Death and Dining
February 1, 2007
Yesterday I delivered a series of workshops at a school in Northern California. After about the third workshop it was lunch time. One young man stayed behind after all the other children had departed. He approached me and trepidlly requested if he could eat lunch with me. I don’t know about you, but it is next to impossible for me to turn down the request of children, especially when those request are sincere. Without hesitation, I agreed that we should eat lunch together.
We were seated at a table in the library (that’s where I was hosting the workshops) and we began to talk. He actually started the conversation by firing off a dozen questions in succession. I was more than happy to answer. The conversation shifted a little to his desire to let me know of a few of the tragedies that had befallen him recently. His grandfather had just died last year, his father and mother divorced last year, his grandmother had suffered a major injury last year and there were a few other things.
I looked him in his eyes and simply said, “Man, you took a beating last year didn’t you?”
He smiled really wide and had that look of, “yeah, finally somebody who understands.”
We talked and talked all throughout the lunch session. He told me his passion is to become a chef someday. He is already collecting recipes and books about cooking. He has taken a few classes. I told him that he is well on his way to becoming a masterchef but everything worth having or doing takes time.
Before the we ended our lunch, he was absolutely beaming, his smile pushing both of his ears further back on his head. I was feeling really good myself. I didn’t feel like I had done much except share a few grapes and nuts with another person but it felt good, I mean really good.
As I was cleaning up the mess I made. I have to admit my side of the table was a lot messier than his. As I was cleaning up, he said to me, “there is one thing I forgot to tell you when I was telling you about my horrible year last year.”
I asked him, “What was that?”
“Well,” he said, “on top of all that stuff that happended last year, I forgot to tell you that my grandpas dog died too.”
I stood there silently for about three seconds when all of a sudden, simultaneously, we both busted out into a fit of laughter.
When I left the library, he asked me if I would be coming back to his school. I told him that I would make ever effort possible to return.
After he left, I just thought about the few minutes it takes to make a difference in someone’s life, for example, mine and his. I thought about the power that we adults possess that goes untapped, the power of giving our time over to those who need it the most, “our children.” When I say “our children” I’m not talking about those you have given birth to or adopted I’m talking being an actual community. After all, isn’t a society that dosen’t value and protect its’ own simply a population occupying the same time/space?
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
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