I awoke this morning dreaming of a life I hardly knew in a
place I had just arrived. Yet like
most travelers, the newness of the place clung to my soul, and I fell in love
with the fantasy of living the rest of my days here. My mind raced as I followed the small speck of experience
that formed my perception of Lexington, Kentucky, and for the briefest of
moments that is all I had or would ever need. The place, and the future which it held for me. Yet I suppose, as a committed traveler,
I had felt this way about many places at one time or another. Often I find
myself living out each experience to its logical conclusion in my mind – toying
with the idea of growing old and painting a picture of life in a location
tailored to the specific things about the place which seem most appealing. The difficulty comes not in envisioning
it, but rather, like an artist who has made many masterpieces, deciding in the
end which painting I will actually choose to display.
I left about 10:30 in the morning with a ride from a
wonderful, energetic guy named Doug.
We chatted about travel, and his energy – too much if it had hinted
towards negative, but all the more encouraging because of its relentless
positivity – reinvigorated me. It
was time to get back on the road.
He dropped me at the side of the highway, and I stood alone again, with
a clear mind ready for another canvas to paint.
I waited 2 hours on the merge ramp west, singing tunes and
pacing, splitting grass, thinking of my new life in Lexington if I couldn’t
hitch a ride. A car stopped short
– a shirtless man with a strained look, a burger in one hand, and a cloth wrapped around his other. He didn’t roll the window down like
most people as I strode to his passenger side, but instead unwrapped the cloth
slowly from his hand, which was sitting in his lap. The word ‘creeper’ came to mind, and I new that no matter
where this guy was headed, I was not.
He got out, strode compulsively towards me, and stuck out his newly
unwrapped hand.
I shook it, trying not to wince as thoughts of roadway
masturbation clanged noisily in my mind.
He made me uncomfortable, and I was glad when he told me he was headed
North – not West. He hopped back
in the car and squealed off down the highway. Back to his burgers and hand cloths.
My next visitor came about 45 minutes later in the form of
blue and red flashing lights. I
waved to the officer as the car pulled to a stop. A short, built, fairly attractive woman with short hair and a
stern face reflecting years of taking herself too seriously stepped out of the
car. She asked me what I was doing
and where I was headed. I
explained the details.
“You know you’re committing a crime sir. I could lock you up for this”
Something about her emphasis told me I had nothing to worry
about, so I explained that I was unaware of the illegality of my seemingly
harmless activity. I handed her my
ID when prompted, and she strode back to the safety of her automobile. After about 15 minutes, she emerged
from the care, assuring me that I could go free, but would have to relocate and
try a new ‘less obvious’ place.
Then she said:
“I gotta ask, person to person, out of my own curiosity –
why are you doing this? You seem
of able body and mental faculties.”
I thanked her, although I was not sure if it was a
compliment, and wondered about her normal conversations throughout the day
which were, apparently, not person to person but something else entirely. I explained that I was low on cash, and
that I was on a mission to explore the United States in a unique way, meeting
people I would not otherwise encounter – like herself. And until later in my
trip, I believed that story. For
the time, she seemed to buy it. She shrugged, wished me luck, and drove off.
I relocated to a gas station where I perched out of view of
the counter behind some shrubs and branded my ST LOUIS sign. I waved to everyone entering and
exiting to create good will, and give myself something to do. I was offered a water – which I took –
and some money – which I kindly refused.
I moved to another gas station down the road after about an
hour. I relocated to another gas
station where I set down my bag and bought some bread. I texted my friends in Lexington to
secure another night if things fell through. I guess part of me was still hoping they would.
After a bit of food, I began searching the lot for Missouri
plates. Nothing. Then I spotted a friendly-looking guy
of about 35 with a clean-cut appearance sporting a St. Louis Cardinals
shirt. He was chatting familiarly
with another gentleman across the pump, who was filling a passenger van which
had the words ‘Paris, Kentucky, and Bible’ written with some other less
important words on the side. This
might be it…
I approached them, and asked the Cardinals guy if he was
heading to St. Louis. He was, he
assured me, and introduced himself as James. I asked if he had room for another, but he looked at his
friend and shrugged. They had no
room, they assured me. They were
so apologetic and genuinely guilty about it that I believed them – although I
wasn’t too worried about their motivations. It was their right to say no, for any reason at all.
I searched the rest of the station with no luck, but upon
circling back James caught me, and told me that the 3rd vehicle in
their party could fit me. After
some shuffling and traversing, my stuff was with James and his family, and I
was in a car full of Christian youth, telling stories about my recent stay in a
commune in the most toned-down manner possible. After a short while, I was again shuffled – this time into a
car of three 60-somethings. The
whole party was from Paris, Kentucky – a small town about 15 miles north of
Lexington. During the ride, I told
some stories to Bill, Judy, and Linda, my new companions. They were ridiculously friendly and
kind, and even when talking about other people in their community, had only
good things to say. They were
polite, spoke with slight southern drawls, and lavished me with blessing about
my journeys. We covered many
topics, and it struck me that this was the America I was searching for – at
least, the disparity between where I was coming from and where I was now. And I wondered how the differences
between these disparate cultures could be reconciled.
We reached St Louis after about 5 hours of pleasant
chatting, and despite my lack of response to Judy’s repetitious assurances that
God had a plan, and that Jesus was our savior, I could tell that the group
liked me. They had warmed up, and
I really felt welcomed. This was
exactly the type of experience I could not explain to people abroad when they
asked about the US. These
wonderful, kind, caring, and totally selfless strangers had whisked me up from
a gas station, drove me 1/5 of the way across the country, and even took me out
to dinner with them when we arrived. They prayed for me, and took me in as a
member of their family. And for a
brief moment, I was caught up in the fantasy of being born again into their
loving, trusting, unquestioning world. I still don’t know how to explain it to
those who have not experienced it: no matter how terrible US foreign policy is,
no matter how directly our way of life is predicated upon exploitation and war
beyond site or mind, so many of the people within this sheltered, idyllic world
are wonderful, and want nothing more than happiness for others.
I took my leave from the group after eating dinner with the
whole mission, kids and all, at a brewery - which was the only restaurant open
that could facilitate the size of our party. They wondered where I would sleep. I did as well, but I had hatched a plan, and needed to part
– they had given me enough already, and I was starting to feel like a
weight. I had a place to stay, I
assured them, which I could get to by the Metro. In my head I knew I would head to the airport, where I would
sleep the night and then hitch again in the morning.
I found the nearest metro station and checked to make sure a
route ran to the airport (and that the airport was west, and along the highway
– both nice setups for my next day).
Upon walking to the metro, bags in back and hand, I passed bars where
drunk upper-class whites bobbed and weaved through the sidewalks. I walked behind a couple who was
clearly intrigued by my presence.
After a short while, the man turned to me and asked me where I was
coming from. He was about my
height, stocky, with a belly and a mustache and the cocky heir of a man who had
figured everything out, and had been waiting impatiently for years for the
world to catch up. His girlfriend
was more slight, and more attractive (as is often the case for rich, cocky
men). I told them my story, and
the man was excited because he was from Virginia, where I started. He was also feeling pretty good.
He whipped out a twenty and handed it to me as if it were a
piece of scrap paper from his pocket.
He offered it with the arrogance of a man who didn’t care about it, but
would still somehow be insulted if I didn’t accept it. So I did. They wished me luck as I walked away, and the 20 in my
pocket felt dirty. And so did I.
Why would this man give me money? Why did it feel so utterly
wrong, when the kindness of my previous hosts, which I had earnestly accepted,
had far outweighed the generosity of this guy and his cash? It occurred to me that once again, I
was receiving things I did not need.
I was loitering in the gluttony of people inclined to help those who
they saw as similar to themselves.
The man even admitted to me that he wished he had had the balls to do
what I was doing when he was young.
So here was some money… because what I was doing was so ‘cool’.
And who am I to judge that… I began to question what I had
told the officer earlier. I mean,
really – was I so short on the money that I couldn’t afford another method of
travel? Was I really so interested
in meeting lots of new people? Or
did I just want to have a cool story to tell about the time I hitched across
the country? Did I want to ensure
that I could feel secure and relish the adventure that was my youth, when I am
old and dry and have sucked all of the advantage out of my looks and youth and
wit? After all, I could get out of
this mess anytime. I could get a
job, be well paid, where suits, join the system. I chose this way, and that
makes me somehow more …. But more what? I was reminded of the man stuck at the
gas station…. How those who really
needed things were passed by in disgust, while I was given rides and dinner and
20 dollars for nothing at all.
I approached the next homeless man I saw – sitting on a park
bench. I said hello. He pretended he couldn’t see me, ignored
me, as if I was there to harass or bother him like so many others before
me. I handed him the twenty
dollars. His eyes lit up with a
gleam of a soul that knew what true need really was. ‘Hey, thanks man!’.
The words were so genuine that it cleansed the dirtiness of that twenty
from my hand. The money. The unencumbered exchange of
value. I asked him to spend it on
something good. I didn’t care what
that meant.
I rode to the airport, pondering this society. How can we who have so much let others
go in need without offering a helping hand? Is it because we isolate ourselves from that need, or
because we just don’t know how to help?
Maybe some just don’t care.
But in the end that same isolation kills each one of us inside, while it
is literally killing others. I have lived in places where there is much less,
and people are truly poor, where no one would tolerate allowing another person
to starve. Yet here, many sit
freezing and abandoned on the cold concrete that forms our ‘civilization’.
At the airport I laid out my air mattress and rested for the
evening – preparing to start another day on the road. One which I would choose in lieu of a flight I could
probably afford. I was grateful
for choice. I knew that the man on the park bench would get kicked out of this
airport if he tried to sleep here, but that I would be allowed to stay. I wondered how things could be so
unfair, so backwards. And to this day,
I’m shaken with the thought that it took me choosing to take the hard road to
realize that, even when I try, I cannot shake the advantages of my life. I did little
to earn them, and I probably deserve them less than those who truly need
them. Yet somehow, I can’t
transfer them.
Thus ended another day of me pretending to live free of my
privilege.
No comments:
Post a Comment