Taxi

"...to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell-type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that lit the stars --- compassion, love, and the subsurface unity of all things." - David Foster Wallace


   I took a cab home from work last night. The driver was a middle-aged man and he had a thick accent that I assumed came from somewhere in Africa. He asked me where I was heading, and then he returned to his cell phone conversation. His voice was loud and his demeanor jovial. He had large hands with knuckles like fat acorns, a big soft smile, and deep lines on his forehead. He laughed often and with his whole body.

Sahara Desert

   As the cab took us south on Halsted, I noticed something irregular about the driver's speech. A hitch and a stutter. And I felt a bit surprised by that. I was surprised because I have a preconceived notion, a shallow stereotype, of what a stutterer is like. Anxiety ridden, timid, insecure, etc. And this man seemed to be far from any of those things.

   And then I realized that I was mistaken. There was no hitch. No stutter. The man was using a language that includes clicks and pops and something that seemed to come from the top of the throat and the roof of the mouth. As if he were gathering phlegm. The sounds were more quiet than those that were more familiar to my ears. Just soft and subtle sounds among the louder bits of English, French, and something unrecognizable.

   And as I listened intently to the man's conversation, I became more and more curious about him. I climb into at least a couple hundred cabs a year, and almost all of those drivers are foreign born. But this time, as I listened to these foreign sounds from the back seat, I stopped to consider just how radically different this man's native country may be from the one that he lives in now. And I wanted to know about those differences. Or perhaps there are more similarities than I'd guess. Which I'd also like to hear about. Either way, I just wanted to hear this guy's story.

   I didn't get his story though. He did finish his phone call a few blocks prior to pulling up in front of my building. So I was able to ask him where he was from. But that was it. I decided to be content with that.

Algiers

   He is from Algeria. The largest country on the African continent. Home to vast stretches of Saharan Desert. Home to the Atlas Mountains and Mediterranean coast lines. Large cities in the north. Oil reserves in the south. Home to obscene wealth and widespread poverty. Home to Berbers and Arabs. Home to despots and civil wars. Home to countless tribal groups and the cultural stamp of English/French/Italian colonial powers. Home to fishermen and blacksmiths. Beggars and thieves. Home to mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters. And home to cab drivers.  

   And I wonder where this cab driver's story fits in. He was born in Algeria. A little baby. Probably some time in the 1960s. Probably into one of the densely populated cities in the north. Perhaps Algiers? Maybe Oran or Constantine? How long did he stay there? What was his experience like? What was his family like? Did he leave them behind when he left the country? Or were they here in Chicago with him today? Were they even alive? Does he miss home? Does he lay awake at night and think of somebody that is half a world away?

Atlas Mountains

   Obviously I'll never know the answers to those questions. Our paths crossed briefly. I won't be more than a slight gust of wind in the story of his life. But I want him, even if it's just a small piece of him, to be a bit more than that in mine.

Room With A View

 
   I was at a high school yesterday afternoon. I was there to help some students with their English papers. There were a lot of students in the Learning Resource Center, which is available for one hour after classes are over.  Many were working on their own. Perhaps just taking advantage of an atmosphere that is conducive to studying. Others were using the computers. And others were there in search of academic assistance. The latter group is the smallest, though not for lack of need.

   It can be difficult to ask for help. Difficult to admit uncertainty or reveal any sense of vulnerability. This is true for most of us, but it's an insecurity that can be especially acute among adolescents. Though some of the students did seem to be more comfortable asking for help with some subjects than with others.

   I sat at the table designated for English tutors and waited for students. There were students at the math table, and several at the science table. One student asked me if I knew anything about quantum mechanics. I told her that I didn't, but that I'd try to read through the work with her and help in any way that I could until a more qualified tutor became available. Thankfully the cavalry arrived sooner, rather than later.

   I also talked with a teacher for a moment. We discussed the low levels of writing proficiency among many of the students. That was something that I'd seen firsthand through tutoring, but that she was more intimately familiar with. She nodded at the empty seats at the English table and said, "that's a tough one for them to admit they need help with."

   I thought about that statement for a while. For better or for worse, math and science are subjects that many people in our society struggle with. Perhaps that lessens the feelings of inadequacy for the students that need help in those areas.

   But English is different. Our relationship with words is personal. We use language to communicate with each other. We use it categorize and organize everything that we encounter in the complex world around us. And, perhaps most importantly, we use language to sort through and define our own internal thoughts and feelings. And in that sense, our words are intricately and inseparably tied to our sense of self.

   In that light, it makes sense that students would be hesitant to ask for help. The insecurities, anxieties, and self-doubt that seem part and parcel of being a teenager, would make the already difficult task of opening oneself to personal criticism seem absolutely unbearable.

   However, being sympathetic to that doesn't really help me as I sit at the table waiting for a student. I can create a recipe that spices up constructive criticism with sincere praise, but I still have to get some food in the kitchen in order to cook.

   I'd like to say that I had some sort of epiphany while waiting for students. That I discovered a method for miraculously breaking down the defensive barriers built by pride and fear. It feels good to wrap a nice little bow around the solution to a problem. But that didn't happen.

   I did eventually get a student to work with though. He was writing a paper on Macbeth. He knew what he wanted to say, but he wanted my help with the structural aspects of the paper. He knew that there were improvements to be made, and that those improvements were escaping him. He listened to my feedback openly and thoughtfully, and seemed eager take what he could from our exchange.

   His willingness to acknowledge his linguistic shortcomings was both refreshing and endearing. And I found myself searching for the source of that courage while we talked. He apparently excelled in other areas, such as the hard sciences. Maybe that success helped give him the confidence to address the things that he struggled with. Though I'm sure that there is much more to it than that. My interaction with him was brief. And any conclusions that I might come to about what makes him who he is, would be hopelessly incomplete.

   We finished up, and I looked at the clock. The hour was almost over. I looked around the room. I looked at the students. Watched them interact with each other. Saw a few knowing glances exchanged among friends. Noticed the top of the high school hierarchy of strong boys and pretty girls. And I saw a few fevered pencils quickening as the time to leave approached.

   There was something comforting about the familiarity of it all. There were plenty of outward differences between this environment and my own adolescence. But underneath, there was something timeless and reassuring. Something that said that all of life's dilemmas were here long before I was, and that they'll all be here long after I'm gone. There is a peace that comes with the moments that I can see this, and yesterday I got that peace for a little while.

The Words We Choose

"If thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought." - George Orwell


  Last month, TV cameras caught Lakers guard Kobe Bryant directing a homophobic slur at an NBA referee. The next day,  Kobe released an official statement in which he said "The words expressed do NOT reflect my feelings toward the gay and lesbian communities and were NOT meant to offend anyone." He explained that he was frustrated and in an emotionally volatile state, when he used the term. He also called in to radio talk shows and reached out to individual gay rights activists, in an effort to make it clear that he does not harbor any animosity towards gay people. In the days that followed, the topic was discussed ad nauseum in the sports world, complete with admonishments, condemnations, and a few dismissive "but that's not how he meant it" excuses. A hefty fine was issued by the NBA, and eventually the dust settled and the subject faded away. 


  And then about six weeks later it happened again. This time TV cameras caught Bulls center Joakim Noah using the same slur. The circumstances were not exactly the same. Noah was directing the slur at an unruly fan, as opposed to a referee. And Noah is a role player for his team, while Kobe is one of the most recognizable names in all of sports. But the circumstances were similar otherwise. Noah also explained that he used the slur in the heat of the moment. And he repeatedly stated that "that's not who I am." The sports talk shows once again took up the topic, and the league once again issued a hefty fine. But the dust eventually settled here too, and the focus soon shifted back to the game on the court.  


  I find it easy enough to believe that both of these men were sincere when they said that they had no intention of offending anybody in the gay community. Prior to these incidents, there was nothing to suggest that either one of them might be homophobic. Some may find Kobe to be a bit prickly, but bigotry doesn't really seem like his style. And in Noah's case, his personal background would lead most of us to expect him to have a more open minded view of people in general. 


  But the fact remains that they both chose to use a word that is clearly recognized across all parts of American society as a derogatory term for homosexuals. And, most importantly, they both did so with the clear intention of belittling a person with that word. That action is a tacit recognition of the fact that homosexuals are viewed by many in our society as inferior or degenerate, and it implies that the person using the word shares this view. 


  That implication may turn out to be false. It may be that in a moment of utmost frustration these men reached back into a playground lexicon for a word that would provide an easy and instant sting. Perhaps in a moment of weakness, they fell back on an old crutch. And it may be that in the years since that playground, both men have matured in their thinking and have come to see the dangers and limitations inherent in such broad generalizations and prejudices. 


  And if a moment of weakness is what it was, then that should be easy enough to forgive. We've all experienced moments when we've felt pressured and made decisions that we later regret. And in that case, a sincere apology will often be followed by sincere forgiveness. 


  However, it is one thing to forgive their actions, and quite another to excuse or dismiss them. The word is offensive for a reason. It is a symbol for an attitude of hatred and intolerance, and that hatred and intolerance has concrete consequences for millions of people. Anti-gay sentiment leads to workplace discrimination and harassment. It perpetuates institutionalized forms of discrimination such as bans on gay marriage. It helps to create a hostile social environment that leads many people, especially adolescents, to suicide. And it drives many to commit violent crimes against people that are gay or perceived as gay. 


  Of course, using a homophobic slur is not tantamount to beating a person because they're gay. A free thinking adult can choose how he or she is affected by the words that other people apply to them, whereas a violent assault leaves far less room for choice. 


  But words do have an effect too. They contribute, in either a positive or negative manner, to the collective view of a society. And they also have an impact on the person that is speaking. And that personal impact on the speaker is something that neither of these two men seem to fully grasp. 


  When Joakim Noah says that "that's not who I am", he is mistaken. It may not be who he wants to be, or how he wants to be seen by others. But like it or not, our words, our thoughts, and our actions are exactly who we are. Even the ones we regret. So when we find ourselves doing and saying things that we truly regret, our response should be to acknowledge that aspect of our thought process that we're uncomfortable with, and recognize it as our own. And with that honest assessment in hand, we can then begin to work through and correct our faults. And once we've done that, we can then offer a sincere apology that is deserving of sincere forgiveness. And we can bridge the gap between who we are and who we want to be.