Crossing Paths
August 11, 1996
I met Austin on an Air France flight from Paris to Chicago, a successful businessman who owns a company that makes infant products. He is an American success and yet spoke to me of things closest to his heart, his daughters. His oldest daughter has a master’s degree in sociology and was dating a waiter. I asked Austin if maybe this waiter had other goals as many waiters do, such as night school and a brighter future. Austin said no, he is definitely a born loser, and he rides a motorcycle. He said to me, “I raised a flower…”
Austin’s second daughter is a social worker who always reminds him of his wealth and the poverty of others. He says that he does not want to be ashamed of what he has achieved. He grew up in the Bronx and for at least 20 adult years put in 12-hour days. Now that he owns a company, has a nice home in Connecticut and a vacation home in Florida, he wants to enjoy the good life without feeling guilty.
I believe they all, waiter included, achieved success and happiness in their lives because the lines of communication were clearly open. Austin is a sensitive and caring person and they all have good solid hearts.
August 12, 1996
Celeste is a Parisian citizen with a U.S. work visa. She works for a wealthy family in Manhattan as a nanny. Although she has some college credits, she enjoys the couple she works for and their two children, ages 3 and 9, and knows her position is less stressful than teaching a roomful of children. She drives for the family and does the cooking. I asked her about health and retirement benefits. She said that she has health and retirement benefits, four weeks vacation per year and is well paid. She has her own apartment and shows up for work at 8:00 a.m. and leaves at 7:00 p.m., just like a regular job. She was returning from a visit to Paris to see her family and was happy to be coming home to her Manhattan family.
August 13, 1996
One of my goals was to try escargots in Paris. The only dream I had during the entire vacation was about slimy snails inching their way across a dirt path, their antennae actively moving as they advanced with quiet determination. The snails were served in a wine sauce sprinkled with herbs. While they were tasty, I don’t think I need to have them again as there are other, more delicious dishes to be had. One of the people on the tour told us about going to a fancy restaurant in the States and ordering escargots. Theirs were in the shell and she had to use a small fork to get the snails out. Unfortunately, she flipped her wrist a bit too much and the snail went flying out and onto her nephew’s new shirt. He wore the shirt backward during the rest of the dinner.
August 14, 1996
My favorite dining experience in Paris was in a cafe located near the Eiffel Tower. The maitre d’ looked as if he should be working at a pizza parlor or an Italian restaurant. He was round and jovial and seated us promptly. The waiter was also pleasant. My daughter’s geography teacher had told the class that the French do not like Americans. She said it’s better if you say you’re from California, then Hollywood. We always returned greetings in French and could easily say bon jour or bon soir. We thanked them, merci, and learned new words such as addition for the check. When I go back, I will have a better French vocabulary. I will sit in a cafe for as long as they let me and watch the world go by as I write.
August 30, 1996
I don’t know what it is about cucumbers, but every time I bite into one, it makes me feel so good. Sometimes I slice them up and marinate them in salt, vinegar and sugar. Or I’ll have it like the Mexican vendors serve them, peeled but not sliced, coated with lemon juice and salt. Of course, they’re wonderful in salads. One day I found myself wondering again why I liked cucumbers so much. I think it is because as a child, we had cucumbers in the garden and I was able to pick them off the vine, scrape off the thorns, and eat them on the spot. I also remember the freedom of playing in the mud, making mud pies, and getting dirty that are part of my cucumber memory.
A Writing Exercise: YOU ARE INVISIBLE
If I were invisible, I would check out all the places that say Forbidden, Do Not Enter, or Keep Out, and then I would go to the board rooms of the largest corporations to listen to their conversations, then the State Department, the Pentagon, and perhaps even the White House, out of curiosity. I would go to the payroll departments of these places to see what the salaries are like. I would also go anywhere else that I perceive to be forbidden to me because of gender, race, lack of credentials, money, or status.
When I tired of these concerns, I would go to Hanama Bay in Hawaii, don my invisible diving gear and wade past the tourists who are snorkeling and feeding the fish by hand and go deeper and deeper enjoying the silence and marveling at the schools of silver fish with blue and red lines and the reflection of the sunlight on their bodies. I know I would encounter brilliant colors and be dumbstruck by the infinite variety of sea and plant life. I would go deeper and deeper and try to adjust to the darkness.
As sure as I am sitting here, not invisible, I know that I would soon find on the ocean floor near the life that dwells at the bottom, tin cans, inner tube tires, fish knives, old shoes, beer bottles and drums of toxic waste with deadly liquid leaking out from corroded containers. I would not waste my time pulling my hair in rage or crying out in pain at the evidence of human encroachment and stupidity, but I would hurry back up above the surface and join a world that needs me in a visible state, needs me to turn on a light or break a wall or open a door or make a passage for someone else.
I know that I will at times discover that the walls were created by me and not by anyone else; at other times I will be locked out by walls that others have placed in my path. I will say to myself, “I might as well be invisible — nobody sees me and nobody hears me.” But at the end of my life, I would like to be able to say, “At least I tried.”