Perspective. On the surface it's not that great, or at least it wasn't earlier this evening. The accents had twang, the decoration lacked luster, and the Chinese food was without that certain je ne sais quoi. Only a cursory glance at the excessive girth of my fellow diners was enough to curb any appetite for a second lap at the buffet. This is Real America. And these are the people that decide elections.
It is North Carolina that I speak of, and North Carolina that I find myself in. As arduous as it was to get myself here, I am left to fear that it may yet be the easier portion of the journey, at least if recent memory holds precedent. Doubt and inconvenience managed to make the trip, though the former seems to only fully blossom once my eyes meet the Gray Lady like they did this afternoon, for the first time in two weeks. Writing this tonight is not a man with the at-plate confidence of Mighty Casey.
But it just might be a man with perspective. As much as I try to appreciate my life and understand its blessings vis-a-vis the slums of India or African dust bowls, I am also hesitant to be so reliant on the comparison. I have seen destitute places and know that my superficial circumstances will always be better, so I am not assuaged in those moments where self-pity provides the only soothing balm. I'm having a terrible run and the only comfort I'm finding is in understanding just how terrible it is.
Until perspective finds me, as it did last night. However bad your day is going, and mine was going relatively bad, try frowning in the mirror after talking about his native Sierra Leone with the friendly cabbie like I did. His story had to be among the most gleeful to emerge from the country, but that doesn't make it a pleasant experience. He didn't lose siblings or parents, but he did watch his homeland burn in the scant media attention it received. I was sure to tip him an extra dollar or two.
Then there's the Amtrak experience. I tell the conductor Rocky Mount and the stranger besides me parlays my destination into a thirty minute conversation. I'd guess he's younger than me, enough that I'd put him at no more than twenty-two when he went away to do his five years somewhere west of where I boarded. He told me the cost of cigarettes ($5), the number of fights he'd been in (four), and the amount of time it took for his wife to tell him she'd met someone else (two months) while he was in the Big House. I now know what it means to get "browned down" and that spending months on end stealing Blu-Rays from Walmart is not without its consequences. He says his dad hooked him up at the temp agency and his most reasonable aspiration for the time being is Jiffy Lube or "some shit like that."
And I'm having Car Trouble.
Of course, it works in both directions. There was some sense of validation the day before when I told the friendly gentleman in seat 12B about the great month of January 2013. He apologized for laughing; I took it as a compliment. In fact, I scrolled back through recall to find more anecdotes to pile on, not for an extended run of sympathy, but just to make a good tale better, a fresco more complete. We can all be someone else's beacon. From wheels up to wheels down, I was his.
It is North Carolina that I speak of, and North Carolina that I find myself in. As arduous as it was to get myself here, I am left to fear that it may yet be the easier portion of the journey, at least if recent memory holds precedent. Doubt and inconvenience managed to make the trip, though the former seems to only fully blossom once my eyes meet the Gray Lady like they did this afternoon, for the first time in two weeks. Writing this tonight is not a man with the at-plate confidence of Mighty Casey.
But it just might be a man with perspective. As much as I try to appreciate my life and understand its blessings vis-a-vis the slums of India or African dust bowls, I am also hesitant to be so reliant on the comparison. I have seen destitute places and know that my superficial circumstances will always be better, so I am not assuaged in those moments where self-pity provides the only soothing balm. I'm having a terrible run and the only comfort I'm finding is in understanding just how terrible it is.
Until perspective finds me, as it did last night. However bad your day is going, and mine was going relatively bad, try frowning in the mirror after talking about his native Sierra Leone with the friendly cabbie like I did. His story had to be among the most gleeful to emerge from the country, but that doesn't make it a pleasant experience. He didn't lose siblings or parents, but he did watch his homeland burn in the scant media attention it received. I was sure to tip him an extra dollar or two.
Then there's the Amtrak experience. I tell the conductor Rocky Mount and the stranger besides me parlays my destination into a thirty minute conversation. I'd guess he's younger than me, enough that I'd put him at no more than twenty-two when he went away to do his five years somewhere west of where I boarded. He told me the cost of cigarettes ($5), the number of fights he'd been in (four), and the amount of time it took for his wife to tell him she'd met someone else (two months) while he was in the Big House. I now know what it means to get "browned down" and that spending months on end stealing Blu-Rays from Walmart is not without its consequences. He says his dad hooked him up at the temp agency and his most reasonable aspiration for the time being is Jiffy Lube or "some shit like that."
And I'm having Car Trouble.
Of course, it works in both directions. There was some sense of validation the day before when I told the friendly gentleman in seat 12B about the great month of January 2013. He apologized for laughing; I took it as a compliment. In fact, I scrolled back through recall to find more anecdotes to pile on, not for an extended run of sympathy, but just to make a good tale better, a fresco more complete. We can all be someone else's beacon. From wheels up to wheels down, I was his.
