way it did and the proposition passed that declares you have no rights. I’m sorry I am selfish and young and that in my deepest heart I wish I didn’t have to walk past you every day; I’m sorry that your dream of America has become this cold wait in the frosty morning while dozens of dreadlocked college students do not meet your eyes. I’m sorry for assuming that you aren’t happy, for assuming that my life might be better than yours, because god knows I’m not often happy either. I’m sorry we call that neighborhood the barrio; I’m sorry it has no paved roads and that the loudest parties are held there because they know the police won’t come. I’m sorry for being white and guilty.
But then that isn’t truth either. I cannot help who I was born. Should I spend all my days campaigning for the rights of immigrants? But what then of the polluted stream and the dying elk? What then of my leaking faucet and gas bill? What then of my restless sleep, my frenetic daze?
I try this: when I eat, I want to think about all the paths and roads that brought the food to me. The farmer on his bucolic tractor is a nice thought, but with the exception of my farmer’s market salad greens, far far far too simplistic. And even then not wholly accurate: what of the man who ran the machine that packaged the seeds which were planted to become my salad? What of the man who made that machine? Who made my plate, designed my kitchen table? What of the asphalt that paved the road from the farm to the packinghouse to the market to my driveway? Why haven’t I planted a garden?
When I eat, I try to be thankful. It is harder than it should be. I am always wanting some distraction – the internet, a book, my fear. Sy Safransky included his thoughts: “endless feast.” So hard to be quiet for just a moment, to breathe in and out.
We are at a restaurant, Thai food, for lunch. The place is packed and buzzing when we arrive, and we find ourselves waiting ten, fifteen minutes for a table. Finally seated, we wait another fifteen before our water arrives; another twenty before the waitress takes our order. We hope the food will come soon, but another twenty minutes passes. By now the restaurant is mostly empty: we have watched other customers arrive, order, eat and leave in the time we have been waiting. We are angry, impatient, but reluctant to leave because it would be rude.
Where is the honesty? Do we leave because we shouldn’t be made to wait so long? We have nowhere to be, have gathered for lunch to catch up and chat – the point was to be in each other’s company, food only an excuse. We know from experience that when lunch does come, it will be delicious, and it’s the cheapest place to eat we can think of. Why the impatience? Twice we even say to each other: be here now. The food will come when it comes, we will not starve. But still, tapping our feet, swearing.
I want to feel my connection with the world through my food. Back to oatmeal: it was my daily concession to the beauty of the world.
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