In this social media-bloody news leads-the horrible wins society, sometimes the best things are done for none of the glory or the fame. Some of my best memories of life have people in them that I have no idea who, why or even what they did until years later, if at all.
I say this because Moving Difference is the type of grassroots project that relies on the kindness of strangers to help strangers. Two unknowns making a known difference. It is an interesting concept.
I like being a stranger and making a difference. It is fun, there is mystery and there is excitement. Now it is a bit hard right now to be a stranger for me, my name feels like it is everywhere on Moving Difference stuff, but that has a good side too. And being a stranger now, takes some crafty moves…
This made me stop and think about all the people that shaped me into this messy human that you read before you. There are people in my memory that I will never be able to thank in person again or even see that person again to thank. Mostly because I haven’t a clue as to where to find them, they were strangers to me and still are but they stopped and made a difference. They did what they did because they cared as people.
The world is full of caring people in all of its cities from coast to coast.
The best example of this I can think of is George. It sounds innocent enough yet there is a tale behind it. Cue dream music… actually cue bus traffic sounds.
As I have explained in previous posts, I was a teenager in an ugly home life. My solution was to never be there if I didn’t have to be. I got several crazy ideas when I was a teen. Crazy stupid ideas about how I was going to escape, be famous and of course rich beyond my wildest dreams. None of them really panned out but that is getting a head in my life story. When I was a young lass, I decided to take money that I had earned with can collecting and odd jobs, and buy a bus ticket toNew York City. The Big Apple. I purchased a Greyhound ticket with a return ticket back home. I remember clearly it was $89. Cheap now, the most expensive thing in the world then to me. The idea was bus out to NYC and show Broadway my cool dance moves, get a job and bus back to get my stuff 8 days later. Did I mention this plan had flaws in it that only a teenager would think it is still okay to do? I probably should mention that I don’t dance well, even then. But NYC called to me and I was going, period. I boarded that bus with a hundred dollars and a small red suitcase. I was determined to break into Broadway! Six and a half days later crossing the country from way west to NY, I had arrived the NY Greyhound Terminal with $6 dollars and a red suitcase. I didn’t know anybody and nobody knew me. I was so excited and so stupid! The NY terminal wasn’t in downtown NYC, it was on the outskirts. I could see the skyline from the parking garage. Man, was it a cool sight for a girl like me. I was thrilled until hunger hit. I have $6 dollars and a day and half to land my dream job and get back on a bus to go home. That is when it could have started to suck but it didn’t.
Here I was barely 16, almost in NYC, in cowboy boots and I was hungry. I had never ridden a subway before or even a city bus, so I went outside the bus station to look for a place to eat. It was a busy bus terminal, and there right outside the doors was George.
George was a 6’1 Rastafarian complete with dreads and a cool bass guitar. He was playing just outside the doors for change. I was in awe! Okay, first, I thought I had hair problems but his were cool and second wow an actual person that was the same as me but a New Yorker with a voice. Again remember I was a stupid teenager!! George finished his song and I walked dumbly right up and offered my hand and introduced myself. Surprised, he shook my hand and introduced himself in a thick Jamaican accent. I, then, did something that I am still known to when very excited. I started asking him questions about everything, and I was talking fast and very animated. Thinking back to the scene, I don’t think George knew what to do with me, because he smiled and nodded a lot. George was a complete stranger but started to talk with me and we chatted for a bit, then he said that we should sing a bit too for some change. It was quick determined that George and I didn’t have the same musical background. He sang a song and a few coins plopped into the box. Being still hungry, I asked George if there was a vending machine inside. There was. I asked him if he wanted anything, he give me a few coins and asked for a bag of Andy Capp’s fries and a Dublin Dr. Pepper. I left my bag and went inside to fend some food. Yes again very stupid but again love shined on me. I came back outside to George with the fries and Dr. Pepper. I have gotten the same to try and it was cheap.
Upon my return, George asked me if I knew Bob Marley. I didn’t and asked did he live in NYC? That only produced a big Jamaican laugh. I was clueless. George spent the next hour teaching me the words to Bob Marley’s Redemption Song. When I finally got it, we sang it together. A lot of people put money in the box during that song. We got to work after that, I remember humming a few bars of a song so George could play the guitar while I did the words and jangled a can and he would sing back up on the chorus. It must have been a sight. A skinny white girl with long hair in jeans & cowboy boots next to a tall Jamaican in red, yellow and green jumpsuit and dreads, everybody in the world deserves to hear a cover of Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5” that way! I sang every country song that I knew, he sang every Reggie tune and top 40 songs he knew. We ate several more bags of Andy Capp’s fries and drank more Dublin Dr. Peppers. The hours flew by, I fell asleep and he kept going. When I woke in almost NYC, it was nighttime and George smiling at me. We talked some more and then George want to take me to see something before I got back on a bus at noon. In the early morning hours, we walked together; I didn’t know where I was going. George and I watched the sunrise on the NYC skyline with very bad coffee. By this time, George and I were friends, old souls, talking about our childhoods, our homes, places and our dreams. George walked me back to the bus terminal; we had breakfast and talked more. I can’t remember every word of all the conversations, I can only remember now that it was me and George, we were pals in that moment. As my bus loaded to travel back, George pressed two twenty dollar bills in my hand, give me my first Rastafarian hug and then say “Be truth, Jeny Mon.” and walked away humming.
I never saw the lights of Broadway. I never got that dance job. I never saw George again. I barely made it back home. I still like Andy Capp’s fries and Dublin Dr. Pepper. I always put coins in the box for street musicians. I still get excited when meeting strangers. I love singing all the songs I know and learn new ones. I still ask questions quickly.
George was the stranger that made a difference to me. George is known to me and probably a few others, who knows. The point is that you need not be known to everyone make a difference. Kindness to strangers relies on strangers. Strangers like you and me
I hope that Moving Difference allows you at least once to be that stranger making a difference. It is a wonderful thing.
Moving Difference 