I think I forgot to mention last week how a random stranger stopped me for a ride. A teeny elderly Bolivian woman flagged me down in a terribly residential, and remote part of DC last week, pleading for a ride to the nearest bus stop. Luckily, I was going in that very direction, and knew where to take her. The whole thing just struck me as funny.
I am so used to people formerly sizing me up as some militant man-hating, anti-establishment lesbian, clutching their purses as they passed, and almost shrieking with a grimace. It's strange now to simply pass as a guy, and a well mannered one at that. The perfect gentlemen...
It felt great that I could help this elderly woman, and better still that she trusted me enough to get in my car, despite my countless visible tattoos, and dark sunglasses. (The filmic villains always have tattoos and dark sunglasses. And a van... I have no van.)
After chatting for several minutes about how she used to live in this neighborhood, and now lives over the line in Maryland, but still works for a woman out here, yada yada yada, it was clear that she knew she was safe with me. It was such a flattering feeling. I still imagine myself looking like some shifty character that people feel threatened by, and therefore want to strike first, or keep their distance completely. Seeing this little old lady look at me with such candid appreciation and warmth as we pulled up to the bus stop was life altering to me.
I guess this is what they mean by 'crossing over.' It was aided by the fact that as she gathered up all of her articles while preparing to exit my car, she reached with one hand for the car door handle, and reached for my arm with her other hand. She clasped my forearm tightly, and as any good grandmother would do, she thanked me again, and said: "You are a very good man. I will be praying for you. God Bless You!" in her thick Bolivian accent.
I don't believe in god, but lord knows I need all of the prayers I can get. It made me think that maybe she wasn't the one who needed saving that day.
I am so used to people formerly sizing me up as some militant man-hating, anti-establishment lesbian, clutching their purses as they passed, and almost shrieking with a grimace. It's strange now to simply pass as a guy, and a well mannered one at that. The perfect gentlemen...
It felt great that I could help this elderly woman, and better still that she trusted me enough to get in my car, despite my countless visible tattoos, and dark sunglasses. (The filmic villains always have tattoos and dark sunglasses. And a van... I have no van.)
After chatting for several minutes about how she used to live in this neighborhood, and now lives over the line in Maryland, but still works for a woman out here, yada yada yada, it was clear that she knew she was safe with me. It was such a flattering feeling. I still imagine myself looking like some shifty character that people feel threatened by, and therefore want to strike first, or keep their distance completely. Seeing this little old lady look at me with such candid appreciation and warmth as we pulled up to the bus stop was life altering to me.
I guess this is what they mean by 'crossing over.' It was aided by the fact that as she gathered up all of her articles while preparing to exit my car, she reached with one hand for the car door handle, and reached for my arm with her other hand. She clasped my forearm tightly, and as any good grandmother would do, she thanked me again, and said: "You are a very good man. I will be praying for you. God Bless You!" in her thick Bolivian accent.
I don't believe in god, but lord knows I need all of the prayers I can get. It made me think that maybe she wasn't the one who needed saving that day.
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