My Turn

It was very late on the eve of Labour Day when I walked down the steps at the 10th Street Brooklyn Station.  I am still trying to remember how I managed to push myself in with a baby on my right hip, shouldering a bag on my left side, and my three small children trailing behind.

At Pennsylvania Street, Rochester, I was preparing to get off at the next station when I realized that just as it was a problem to get on, it would also be a problem to get off.  That's when I saw him.  He was just standing there, also preparing to get off, but with on a newspaper to care for.  He was a little Puetro Rican man, but one who seemed ready to tackle any obstacle that lie before him.  He had a long face, but it held kindness and thoughtfulness.  He also had dark eyes; sharp, but nice.  He gave me a look of concern, but quickly glanced the other way, shaking it off.

As the train entered the station, a white man generously helped me, placing my tired children on the long platform before walking away.  When I stepped out, I then remembered the steep concrete stairs leading to the street above.  I saw him look my direction with a questioning glance that left as quick as it came.  Should I ask for his help, I wondered.  Surely he wouldn't refuse, his face was practically begging to be of assistance.  He continued to glance at me, quickly turning away when I looked up to meet his gaze.

I had a Puerto Rican friend before, a doll she was, so kind.  She was very selfless, always meeting the needs of others before helping herself.  "Julianna," she used to say, "Courtesy is a characteristic of my culture.  Our motto is 'live and help live'.  Always remember that, it is our way of life.  If you refuse our help, you are going against the fabric of what we are taught."

As I stood there, badly needing some assistance, I thought about what might be running through his mind.  I was sure he wanted to help, but did he think I would gladly accept his offer, or did he assume I was a lady with preconceived prejudices against anyone with a foreign accent, especially in a deserted subway station, hours past midnight?

Perhaps I'd misjudged him.  I hesitated a long minute, the conflicts of the values and attitudes of our conflicting cultures were struggling inside me.  Should I ask?  Then, as though he had never seen me before, he ran down the platform, leaving my children behind me, my bag on my left arm, and my now-sleeping child on my right hip.

I took the steps of the long concrete stairs slowly, all my frustrations flowing out with each slow step.  "So, this is what labels and prejudices can do to a world."

My friend had been right when she said everyone had an opportunity to change a life and change the world.  I let go of the situation early on Labour Day morning, but the lesson I learned will stay with me forever.  I refuse to fall into society's slanderous divisions and choose to remember the wise words of my friend.

Ignorance breeds intolerance, and intolerance breeds hatred.  Only when we each take our turn to change these rules will the barriers of racism and division among us begin to come down.