We Know Who We Are
Old Movie, Old Friends
I went to a meeting downtown at the District Building (city hall) a few weeks back to meet with Adam Sterling of the Sudan Divestment Taskforce and the legislative aide to the councilmember whose committee is tasked with reporting out divestment legislation for the District of Columbia. Ostensibly, it was a "strategy" meeting, but because passage is a slam-dunk exercise, it was pretty much pro forma and very informal.
(Incidentally, the hearing went well, and we expect the bill to be fast-tracked for a vote sometime this month. Ya-aay. Doin' my happy dance.)
Adam and I left together and headed uptown. It was hot. And not just hot; it was DeeCee hot. The "Founding Fathers" (their brains obviously addled by the heat and possibly malaria) built this town on a swamp (think "Foggy Bottom"), and even by early spring the heavy, languid air hangs like a wet towl against your skin. Stifling. I cheerily gave Adam the business for wearing a coat and tie. He shrugged, explaining it's his first summer in Washington.
Oh, yeah. He'll learn. ;)
The movie "Killer of Sheep" http://www.killerofsheep.com/ was playing nearby at the E Street Cinema (I recommend it), and I'd planned to attend the 5:30 screening, but the meeting was short. Checking the time, I realized I could probably make the 3:45, missing only the coming attractions trailers -- if I humped it. So, I peeled off from Adam by the National Press Building at 14 & F and doubled-timed it on over to 11th & E in the steamy heat. I arrived in the lobby -- whew! -- only to find the show began at 3:30.
Bummer.
So, I decided to cool my heels at the Starbucks a block and-a-half away, where I nursed a grande mocha frappuccino, trying not to think about the work I had waiting for me at home -- and what that 420 calories was doing to my rear end. What the hell? It was hot, and I had a chocolate jones. I spied a vacant seat by the window and happily settled the object of my concern in a comfy chair to watch the people show. When I figured the time was right, I ditched the cup and retraced my steps to the cinema.
I was early, so I parked my calorie-enhanced bee-hind on a bench against the wall and waited for the theater to clear.
I spied a black couple (yep, there are still a few of those around!) heading a procession of people leaving the theater, and I asked them their impressions of the movie. We spoke briefly (they gave it a tumbs up), and then suddenly I heard someone call my name. Damned if right behind them wasn't an old friend from college whom I hadn't seen in, perhaps, 20 years.
"Roy!" I responded, pleasantly surprised.
He stepped over the ropes separating us and joined me on the bench, and we talked for a time.
I remember Roy as taciturn. Cool. That afternoon and the few times we've spoken since, he and I probably have had more to say to one another than the whole time we were in school together. More, even, than when the "Mean Mobile 13" made the trip down to Sippi (Holly Springs) piled nearly on top of one another in a fonky, old van to do a get-out-the-vote thing with Charles Evers' people.
And then just as I was telling him I never ran into people from Howard, Cool Roy says nonchalantly, "Now, here's someone you remember from Howard."
I follow his gaze, and I see another brutha from back in the day, only it's been maybe 35 years since I last laid eyes on him.
Unlike with Roy, I easily could have passed Jeff by on the street without a second glance; I wouldn't have recognized him immediately. But as soon as Roy named him, I looked more closely -- and, sure enough, it was "Brother Purple." He was slimmer, but he had the same eyes. And there was that familiar profile.
Roy had asked me earlier how I knew who he was. I looked at him and told him he hadn't changed. And he hadn't -- not really. Despite gaining a few pounds, he was much the same.
I certainly could have asked him the same thing about me.
I also was blessed to spend time earlier this year with another friend from Howard, a Kenyan citizen, for the first time in maybe 20 years -- now, sadly, deceased. Kiagu (I love you, my dear brother) was ill and undergoing chemotherapy. I found him much thinner and with graying hair and crowsfeet when he smiled. But he still had the same beautiful face; chocolate skin; and clear, almond eyes.
Still, I'd have recognized him by his voice alone. It had a lilting resonance, a serenity and dignity -- the kind of voice that beguiles old women and delights wide-eyed, burbling infants. I even saved his voice mails for a time -- until it became too painful to hear them. They are erased, and Kiagu is with the Ancestors.
Curious. How distinct we are among billions. And how, no matter what, there's almost always something very recognizable about each of us over time. Through all the years and the changes, there's a sameness, a continuity, an essence that is constant. It may be in the voice, the face, something in the eyes, a gait, a gesture, or merely a pose -- or something else completely inexplicable/intangible.
But it's there. In the end, something almost always gives us away.
I guess it's kind of like how animals recognize one another after years of separation and changes of all kinds -- amputations, disfigurement, old age, debilitation.
We're ratted out by some timeless something branded, seared into our DNA, and by the unerring second sight of others -- both traits likely developed over time to ensure the survival of the human family, the continuity of species or clan. These things are givens; we take them for granted.
Yet, in the end, they really are truly remarkable: inherence and discernment and the uncanny ken of kin.
