Take 2

My mind is reeling from this weekend. It was the second time I've been to San Francisco.

First off, it is such a colorful city, just bustling with life. So many different people live there, such a variety of souls. I had a fantastic time trying to understand reality a little better by exploring the art museums and Basilicas and churches. I felt a connection to the history as I walked along Haight Street. I felt like a little kid wandering through Golden Gate Park on trails that led nowhere and everywhere. I felt like I was in high school again as I played the disc golf course in Golden Gate Park. I felt so joyful and blessed to sit in an Ethiopian restaurant with dear loved ones as we used our hands to share a tasty (and meat-free!) feast off one plate. And I felt like I was on top of the world (or at least Half Dome) after trekking up stairs to Coit tower to see the beauty the city has to offer at night. All the time with a cool ocean breeze filling my nose (along with every other wonderful and stinky smell that came and went) and people that are way too interesting and good for me to be so lucky to be around.

Upon first getting to the city, I was feeling something between wanting to cry out of sadness and wanting to punch someone in the face out of anger. (I did neither). As we drove along the streets, some people with me (people who call themselves Christians, I believe) began making jokes and comments about not only the poor and the homeless, but really anyone who didn't possess the same exact qualities as themselves. And as I now process some of the feelings I had at the time...I think I figured out what was wrenching inside me. Aristotle talks about potentiality and actuality. I tend to view people in terms of their potential. I want to tell each person, "You were meant for amazing things." Even if they do look funny, or if they are a complete asshole, or are spending every dime and thought on the next fix, they are better than their worst. And, I know the people saying these comments are better than that; and the people the comments are being said about are better than the commenter is making them appear.

And I say to myself, "Whitney, Whitney, they are just words. Relax." But I know that is not true. Words are powerful. The small jokes and comments we make are meaningful. We can use words to make ourselves appear powerful and better than the rest. Words manipulate and continue evil notions that need not be continued. A little "meaningless" racist or sexist joke continues the stereotypes and biases that create the broken world we are a part of. And, I know...I know deeply that I am not good at using my words wisely. I also manipulate and hurt people with the words I use...making myself appear better than I am and wiser, and more interesting. Little things slip out of my mouth that belittle others and raise myself up a little more. And I am so sorry for all that I have said that does that to others. I screw up. I screw up a lot.

I am confused about how to deal best with poverty. Or, really, how to care for beggars. I cannot avoid eye contact. Not meeting their eyes would be treating a beggar like an animal. Meeting their eyes means stopping and listening to the proposition. And, most often that means I am refusing to give them the money they ask for. And, that seems to not be obeying Jesus' command to give to the poor. And...I have no idea what to do. It is so much bigger than me. So much bigger than one interaction, or even the hundreds of interactions that I met this weekend. I wish there was a simple answer, but it seems that we've created such a hierarchical world that there are only complex answers now (or maybe the answers were always more complex than they appeared).

The closest I have come to a simple answer tonight: two friends and I were sitting on a bench waiting for another friend to get off a bus nearby. A man walks up and says, "I'll give you a twenty for some herb." And we kind of chuckle about how he said it. Then, the friend sitting to my right says something and we end up finding out that he was deaf or something and couldn't really hear what my friend was saying and needed to read lips. But, none of the words really matter. The interesting thing about this was that I felt like the four of us were friends when he came up to us. There was this sense, I guess, that we were all just chilling. And, maybe that is the simple answer. In these incredibly short interactions with the poor, there has to be some kind of judgement-free, hospitable, "we're-on-the-same-level-here," cruising together exchange. maybe...maybe there are leagues of complexity beyond that.

And so, I will keep struggling. And I'll write about in the meantime. And maybe you can think about it too...and then you can write about it or talk about it or write a song about it...or poem or dissertation...or live differently...or dream differently.

-------------------------------------------------------------

I am also confused about some inner turmoil happening that is probably going to end up quite vague on here (and it seems kind of ridiculous to write about in comparison to the slightly larger issue I just wrote about). I have no clue how to interpret my own feelings, no idea when to act and when not to, when to rely on reason or when to rely on feeling or even command. I don't know what I want...and that's okay because what I want is not all that important to how I live or what I do. But still...I kind of wish I knew just for the sake of knowing. And I get nervous in relationships and friendships. I get nervous that I will continue to see past the bad parts of people (especially the people I really like) and notice most obviously their good, but that they will forget the good in me and only see the bad and the faults. And that scares me. the end.