what makes you [...] be you ?
A homeless man wandered around Stockholm Central Station. It was near midnight and the only people who were there came with the purpose to get somewhere. Except him. The homeless man rode the escalator up, then down, looking about. He saw me noticed him, that I smiled in acknowledgment, so he came and sat at the other end of my bench in silence.
Why did you approach me? I asked.
The homeless man mumbled a shrug in response. His clothes were sun-battered yet clean and didn't smell.
He asked me whether I lived in Sweden and was surprised to roll the words Vietnam and US on his lips.
But the US is so hard. How do you study there? It’s so harsh, he said.
It’s my turn to shrug, there were too many things to be said and our shared limited English didn’t allow us to be too cerebral.
Are you kind? I asked, turning my body to face him.
He smiled sheepishly and said he thinks so. I'm not bright or look good, but I think I am kind, he said.
The man had been homeless for 2 months because his passport was stolen when he was checking on his bank account. His every day goal was to find a spot to close his eyes and balm his stomach.
Wow... That is hard. I mumbled.
Yeah, it is hard. He echoed.
Mmm. Do you feel hopeless?
Hopeless? No! I just live every day. He said.
I think he meant presence. He didn’t tempt with the future or past, staying in the present is what kept his smiles. He didn’t go for drinks or drugs to distract his consciousness. The presence has saved him.
I wanted to give him some money for food, but he said he was full, so I gave him a question card that I picked from the deck I carried with me. It asked, What makes you feel lucky to be you?
What makes me feel lucky to be me!? What makes me feel lucky to be me!
I felt both thrilled and ashamed for asking what might be a sensitive topic. He was homeless with 0.79 SEK left on his phone account. He was without social achievement and aspiration, no place to sleep nor a strategy to be otherwise.
What makes me feel lucky to be me... He chanted.
Perhaps your health? The ability that you can smile so genuinely and readily? I tried to be helpful.
No no. I am thinking of what makes me lucky.
I ran through my own answers in my mind. Images of my privileges, my resources, achievements, sense of self, memories and so on, nothing specifically stuck. They all swirled like the rootless wind.
You, he said.
You make me feel lucky to be me! Because you gave me this.
He looked at me and then the card. I grinned at him, not understanding what he truly meant.
We then talked about life some more until my bus arrived. The homeless man bid me farewell as I stood up to pack my belongings. I told him that his good wishes for me would bless my trip because I took them to heart. Right then his eyes lit up:
I know my answer! When you said blessings I know my answer!
God makes me feel lucky to be me!
God makes me feel lucky to be me!
He said with gravity and levity, as if he was dancing. And I understood. My body beamed with him in agreement.
God makes you lucky to be you, I echoed.
The brightest smile blossomed in me and I continued beaming for the rest of the night bus.
While I immediately searched for some individualistic qualities that made me special thus lucky, he thought of the external world as his agents of happiness. The homeless man thought of the friendly stranger and of God as facilitators that lend him the language to experience the joy of self. His verdict widened my definition of what it meant to be me.
In Berlin, I picked up The Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz. She explained my revelation perfectly:
“We think of our bodies as being all that we are: I am my body. This thinking helps us disrespect water, air, land, one another. But water is not external from our body, our self.
My Elder says, Cut off your ear, and you will live. Cut off your hand, you will live. Cut off your leg, you can still live. Cut off our water, we will not live more than a week.“
How do I lean into the consciousness of interconnectedness to define myself? Only when I see the world as my agents of luck do I start to live with the sensitivity and tenderness for togetherness and sustainability. When I stop dominating other beings by asserting the uniqueness that only existed within my body, I allow my definition of self to include life.
Why did you approach me? I asked.
The homeless man mumbled a shrug in response. His clothes were sun-battered yet clean and didn't smell.
He asked me whether I lived in Sweden and was surprised to roll the words Vietnam and US on his lips.
But the US is so hard. How do you study there? It’s so harsh, he said.
It’s my turn to shrug, there were too many things to be said and our shared limited English didn’t allow us to be too cerebral.
Are you kind? I asked, turning my body to face him.
He smiled sheepishly and said he thinks so. I'm not bright or look good, but I think I am kind, he said.
The man had been homeless for 2 months because his passport was stolen when he was checking on his bank account. His every day goal was to find a spot to close his eyes and balm his stomach.
Wow... That is hard. I mumbled.
Yeah, it is hard. He echoed.
Mmm. Do you feel hopeless?
Hopeless? No! I just live every day. He said.
I think he meant presence. He didn’t tempt with the future or past, staying in the present is what kept his smiles. He didn’t go for drinks or drugs to distract his consciousness. The presence has saved him.
I wanted to give him some money for food, but he said he was full, so I gave him a question card that I picked from the deck I carried with me. It asked, What makes you feel lucky to be you?
What makes me feel lucky to be me!? What makes me feel lucky to be me!
I felt both thrilled and ashamed for asking what might be a sensitive topic. He was homeless with 0.79 SEK left on his phone account. He was without social achievement and aspiration, no place to sleep nor a strategy to be otherwise.
What makes me feel lucky to be me... He chanted.
Perhaps your health? The ability that you can smile so genuinely and readily? I tried to be helpful.
No no. I am thinking of what makes me lucky.
I ran through my own answers in my mind. Images of my privileges, my resources, achievements, sense of self, memories and so on, nothing specifically stuck. They all swirled like the rootless wind.
You, he said.
You make me feel lucky to be me! Because you gave me this.
He looked at me and then the card. I grinned at him, not understanding what he truly meant.
We then talked about life some more until my bus arrived. The homeless man bid me farewell as I stood up to pack my belongings. I told him that his good wishes for me would bless my trip because I took them to heart. Right then his eyes lit up:
I know my answer! When you said blessings I know my answer!
God makes me feel lucky to be me!
God makes me feel lucky to be me!
He said with gravity and levity, as if he was dancing. And I understood. My body beamed with him in agreement.
God makes you lucky to be you, I echoed.
The brightest smile blossomed in me and I continued beaming for the rest of the night bus.
While I immediately searched for some individualistic qualities that made me special thus lucky, he thought of the external world as his agents of happiness. The homeless man thought of the friendly stranger and of God as facilitators that lend him the language to experience the joy of self. His verdict widened my definition of what it meant to be me.
In Berlin, I picked up The Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz. She explained my revelation perfectly:
“We think of our bodies as being all that we are: I am my body. This thinking helps us disrespect water, air, land, one another. But water is not external from our body, our self.
My Elder says, Cut off your ear, and you will live. Cut off your hand, you will live. Cut off your leg, you can still live. Cut off our water, we will not live more than a week.“
How do I lean into the consciousness of interconnectedness to define myself? Only when I see the world as my agents of luck do I start to live with the sensitivity and tenderness for togetherness and sustainability. When I stop dominating other beings by asserting the uniqueness that only existed within my body, I allow my definition of self to include life.