2025/03/21: 100 km from Cape Town, winding through mountains, passing through a 180-degree road, a complete u-turn that connects us from Cape Town to an alternate universe. I miss the turn, and I have to do a real u-turn.
I am invited by a friend of a friend, to spend the three day weekend at her parents’ apple orchards. No one else in sight. Birds chime. Frogs croak. Shades of grey, dancing with the white and blue light trying to peak through the day. We seek the sun and the light, yet under shades of grey and blue, we can see more depth and distance. We are small. But we are not insignificant.
Last night, six of us strangers spend the day together. Walking, talking, chopping vegetables, making fire, eating, cleaning up and turning in for the evening. Coming together like this for the first time, there is a sense of politeness and extended pauses, careful not to talk over others. Don’t be shy. Come out and play. Creating space to get to know one another, respectfully. Patiently. A slow burn of what it will become, without expectations.
Her cousin flies in from Johannesburg. “Your feet look so nice and clean, well taken care of.”
“Thanks… well, I’m gay!”
“That doesn’t mean anything. I have a lot of gay friends, and their feet don’t look like that.”
He shares his story, a living evidence in the power of vulnerability. We listen with appreciation and gratitude,
Her new friend is recovering from her previous gig at a major consultancy firm. Learning how to make it rain. Becoming friends with the birthday girl, who brings moro gelato for dessert after dinner. Curious and considerate. Her large eyes behind a stylish white plastic frame, she smiles radiantly. Such beautiful eyes, I wonder what she sees through her lens?
Her brother arrives after I wake up from a nap. Fire is blaring, and conversation simmers. As I walk to join the crowd, he offers me his chair. Repeating the same action when another comes shortly after me. Taking his job seriously, he carefully flips the metal grill full of chops, asking how we like our meat. He loves data, not unlike his sister.
The lady of the weekend is welcoming. Offering her home and space. “If you get hungry, there is food in the pantry.” She tells us as she goes on her walk. Tending to her parents dog, making sure the furry 10-year Scottish Terrier is taken care of. Not eating what she’s not supposed to. Serving her dinner before humans can eat. Chopping up carrots for tomorrow morning’s snack before the 7:30am walk.
My friend, always considerate and patient. Adding flavor to conversations with a sprinkle of follow-up questions. Small interjections. Sharing and listening. Snack master, creating spreads, joyful to eyes, little morsels to fill our hungry bellies. A laughter. A snail had crowed up to her mug. She almost kissed it, as she took a sip!
I provide the canvas, asking questions to understand everyone better. An opportunity to glimpse into likes and dislikes. Trying to be present, while the mind tries to fast forward into the future. Come back, I beckon. Here you are, welcome back!
We paint broadly, with gentle outlines, everyone filling in, with their chosen colors and figures.
A blank space. A palette of soft blue and grey, I paint this weekend.
I met the birthday girl just a month ago, through a mutual friend. Honored to be invited to spend time away from civilization, next to the fourth largest dam in South Africa. Winds whistle through the green leaves and stalks, creating background music to accentuate local birds solo. Waking up slowly, no sense of time, nowhere to go, except be here together. I ask the birthday girl on a friend date, and she says yes.
2017: I walk through the World Trade Center Memorial, waiting for my sister and my friend to get out of work, keeping myself busy. Standing next to a wall, wearing a white shirt and black pants, shiny buttons and a badge of some sort. A young security guard. He smiles and makes eye contact, as I walk on by. I smile back, surprised to be seen. Happy to be acknowledged.
2004: She doesn’t speak nor does she smile as she hands me one wrapped in black plastic bag. Her eyes are kind, generosity expressed through her gestures. Sitting across from each other, we slowly peel the thin skin from the orange fruit, juicy and ripe, our fingers getting sticky as we take small bites. Feeling the stickiness trying to escape our mouths. Where there should be seeds are viscous pulps of gelatinous flesh. It is autumn, and I’m on a slow train back to Incheon. Devouring persimmon, savoring kindness of a stranger.
1997: On the other side of the copper wire, she tells me how much the course costs: $130. I cry into the receiver. “I really want to do this course but I don’t have any money.” I sob and say I understand before I hang up. A week later, I am told that I can attend the course for free.
1998: I am here early, joining the long line spilling outside. When it’s my turn, I tell her about being in the Reserves, and she tells me about her son in the JROTC. Nice small talk before her eyes glances my application. Few moments pass, and I wonder what’s wrong. “You know, you can only apply for your citizenship when you’re 18.” A pause, and a wrinkle in her nose.
“You know what, I will accept it now, seeing as your birthday is only few months away.” With a smile, she files it away. I’m five months early. Less than a year later, I get my citizenship notification in mail.
2000: The swearing-in ceremony is at Fanueill Hall. Excitement fills the air, and I’m here alone. At the front desk, I hand in my permanent residency card, in exchange for naturalization certificate. I find a seat in the middle, sitting next to another alien about to become a citizen. He is a local reporter and his colleagues are here to support him. They are sitting over there, among family and friends. A great speech precedes a swearing ceremony.
Few months pass, and John congratulate me in between classes. “For what?”
“Your citizenship?”
“How do you know”?
“I saw it on the papers.”
“…”
The same month, doing my one weekend a month at Fort Devens, Massachusetts. Colonel Sanders hands me a folded newspaper. “I was reading at Friendly’s, and I kept this for you. Congratulations!”
Still frame. I am standing next to the local reporter wearing a brown tie and tweed jacket, with both of our right hands up, getting sworn in. I am wearing my braids in a bun, with the grey angola sweater from Express. Captioned, “As American as American Pie.” A private moment, captured by local newspaper. No one had known about this, not because it’s a secret, but a necessity immigration admin I needed to get through. This, after I was disqualifed from applying to the Air Force Academy (I once wanted to be a pilot), because only citizens can attend.
On the same day, he asks me how it’s going with driving. I had just gotten my learner’s permit and told him I needed more practice.
“Ok, you’re going with me when we leave for our mission later.”
He hands me car keys to his brand new Pontiac Grand Am.
What is the golden thread here?
Snippes of kindness given without any possibility of reciprocity, through small, intentional acts.
Big smile feeding hunger for human connection. Saving newspaper, remembering, celebrating a big milestone. Offering your brand new car. Exuding confidence in my driving, giving me confidence. Comping a course to a poor girl who desperately wants to learn to fly. Providing a respite from the hustle and bustle of a city. Offering your sanctuary to an almost stranger.
Thank you.
[2 x 3 = 6 I say it out loud, as I walk home from school]
Leave a Reply