Fear

This afternoon as I hurried to my train stop I noticed a young black man sitting, waiting for the train. (Yes, I said, "black."  I understand that his skin isn't really black; but my skin isn't white, either. This whole "politically correct" business makes me crazy—can't we just speak? Anyway, I have really digressed now.)

I didn't pay too much attention to him as I passed by to find a seat and wait for my train—not until he started walking toward me; it was obvious that I was his destination.  Instinct made me pull my bag a little closer to myself, and then, because his eye was on me, I felt stupid for doing it.  He walked right up to me and said hi; he said he liked my hair, and he asked me my name.  I was a little nervous, but I told him my first name.  He held out his hand and said his name was Paul, and shook my hand with a nice, firm grip (I hate wimpy hand-shakes). Paul asked where I was headed, and I told him what train stop I was going to; he said he was headed into Salt Lake. As all this exchange was going on, I was a little, tiny bit uneasy in the back of my mind.  Who was this guy and what did he want? 

Paul is young—maybe in his mid to late twenties, wears his hair in short dreads, has a little goatee, and he's blind in his left eye.  He wasn't dressed as well as the kids I go to school with, but he didn't look homeless, either. I found out that he works in Salt Lake City; he's been here for about four months and he thinks Salt Lake is "different."   He's from New York, but he's been to several places across the country. He has family in New York and in Jamaica.  He was in Jamaica when he was eight years old, but I don't know if that means that he lived there, or if he'd just gone for a visit. He's been hitch-hiking around the United States for the past ten years or so; he lived in Las Vegas for about a year and I have the impression that's the longest he's stayed put. I asked him, of the many places he's been, which place he liked the best.  He said he couldn't choose one.  "They all have their pros and cons; when you total it up, they even out."  But he did like living in California because he could go to the beach every day, and he says that in San Diego the weather is perfect all the time.  I said I couldn't imagine living that way—moving around all the time—and asked if he liked it.  His answer about life was kind of the sameas his answer about places:  he has good and bad days, same as anyone; you can decide to like it or not; you make the best of life.

In turn, Paul found out that I've lived in Salt Lake all my life except for three years in Tennessee.  He knows that I don't like very hot or very cold weather, but if those are my choices I'd prefer cold (he'd prefer hot.)  He learned that I am going to fashion design school, but that I don't know what I'm going to do with this education later.  We talked for about ten minutes, waiting for and then riding the train.  At his stop he said, "So long, sweetie," and left to switch trains.  He was a nice young man.

So I thought about this for the rest of my train ride.  My very first instinct when I saw Paul was to hold tight to my stuff.  Really, if he had taken it he'd have been more disappointed than I would have been—a textbook, a bolt of muslin, a notebook, and a sewing kit.  I am embarrassed by my reaction.  All he wanted was someone to talk to for a few minutes. 

You know, most people are pretty nice.  So why are we all so afraid of them?