People I’ve Met
Things did not work out between me and the Young Man at the Comedy Show. It’s been a rough couple of weeks, but I’m starting to feel better. The crying is now limited to just the mornings and the evenings…as opposed to on the hour, every hour, of every day.
I hear that soon enough, the pain in my chest will subside and I will be able to look back on this experience with clarity and insight that only time and distance can bring. However, as with most things in my life–my shortlived romance the most recent example–I’m impatient. I want answers now. But they are not coming–at least, not in the way I want.
They may, however, be coming in the way that I need. Perhaps this all happened for me to truly appreciate the People I’ve Met. Family and friends who have supported me through my first relationship–at the ripe old age of 30–and who have displayed an extraordinary amount of patience, love and understanding through my first heartbreak.
There’s my mom, who gives unbelievably accurate advice, despite having never dated or been in a relationship with anyone other than my dad. It’s like she could read my mind when she said, “you have nothing to be ashamed of, you did nothing wrong.”
Then there’s my dad–nothing upsets him more than seeing me sad. He hates it so much that he spent an entire weekend trying to drug me with a happy pill. When I told him that grieving over a broken relationship was normal, he stopped the pill pushing and instead sent me a Yahoo news article: “Breakup Recovery 101: 5 Rules You Must Follow!”
My friend NoMoHo, has given me advice throughout this entire ordeal, using her past experiences to help me learn from her mistakes and lessen my heartache. She told me I was brave and strong to walk away from something that wasn’t working, even though doing so made me feel defeated.
The Psychologists of San Diego opened their home to me when I fled the City to get away from anything that reminded me of what would not be. The Dr. Mrs. provides me critical online support all day, everyday, calmly talking me through my mood swings. Sadness to anger to acceptance…back to sadness again.
There’s the Persian of the East Bay, whose own life story of enduring illness and loss with grace and gratitude, humbles and inspires me. Her husband insisted that I visit them this past weekend so he could tell me—in person and from a man’s perspective—that I’m a catch and that I should hold out for someone who recognizes that enough to work to be with me.
And there are countless others whose prayers, calls, and e-mails could fill up a blog of its own. When things broke off, I kicked myself for having told so many people about the relationship in the first place–just more people, I thought, to whom I now owe an explanation to as to why things didn’t work out. But now I see the wisdom in that too. I may have lost someone I love, but am blessed with a reminder that I’m still surrounded by people who love me.
Thank you for the People I’ve Met.
the Lady with the Dog
Baraka recently moved. As she was preparing to leave the neighborhood where she had lived for the past 5 years–taking pictures and walking by her usual haunts for the very last time–I was reminded of my own move just a year ago, from the apartment I had lived in for my first three years in San Francisco.
My old roommate and I ate at Shalimar the night before we moved out. We considered it our neighborhood joint–the guys behind the counter knew our names and placed our regular order right when we walked through the door. We were able to say goodbye and let them know that they wouldn’t be seeing us around anymore because we were leaving the neighborhood. But I often think about all the other people who I used to run into on a daily basis–what are they up to and do they wonder what happened to me?
There was the crosswalk lady with the orange vest in Chinatown, holding up the STOP sign so the little Chinese kids could make it safely onto school grounds without getting plowed over by MUNI bus 30 or cars trying to get through rush hour traffic. The tall, elderly gentleman, who nodded to me each morning as we passed each other on the steep Russian Hill, he effortlessly strolling downhill, me huffing, puffing and sweating my way uphill. Then there was the lady with the dog. She looked a like a typical San Francisco hippy, long graying hair and a messenger bag adorned with peace buttons and patches slung across her chest. She would smile at me as I walked by, patiently waiting for her dog to finish up his morning business.
I unexpectedly saw her in the financial district last week. We were standing kitty-corner from each other at an intersection, waiting for the light to change so we could cross the street. I saw her before she saw me. When she glanced my way, her face lit up–she grinned at me and waved enthusiastically. The look on her face seemed to say, “there you are! I was wondering what happened to you!”
The light changed and we both went our separate ways once again.
Thank you for the Lady with the Dog.
the Young Man at the Comedy Show
This blog has been on hiatus recently because much of my time has been taken up with a Person I Met a few months back. With a couple of exchanged glances and an uncharacteristically bold move on my part, my prayers were answered in the most unexpected way.
I hope to resume my writing shortly.
In the meantime…
Thank you for the Young Man at the Comedy Show.
the Man with a Moment for Peace
The streets of San Francisco’s Financial District are so filled with people, that I’ve developed the not-so-admirable skill of ignoring most of them.
I’m a behind-the-desk lunch eater, so if I leave my office during the day, it’s usually because I’m trying to get somewhere. I can passively appreciate the man who sets up his keyboard on the corner, his music filling the streets and echoing off nearby buildings, but don’t feel like actively engaging the Greenpeace volunteer about the plight of the polar bears.
I realized the error of my ways a few weeks back.
I had a 4 hour meeting starting at 1:00 and knew at 12:40 that I would not make it without lunch. I dashed out of my building, was ripped off by the San Francisco Soup Company ($6 for a bowl of corn chowder? really?) and headed back to the office. I’m making good time, I thought. I’ll have plenty of time to eat my lunch and peruse Facebook before this marathon meeting.
A block from my office though I inadvertently made eye contact with a young man who was clearly soliciting something. D’oh, I muttered under my breath, quickly looking away and pulling out my blackberry to pretend as though I was checking a very important e-mail–I hope he won’t stop me. He did.
“Excuse me,” he said with a huge smile on his face, “do you have a moment for peace?”
“No, sorry.”
The minute the words came out of my mouth, I felt like a fool. I had just told this guy that I was so busy and so important that I didn’t even have a moment for peace. But it was too late to take it back. He had already turned away
As I walked back to my office, I wondered what it was that he wanted to talk about. Exactly when had I developed this knee-jerk reaction to cut people off before they could even speak?
I decided that afternoon that if someone tries to stop me on the street to hand me a flier or chat me up about their cause, I will use it as an opportunity to slow down and pause my day. If things get bad, I can always excuse myself.
Of course, now I don’t want to leave my office.
But, on the few occasions that I have, it’s been positive. In just a few weeks, I’ve received a 3 day free pass to the fancy gym Equinox, discount coupons to the frozen yogurt place YoCup, and an invitation to take a free personality test from the Scientologists!
Thank you for the Man with a Moment for Peace.
the new Neighbor across the hall
I love my apartment. It’s in a classic and well maintained San Francisco apartment building, complete with bay windows and crown molding. And in a city of hyperinflated rents, it’s a steal–the rent is so reasonable that when I first viewed the apartment, I asked the owner, “so what’s wrong with this place? Why is the rent so low?”
The one odd thing about my building is that I never see my neighbors. There are 12 units–all occupied–yet I went 2 full months after moving in before I met a single person who lives in the building. The first time I actually stopped to chat with any of them was on Halloween, as I waited with A & R in the lobby for a ride to our costume party. Unfortunately, I was wearing a blond wig at the time–it was such a great disguise that I had to reintroduce myself to one of the dudes when I ran into him in the laundry room last week.
It wasn’t until last month that I was struck by how sad it is that I don’t know any of my neighbors. I came home from work to find the front door of the apartment across the hall from me wide open. I didn’t think twice about it. When I saw it open the next morning, I was a little concerned. I thoughtlessly shrugged it off, thinking that the guy who lives there had just run downstairs to take out his trash. It wasn’t until I got home that night and saw that it was still open that I started to really worry. What’s going on?
I stood in front of the open door and tentatively called out, “hello?” When there was no answer, I knocked on the door and called out a little louder, “hello, anyone home?” No answer.
Should I go in? Oh God, what if he’s been murdered and is lying dead in pool of blood? I started to panic. Should I just call the cops?
I whispered a prayer under my breath and stepped cautiously into the apartment. It was a studio so I could see immediately that he wasn’t in the main room. Oh crap, he has a walk in closet. I peered in. Nothing. Oh no, what if he’s dead and floating in the bathtub? I peered in. Nothing.
Oh God, what if he’s been kidnapped and murdered and I never even bothered to find out his name?
I closed his door, ran back to my apartment and frantically called the owner. No answer. I left a message and had a not-so-great night of sleep.
The first thing I did the next morning was bolt across the hall and knock on his door. I heard shuffling, the door opened and there he was. You’re alive!! I wanted to shout. Instead, I told him that I just wanted to make sure that he was ok because his door had been open for the past couple of days. Thanks for checking in, he said. I’m moving out and they were showing my apartment while I was out of town. I think they just forgot to close my door.
Oh whew, I said, I thought something horrible had happened to you. I’m glad you’re ok.
I was back in my apartment before I realized that I had forgotten to find out his name.
My not-murdered neighbor moved out a few days later. There’s been a steady stream of handymen going in and out of the apartment for the past couple of weeks getting it ready for the new tenant
This morning as I left for work, I noticed a brand new welcome mat laid out in front of the apartment across the hall. To the side of the mat was a beautiful potted plant–its presence brightened up the entire hallway and brought a smile to my face.
I should stop by and introduce myself.
Thank you for the new Neighbor across the hall.
the Guy with the Line
I am incredibly dense when it comes to men. I can’t read any of the cues that precede someone coming up to me and explicitly stating his interest (i.e. the adult equivalent of the elementary school note: “I like you, do you like me? Check yes, no or maybe). I’m afraid I may be missing out on some life altering signs.
Last week, I attended a professional networking event for an organization that I’ve been a member for many years. I know how awkward networking events can be when you don’t know anyone, so I made it a point to welcome and introduce myself to new faces. One guy was particularly chatty and at the end of the night asked me for my business card. I didn’t think anything of it at the time–he’s a student and I was pretty sure that he wanted to follow-up with me about post-graduation job opportunities. I love the momentary feeling of grandeur as I hand out my business card–I made a big show of pulling out my business card holder and handing a card to him…and to everyone he was standing with, all of whom very politely accepted the card even though it was unsolicited.
He added me as a friend on Facebook that night. A few minutes after receiving his friend request, I received a message from him, inquiring about my Sri Lankan background. He wanted to let me know that he had visited Sri Lanka several years ago and loved the Island.
I wrote back immediately: “How cool! No one ever goes to Sri Lanka. What took you there?”
He wrote back just as quickly: “I was visiting my uncle who is an ambassador to Sri Lanka. I was really impressed by the beautiful city of Colombo. Hopefully, next time we will visit SL together.”
Hopefully, next time we will visit SL together.
I think I may be getting better at recognizing signs.
Thank you for the Guy with the Line.
the Hippie in the Haight
I started wearing hijab shortly before my 17th birthday. In the 10+ years since then, I can count only four instances where strangers took it upon themselves to tell me that they didn’t approve (two of which were offensive for the sheer unoriginality of the epithet used–really, people, towelhead is sooo 80s).
Far more common, on almost a daily basis, I reap the blessings of hijab. Doors opened and opportunities presented, smiles and nods from People I Meet, and acknowledgment and salaams from Muslim celebrities (sup Dave Chappelle and Mos Def, remember me?).
Frankly and thankfully, my experience wearing hijab has generally been so free from drama that sometimes I forget that I’m wearing something on my head that so markedly sets me apart from everyone else walking down the street.
Over the years, one brief interaction related to my hijab stands out for its absolute honesty and humor.
I was walking in the Haight with a childhood friend of mine, a Syrian-American who also wears hijab. We came to a stoplight, animatedly discussing something inane–boys, I think. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an ageing group of hippies sitting in a door stoop and observing us intently. Suddenly, one of them jumped up and ran over to us.
“Heyyyyyyy, you two don’t sound the way you look!!”
Thank you for the Hippie in the Haight.
the Preacher at the Church
Shortly before the inauguration earlier this year, I was stopped by an older black man on the street while walking in the Castro, late to meet a friend for brunch.
“Excuse me, can you please tell me where the black church is?”
“Sorry, I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You look like you live around here.”
I wanted to point out the obvious–I’m Muslim, I don’t go church–and the perhaps not-so-obvious–I’m not black.
Instead I just shrugged and apologized again. As I started walking away, he asked me, “Are you Muslim?” When I answered in the affirmative he stated, “You know, Obama is a Muslim.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“Yes, he is. I read his book.”
“No, he isn’t. I read his book too.” Question to self: why are you engaging in this conversation, you’re late for brunch.
The man launched into his thoughts about why Obama is Muslim. His father was Muslim, his step-father was Muslim and he lived in Indonesia, a Muslim country.
“That doesn’t make him Muslim.”
“You’re right. He’s not Muslim.”
Wow, he capitulated rather easily.
I thought about that man today as I walked by the black church I do know about, a block away from my apartment. The African-American population in San Francisco has dwindled significantly over the years, with the largest drop in black population of any large American city. Every Sunday, however, people come from all over the city to the Community Baptist Church–cars on the street are double and triple parked, and I like to watch as the congregants arrive.
I passed the church this morning at 11:00, shortly before services were about to start. Little girls in sweet Sunday dresses and older ladies with fancy hats made their way into the church.
I wanted to join them.
I go to the mosque every Friday, but I’m always in jeans (Friday is casual day at the office) and have to bolt out after prayer to get back to work. I miss going to the mosque on Sunday as I did every week growing up, where I could leisurely hang out and catch up with friends after prayer (and during Sunday school class).
As I passed by the church after a nice walk around the neighborhood, services were in full swing. A window was open and I could hear the preacher preaching and the congregation amen-ing. I stopped outside the open window, pretending to tie my shoelaces, hoping to catch some of the sermon. The microphone cut in and out, but I managed to hear the preacher reminding the congregation of the good works of Jesus and an admonition that I can never hear too many times (especially because I always seem to forget or ignore it): “If you’ve come for gossip, if you’ve come for idle talk, you shouldn’t have come at all.”
Thank you for the Preacher at the Church.
the Moroccan at the beach
My sister asked me when I plan on blogging about her. I shot her down immediately with a not-so-nice, “Never. I’ve already met you.”
But now I’m going to break a rule that I imposed when I started this blog…you know, 3 days ago. I’m going to write about someone I met almost four years ago, but who continues to surprise and amaze me. Even more so now that I’ve decided to be consciously thankful for the People I Meet.
It’s another beautiful weekend in San Francisco. Yesterday was W’s birthday, and she wanted to spend the evening over a bonfire, watching the sunset with her friends at Ocean Beach.
The evite for “Fire, Birthday and Friends” asked us to bring food, wood, and musical instruments. M, the resourceful Algerian, helpfully added in a comment to her RSVP that if we didn’t have have any instruments we could bring pots and pans. (Sure enough, she brought an aluminum bowl and a wooden mixing spoon, which she enthusiastically banged on while taking a break from playing her tabla).
French-Moroccan W has lived in SF for over 5 years and, more than anyone I know, has taken full advantage of living in the City where anything goes. She takes a crazy jumble of classes–meditation, ceramics, massage, tango, not to mention our weekly halaqa (study circle)–and embarks on the most interesting adventures–a weekend trip to a farm, a two week “green” bus ride down through Mexico and Guatemala, and an annual pilgrimage to Burning Man. Her warm and enthusiastic spirit, not to mention her wonderful ability to see the beauty in everything and everyone (“oh, it’s so beautiful”–said in a French accent), is truly inspiring.
Even still, I was amazed by the assortment of people who had gathered at the beach to celebrate her birthday. In just a couple of hours, I chatted with a Syrian, Mexican and Pakistani and danced and banged on a dhol with an Iraqi, Sudanese, and Egyptian–the Moroccans lit up a sheesha and the French and Palestinians hit a tambourine over the fire while singing old French songs. Our little drumming circle was briefly visited by a couple of SF hippies with dreads roaming the beach. They immediately went into a trance and danced, danced, danced, eyes closed in great concentration and appreciation for the music. S and I laughed so hard, we started crying.
I left shortly after the fireworks. W’s friend had picked up a reel of fireworks during their trip to Mexico and said he had been saving them for a special ocassion. W let out a huge whoop and hopped around a little at the news, “I love fireworks, I want them at my wedding!”
Oh, it’s so beautiful.
Thank you for the Moroccan at the beach.
the cute Boy on the bus
I was late to work again today.
People in my office usually get in between 8:30 and 9:00. I was just getting out of the shower at 9. I spent the morning skyping with my college roommate, who is doing her dissertation research in Brazil. Oh, and blogging. By the time we had wrapped up our convo, I had eaten breakfast and posted my blog entry, work emails were accumulating in my inbox and the red light on my blackberry was flashing. I managed to run out of my apartment at 9:15, only realizing I should have worn a coat as I stepped outside–another chilly day in SF. Whatever, I’ll live. I’ll just be a little cold.
The bus was arriving as I got to the stop and I fished in my purse for my wallet. The bus driver patiently kept the door open for me, watching as I pulled out my lunch, an old kleenex and my cell phone from my purse looking for my wallet. Uh oh, it’s not in here. I must have forgotten it when I switched from a black to a brown purse this morning. Ah ha, I thought, God doesn’t want me to be cold today. Now I can grab a coat! I waved at the bus driver and ran back home. I opened up my black purse. No wallet. Wth? Where is it? Omg, did Leah from the bus stop steal my wallet? Oh, it’s in the front pocket. Oops, sorry Leah.
I put on my coat and headed back out the door. Trip to work, take 2. I check my blackberry. D from the office says she’s waiting for me to give her edits to a document so she can continue working on it–the partner wants it ASAP. Argh.
I get on the bus, frazzled and a little stressed. There he is. I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s adorable. Latino, warm brown eyes, always impeccably dressed and listening to his ipod. And he never fails to smile at me when I see him on the bus. I smile back.
Thanks for having me forget my wallet and thank you for the cute boy on the bus.
