Brothers and Sisters
Here’s a story I wish I could tell you.
Almost every morning the friend I was telling you about earlier, walks to my house to hang out, do our work together or just share a space while we each do our respective projects. This arrangement delights me, since I get tired of working by myself and now that I have a studio set up in the Tower, it’s much more difficult to move my work around from coffee shop to coffee shop the way I used to do when I felt lonely.
Some days, we walk arm in arm downtown, or if the weather is bad, we drive. After we do our shopping, we go the post office or stop in to visit “our brothers”–two young men from Ethiopia who run the beer and wine store where we buy phone cards to call home to Africa. This is one of my favorite things we do together, because white women rarely darken the door of this store and neither do African women. Our brothers have no idea what to do with us and our excessive cheerfulness. We walk through the door arms extended. One of us will say, “How are you, our brothers!” And the other will add, “Have you missed us?” We laugh and lean over the counter, looking for the best deal to call Africa, and they advise us, trying hard not to be too obvious in their attraction to my friend who is young and beautiful and radiant, like a true African princess.
Over the last year, we have worn down their reserve and now they are so happy to see us, smiling from ear to ear when we walk through the door. They ignore the other customers to help my friend, they tell her about their favorite Ethiopian pop stars, they explain to me which Ethiopian holiday they are celebrating and why. My friend takes her time picking the cards, making it last as long as she can to prolong the fun, and I joke with the other customers, hoping they will not hate us for holding up the line.
One day, I left my friend to talk to our brothers while I returned to our illegally parked car out front. “I’ll be waiting for you outside,” I called, as an older African American man, held the door open for me. “We’ll be right out here!” he echoed, pretending we were a pair. This made me laugh out loud, which made him laugh, too, and we both enjoyed for a second, the notion we were partners-in-crime roaming the streets of Silver Spring.
He went in while I stepped out, and I sat in my car, lost in my own little world. That day, for whatever reason, I was feeling a bit of despair. All the joking with our brothers wasn’t working, though laughing with the man at the door had helped my dark mood brighten a little bit. I don’t remember now what exactly was bothering me, but I think it had to do with certain family dramas and of me playing out my part verbatim as the overbearing oldest sibling in The Darjeeling Limited. All the connectedness I want to feel between myself and the ones I love was in fragments–jagged little pieces of glass that once, in my mind anyway, had formed a perfect whole.
I sat there wallowing in the car, contemplating it all, when the man at the door came out of the store and saw me sitting there, right out front. His face brightened, like we were old friends, and he came around the car to talk. I rolled down my window, not sure if he needed five dollars or maybe a light for a cigarette I didn’t have, but all my biases and prejudices about black men you meet on the street fell away as he leaned over for a real conversation.
“You know, girl, you have a sense of humor, and I’m telling you, that’s going to take you far in this life!” I soaked in the encouragement, even in this humorless moment where I’d mostly been taking myself too seriously.
“Do you think so?” I answered, trying to imagine what it would be like if I could be as playful and comfortable with my dear ones as I was with this dear man who made my day with one little joke.
“I do, I do, and let me tell you why. So many women would hear me jokin’ with ‘em as some kind of threat.” He did his best white woman in the city impression, clutching a mock handbag. “They’d be thinkin’, who is this n—–? Talking to me?” He leaned back now, letting his hands swing into the air like a preacher giving a sermon. “People have lost their minds. We forget we’re part of one family, that we’re all connected.” He put the emphasis on forget and family, driving the point home. “We act like we don’t belong to each other, like we’re not brothers and sisters.”
I think about my friend inside, charming the socks off those Ethiopian boys, our brothers. I think about my own sisters and how much they love me, even when we fight. I think about Vince and all the other people I’ve met on the street who return my humanity to me, by treating me like family, when they have every right to reject me for being part of the rich white American middle class that too often regards privilege as a God-given right.
I reach my hand out the window and he takes it, the way preachers do when they know they’ve gotten to you, when they understand your heart is hurting and you’re ready now to walk the walk.
“You are my brother,” I tell him plainly, a simple fact we both know is true.
He smiles again, this time brimming with delight. “I am your brother.” He shakes his head and laughs. “That’s right! That’s right! I can’t believe you said it.”
“It’s true, right?”
“Nothin’ has ever been more true, girl. You just made my day.”
He turns to cross the busy street, still joyful. “You made mine!” I call after him. And then my friend, who is as close to me as any sister I have ever had, says good-bye to our brothers inside the beer and wine, and we drive away.
March 24th, 2008 at 9:55 am
You always have the ability to bring me to tears! I love your stories. Thanks Jen!
March 24th, 2008 at 9:56 am
*contented sigh*
Thanks Jen.
March 24th, 2008 at 10:18 am
Jen, you are some kind of good-witch, a magician, a conjurer of human spirit. thank you. xo
March 24th, 2008 at 11:02 am
Wishing for more moments like that. Thanks, Jen.
March 24th, 2008 at 11:17 am
jen, i’m always moved by your stories; perhaps never as much as this one.
thank you for being a bright spot of sunshine on a morning that needed it. telling stories is your gift, your calling and a bright light.
much love to you today, dear one. you are magic.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
March 24th, 2008 at 11:26 am
beautiful story…it started my week off in the most wonderful way!
Thank You!
March 24th, 2008 at 11:33 am
I loved this story, you’re both so right–we are all family.
I love your and your friend’s solution, too, to work-alone loneliness. Wish I lived in town and could stop by and see you both!
xo
Shari
March 24th, 2008 at 11:46 am
thank you for sharing this story jen. it really touched my heart.
March 24th, 2008 at 11:46 am
Funny. Just yesterday, I had this image float through my mind and linger long enough to make me think I should do something with it.
The image was just what you described. We are all connected. I’d like to really understand that, the weight and beauty and truth of that.
So, I think your little story is just the nudge I need to put life to that image. Maybe I’ll send you a picture when it’s finished.
As always, thanks.
March 24th, 2008 at 12:05 pm
to wake up and begin my day with this story…this story of truth and hope and “realness” and love…to wake up to this story has shaped my perspective and pushed me to think outside of me in a way i seldom do on a monday morning.
thank you for this.
March 24th, 2008 at 12:05 pm
i needed this today. i’ve been feeling a bit bleak, but this lifted me up. thank you.
March 24th, 2008 at 1:16 pm
thank you for the step outside myself, the spin around to look at things from a different perspective, and the gentle re-entry into my self. beautiful piece
March 24th, 2008 at 2:07 pm
Just beautiful! You never cease to take my breath away.
Smiles and tears. Nodding my head in agreement.
SOOOOO much of what we need more of in this world today.
Blessings, dear Jen, to you and your *family*.
March 24th, 2008 at 2:19 pm
I am now smiling from ear to ear and my heart is filling with joy! Much Love and many blessings, Dana
March 24th, 2008 at 3:13 pm
Jen…
…so glad for your story about the brothers
…Saturday had a young African say to me, now that my father has died of liver cancer, may I consider you my father?
…honor beyond words in the need to keep His relationships giong among His people
…your story has inspired me, humbled me, and given me a necessary kick in the butt.
…thank you!
March 24th, 2008 at 4:03 pm
What an absolutely, charmingly sweet vignette of your friendly encounter. :o) It would have put the warm-and-fuzzy feeling all over me too.
March 24th, 2008 at 10:58 pm
please tell me this story is real, and that when you said “here is a story I wish I could tell you” you meant that it was a story you wanted to tell, one that was true…
March 24th, 2008 at 11:51 pm
this made MY day. and now…now i will forward it to my ‘blood’ brothers and sister to remind us all (the 4 of us) of our link…and to allow it to spread. love this story, jen. thank you for taking the time to share.
March 25th, 2008 at 12:36 am
thank you for this - your storytelling is so magical. you made my day …or night…i feel it’s all complete now.
xo
March 25th, 2008 at 8:54 am
tanya, yes, this story is real. it’s one of many that i want to tell that i’m not always sure i can get right in the telling. starting it that way (”here is a story i wish i could tell you”) helped take some of the pressure off, so i could at least try.
March 25th, 2008 at 11:42 am
I have just discovered your blog - what a wonderful, heartwarming post! I’m adding you to my favorites right away.
March 26th, 2008 at 3:03 am
had to rent ‘darjeeling’ after reading your post. SO worth staying up past my bedtime for.
March 26th, 2008 at 10:36 am
thank you jen - it’s been so long since words have touched me like these. beautiful!
March 27th, 2008 at 3:31 am
Jen,
These stories, these are the one that need to be sung. And this is the place you need to live most of the time. It amazing to watch you grow more and more into this vibrant area of living. I love it!
You’d love this story this week from Catherine at Everyday Life as Lyric Poetry. http://catherinemcniel.blogspot.com/2008/03/baby-steps-mine.html
-Rachelle
March 30th, 2008 at 6:52 pm
[…] 29, 2008 Just one reason why I love Jen Lemen Posted by sarasramblings under Uncategorized So there’s this woman named Jen Lemen. I don’t know much about her, except for what she writes in her blog. I can’t even remember how I stumbled upon it in the first place, I only know that she is a source of great encouragement and inspiration for me. You know that poster with the cat that says, “Hang in there, baby”? I imagine the person who created that concept is a lot like Jen Lemen. Optimistic, wise, and just oozing with love, except oozing is such an unpleasant sounding word. Radiating and percolating and flowing with love. Especially dear to me of late is this post. Particularly: He leaned back now, letting his hands swing into the air like a preacher giving a sermon. “People have lost their minds. We forget we’re part of one family, that we’re all connected.” He put the emphasis on forget and family, driving the point home. “We act like we don’t belong to each other, like we’re not brothers and sisters.” Heck YES. […]
March 31st, 2008 at 9:24 am
[…] I believe we can do it. I believe women can build bridges—that we can see opportunities others may not perceive. And there are stories—real , live, it-just-happened-to-me stories—out there in the blogosphere that will help me hold on to that belief. This week, Catherine McNeil at Everyday Life as Lyric Poetry records an inspiring tale about meeting folks over the quest for ethical meat. And Jen Lemen, my soulsister in WASPy-ness and one of the best cross-cultural bridge builders I have ever met, offers us this report of finding siblinghood with a brother from another mother. Both are stories of simple connections made over every day transactions. They inspire me and give me hope. These stories tell me that we don’t need a stellar plan of global proportions to create the ties that bind. Being present is enough. Being attentive to our every day will give us the chance to say ‘yes’ to the openings around. With attentiveness and intent, we can grasp each other’s hands as we stretch them across a (not) so great divide. […]
March 31st, 2008 at 1:03 pm
Oh, Jen. This story gives me hope. I’ve been thinking the past few days about the 40th anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr’s assassination coming up this week, and I admit I haven’t felt a lot of hope and mostly just sadness. But this, this gives me hope. And yet I still feel so sad for some reason. There’s an ache that I can’t name when I open my heart to share the pain felt my so many who suffer injustice inflicted by the well-fed and well-clothed and well-connected.
How I wish and hope and pray for more stories like this one.
April 5th, 2008 at 9:15 am
Touching, real, well-told, thanks, Susie
April 8th, 2008 at 3:58 pm
[…] Heart Opening This is my shout from the rooftop: I love Jen Lemen. Every visit to her world becomes an opportunity to open my heart and connect. Jen inspires dreams and supports the birth of hope everwhere. After years of holding her dream in balance with her mothering, the time has come. Africa is now knocking on her front door. Please support her in saying yes. […]
April 9th, 2008 at 10:19 am
[…] Odette has been screaming with me and laughing into the phone every time I give her an update, and today we are going to visit our brothers and buy ten phone cards so she can tell everyone the good news and continue to plan my trip. […]
April 20th, 2008 at 12:12 pm
Oh Jen, how I love this story, the wisdom in that mans words, we do ‘forget’ that we are family, one big human family. It is what makes us beautiful, it is what is right and good about us, we need to remind ourselves of this every day. Thank you for reminding me through this lovely story. Hugs and Love to you, Jen B. xxx
May 7th, 2008 at 7:02 am
[…] know in my body and in my soul that we are all brothers and sisters. A web of hope takes the power of causing a miracle as a community to the level of intention, of […]
June 26th, 2008 at 12:08 am
[…] Odette tells me, “even though she was not my own.” She tells me this as we walk to see our brothers, to buy phone cards so we can call Doreen to see how she is doing since Sam got hurt. “I was […]