What Happens When You Feel a Stranger's Pain?

Stories from my recent travels.

Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

It’s 5pm on a Monday a few weeks ago, and I’m in Minneapolis standing on North Washington Avenue with my back to the Hewing Hotel. Across the street is an establishment called the Deja Vu with a huge pink marquee announcing “1000s of beautiful girls and 3 ugly ones.” I wonder how many of the women who work here cringe whenever they pass underneath it.

I’m in town for a three-day visit at the city’s premier independent school where I’ll give a number of lectures, visit ten different classrooms, and meet with students in small groups. I’m staying at the Hewing, a majestic former agricultural expo facility turned art school turned hotel, which improves the neighborhood considerably.

I enter the Hewing and take in the soaring ceilings, exposed brick, and enormous old beams that hold it all together. I find my way to the lounge, sit on a barstool, and order a burger, homemade chips and a side salad to-go. After I eat I’ll unpack and then head into a city council meeting with the folks back home on Zoom which will begin at 7pm and likely go past midnight.

As I scroll my phone and wait for my food to come out, to my left ten feet away are two servers. They’re gabbing with the bartender who stands across the bar from them polishing glasses for the drinks he hopes to make tonight. Colleagues talking absentmindedly. Ribbing each other. Laughter. All of which I find more captivating than Instagram.

“I have a will.” One of the servers says. She’s blonde and dressed efficiently with an attitude that is matter-of-fact.

“YOU have a will?” Says the bartender, mid thirties, male. “How OLD are you?”

“Nineteen.” The blonde goes from matter-of-fact to defiant and proud.

“YOU HAVE A WILL AT NINETEEN, that’s like adulting yo.” I watch the bartender’s body language. He scans his life for whether he has anything the hell to show for it.

“I’ve been working full-time since I was thirteen.” She explains. Clearly the adult in the room.

For reasons that are obvious to anyone who knows me, I couldn’t help but eavesdrop. The conversation went on to cover the server’s inadequate parents, her true asshole of a grandfather, and the importance of any of those people not being in charge of her possessions should she kick the bucket before her time. (Hence, the will.) I raise my eyebrows gently to honor the depth of pain coming over the transom, and nod my head every now and then. Then I remind myself to look away so as not to join a conversation that has nothing to do with me and is in fact none of my business.

In ten minutes, a different server hands me two waxy brown cardboard boxes. I grab my food, hop off the barstool, and walk over to the blonde. “I didn’t mean to overhear,” I tell her, which was kind of a lie I suppose. “I just want to say it sounds like you’ve been through a lot. I’m so sorry your childhood was like that.”

“Oh don’t worry about me, I’m good,” she says with a smile that says she’s used to no one caring at all.

“I know,” I say, putting my hand up in a gentle stop. “But you deserved better than that.”

She looks at me with gratitude.

“I’m Nicole,” she tells me.

“I’m Julie,” I say. I add, “I write about adulting. You probably sense that you have an extra tray in your toolkit given what you went through, I mean compared to peers who had it easier.” She nods. I continue. “I’m not saying it was good that you had to go through all that. Just that because you went through that and you made it through, you actually have some skills and strengths that others don’t have. I just want you to know that.”

She smiles, looks down and around and back at me. My eyes attempt to apologize for everyone who has not done right by her. The bartender looks over at us as he wipes the bar. Nicole and I stare at each other across time.

I lighten the mood by introducing myself to the bartender and other server. “I wish you the best, Nicole,” I yell to this daughter of other people as I go. “Bye Julie,” she shouts. I head up to my hotel room for my dinner and a meeting that will go close to two a.m. all the while haunted by how powerful the everyday human story is.

The next night, I meet another human at the bar. This one is a thirty-something artist from LA named Cane who is sitting before an uneaten sandwich and chips trying to pen a social media post announcing the death of his mother to her Facebook friends. Nicole will make me a latte and not charge me for it as Cane’s story unfolds. I will down my caffeine and head out to give my second keynote of the day but not before learning that Cane’s mother was a single mother and that he was her only child. That the only thing he has ever feared in life is the the death of his mother. That she died yesterday and that his birthday is tomorrow. It breaks my heart.

I hold Cane at shoulder length and ask if he has someone he can turn to right now. He assures me he does. He texts me later that night and I text him back and we say how astonished we are to have connected so deeply with one another.

____

The next day, Day 3 of my visit to this independent school, I’m in a rocking chair in front of first graders who are sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the floor. I tell them my story of once upon a time being a first grader just like them, who was swimming with my classmates one hot summer day when the mother of one of our friends came stomping across the grass and yelled at him to get out of the pool. Oooooh we thought to ourselves. What could he have done to be in such trouble, we wondered. Turns out he’d done nothing. Turns out his mother was merely incensed that he was being permitted to swim with a little Black girl, me.

As I tell the story of myself at the age of seven, my eyes well up and a few tears spill down my cheeks. The first grade teacher comes over with a tissue and I dab my eyes. A first-grader looks up at me and says, “When I see you cry I want to cry too but I don’t want to cry because it hurts.” I smile and say, “Thank you. What you’re feeling is compassion. It’s a good thing to feel it and it’s brave and important and good of you to express it.”

____

Do you do interact with strangers when you overhear tough stuff, or do you think that’s just being nosy? Share what came up for you in the comments. As ever, I care about what’s on your mind and I’m listening.

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