As good as gold

People have always made fun of me for being a social butterfly, most of the people I’ve dated have found it quite annoying at times.  See, I am that person who strikes up a conversation with a stranger in a bar, I hear the woman in the next stall whisper, “damn it” and I quietly pass a tampon under the divider. I see the girl trying to quietly sob at a table in a café, and I can’t help but whisper “are you ok?” I reach out a hand to a child who’s fallen, I say “what a pretty boy!” to passing dogs,  and I will always be that awkward person who thinks you’re waving at them. Although I have been embarrassed quite a few times, I’ve never been able to stop myself! As hard as it is these days to be outwardly friendly, a small romantic part of people still wants to believe that human connection is not only possible but needed.

Recently, I heard a story that made me smile, something that in this climate is hard to come by. Let’s face it, my rights as queer black woman are under attack from all sides. Whether people want to strip me of my rights as a wife, or prevent me from having more children, as a proud “people” person, my heart breaks daily knowing that I cannot openly trust as I used to.

Over the weekend my wife and I went to pick up my wedding ring, she had taken it to the mall to be fixed after the setting on my band broke and my diamond fell out. By the grace of God, the diamond was found and while I was out of town, she was kind enough to take it in to be repaired. The jewelry store was run by a group of middle eastern men and women. As we approached the counter, an older woman immediately lit up into a smile and said to my son” Hello Handsome! I remember you!” he giggled and smiled big for her (which if you know my son can be a hit or miss). We explained we were there for pick up and as my wife browsed the aisles, she handed me my ring and began wrapping up our transaction.

She was kind and personable, very animated and happy. This woman could sell water to a camel. I made mention of wanting some simple gold pieces and pointed out her simple slender gold bangle. It was a little worse for wear, bent and beaten up, but still so lovely. “That’s so beautiful” I said, pointing at the slim band. she immediately clutched her wrist to her chest and said “I have a story” with a smile.

Now I don’t know about you, but her reaction was enough, when someone says I have a story, I NEED TO HEAR IT “tell me”, I leaned on the counter as she prepared herself.

“Back the early 80’s my family had relocated to Rwanda, where they  owned an auto part resell store.” She told me a story of a man, a native of the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) who crossed the border regularly to come and buy auto parts. Parts were scarce in DRC, so he bought from them and sold them back home at a profit. Over the years this man became like family, her mother, a proud and loving woman, told him one day “come, you are family, come have lunch with us”  they would close the shop, and the man would come home with them. Eating around the table together. She paused the story to remind me that in those times, although both minorities, Brown and Black people did not necessarily mix. Everyone minded their families and business. At this moment she puffed out her chest with pride “my mother did not care what color you were; she was just that kind of woman, ahead of her time”. One day, in 1989 the man came to her father asking for help. He was nervous, so her father closed the shop and took him to the back of the store. The man confessed “I have found gold in my yard; I need to find a way to sell it. If they (whoever, rebels, criminals, etc.) find out I have it, they will murder me and take it”. Her father helped him devise a plan and after some time, the man bought simple tools to begin making jewelry, he handmade, bangles, rings and necklaces, bringing them back to her father. Her father had a cousin who dealt in jewelry who he trusted. He connected the two and the man was able to safely and quietly sell all his gold pieces at a great price. Before he left, he kept 3 simple gold bangles, handing them to her mother, her brother for his future wife and her.  He thanked her family, having been given a chance at a better life for his family, because of their help.

I could see the pride and joy in her eyes as they welled slightly “in 1994, they found his gold and murdered him” she let out a big sigh “to honor him, I have never taken it off, it’s been over 30 years” she smiled at me as I thanked her for the story. I vowed to come back, and she made me promise to ask for her. She shook my hand and asked my name before we parted ways.

Later, as we were driving home, I reflected on how light I felt. In a world where you can’t scroll social media, or watch the news without seeing hangings, shootings, another law overturned, more threats to our humanity, fear and anger, this woman had given me a gift. She had given me a moments peace. Although the story ended tragically, it was impactful. It reminded me that we have been here before, segregated, struggling, fearful and we have survived. Now, I cannot compare the USA to Congo, but for a millennial American, this is my worst nightmare.

Her story reminded me that its ok to be kind to strangers, to lift someone’s spirits, to tell them a story they just might need to hear, and had I not been MYSELF, I may have never heard it.

Thank you, Kay, for the reminder.