An Open Door
When I was in college, one of the ways I earned extra money was as a tutor for the athletic department. For an entire year, I tutored one Kenyan marathon runner who desperately needed to pass Sociological Theory in order to graduate.
To pass Theory, you needed to be able to write essays (no multiple choice in Theory). Which would be fine if the first time you ever heard a word of English wasn't four years previously. So this runner, named Peter, and I struggled.
But what I remember most about Peter wasn't our intense studying sessions--I definitely recall trying to explain Karl Marx to him and not having a lot of luck. But what I remember more vividly are a lot of small moments as he became my friend.
Peter told me his story, of living in a village, tending goats, with seven brothers, several sisters, and his mom and dad, when he was "discovered" by an American track coach scouring Kenya for runners. Peter had never left his village, let alone boarded a plane--or even worn shoes. Soon, his world changed upside down. It would be like you or I suddenly going to the moon. And though he got a full scholarship, there was no extra money forthcoming for plane trips home on summer breaks or Christmas. To say he was homesick was an understatement. By the time I was his tutor, he hadn't seen his family in five years.
A lot of the ignorant, entitled (I also had a scholarship to this mostly wealthy--tuition is now over $40K with room and board--nearly all-white Southern private university) students there shunned Peter. They said he smelled (he didn't wear deoderant and didn't understand America's fascination with cologne). And he wore the same clothes over and over. (Because he only OWNED a handful of outfits.) I never saw him without his brown cardigan, no matter HOW hot it was. But I saw, instead, a truly graceful man with a generous spirit. I like to think that I helped him be a little less lonely and homesick. I tutored him, but we sometimes talked for hours afterward. But my favorite memory of him has to do with an open door.
We met at the library and got the key to a study room to again cram his head full of Karl Marx and Max Weber, and again pray to the gods that he could spill enough of it out on paper that he could pass the ONE course he needed to graduate. He was taking the class for the second time. I shut the door, rolled up my sleeves, and whipped open my notebook. Peter stood without a word and opened the door. I knew we would be talking. A lot. This was the library. You're supposed to be quiet. I reached behind me and shut the door. He got up and opened it.
"Are you hot? Why do you want the door open?"
"For you."
"I want it closed."
"No. Your honor."
Turns out, a shut door and two single people behind it in HIS culture would damage the reputation of the young woman in question.
"I have too much respect for you to shut the door. You are my friend."
It has been many years, and I still sometimes well up thinking of that moment. Peter did, finally, pass. Because eventually, the professor agreed to let him take the final orally. Writing was difficult for him--but he could speak well, albeit somewhat broken, English. So right up until he walked in that room, and with dignity walked to the chair where he would have to spill out all I had taught him, we were cramming. And I waited outside the door and prayed. He passed. He graduated. He returned to Kenya.
Peter worked for the government there. And he died several years ago. I cried all day when I found out.
There are people who intentionally write hateful things. And there are people in life who will leave a door open for you. My wish for you all as writers and readers is your life be filled with those who open doors, not shut them.
As for craft . . . I always say my best advice to writers is to be students of life. Look for the small gestures that create your characters. Like open doors.
Thoughts?
35 comments:
That open door thing isn't limited to Kenya. My parents pretty much had the same thing when I was growing up if we brought girls home.
Great story, though. Very touching.
Hi Mark:
Oh, at home we had that. But this was college . . . so there were a LOT of shut doors. ;-)
E
A lovely story that made me swipe at my eyes. It's the times in my life when I am truly able to be generous and kind to someone who needs kindness that make me happiest.
Me, too, Smart. It's the thing that makes the sometimes-grind of life worth it.
E
I'm so sorry you had to lose your friend. And now I need a tissue.
On a softer note, I purchased an Ann Coulter book for Dirty Santa last year. I'm not a fan, but I had ended up with something equally anti-red the year before. The book got a lot of laughs, so the purchase was definitely worth it.
Hi Heather:
I can't stand her. I understand she's intentionally trying to stir the pot, so I get she has a place in the world of political commentary. She's a hypocrite--touting her "Christianity" when last I checked that involved a WHOLE different value set than I see her use in the public arena. So, for me, I just can't stand the hate-speak. It's not what I want to read--though clearly there are millions of people who have made her a best-selling author and lined her pockets.
E
The open door thing is really sweet. So gallant. Very sad that he died.
Zoe:
Gallant is a great word for him.
E
That really moved me, Erica. Thank you. A touching reminder.
What a wonderful memory to have. And so poignant how a simple act can say so much about what sort of person your friend was.
Hi Michelle:
Thanks . . .
E
Hi Lainey:
I like to think as writers we look for the small moments.
E
No! That is just not fair. I'm sorry about his death. Just from your description, I liked and admired him.
In fiction, I'm pretty sure I believe that the smaller the gesture, the more powerful the effect on the reader.
Wow. Powerful stuff.
I always insisted on open doors when meeting privately with female employees, but it was to protect me, not them.
Peter deserves to be immortalized in print, IMHO.
Hi Spy:
I love those quiet moments in books.
E
Hi Stephen:
Thanks. He was just about one of the sweetest people I've ever known. Through him, I met all the Kenyan runners at the school at the time, and they were all just lovely men.
E
Erica,
Excellent...poignant.
Sad that our culture, which once dictated that men do things in certain ways to protect women, has degenerated to thinking all such acts are meant to "keep women down".
Sadder still that such an act (the open door) in our society is now, as Stephen mentioned, to protect the man.
Great story. Sounds like he was a very noble man.
Sort of the opposite of the dude you talked about yesterday (although I'm inclined to agree with Zoe--that what goes on behind CLOSED doors is really nobody's business but the parties involved).
JLK:
I don't think we've degenerated. I think we're just more apt to see it as "hold the door open for anyone." I hold the door for a man or woman or child. I have never once been offended by an act of chivalry by anyone. It's politeness.
As for the "sadder still" part . . . I've been viciously sexually harassed in a job. Twice. One time (1980), the guy totally got away with outrageous behavior (manager of a country club). The second time (1994), the man was fired. I think you could look at it both ways. There are certainly false accusations, but there is a whole generation of women, too, that really DID suffer from sexual harassment in the workplace with little recourse. It would be nice if all men, prior to sexual harassment policies coming to the forefront were as chivalrous as you claim to be (don't know you in real life), but the simple fact is . . . a lot of times they weren't.
E
Jude:
Hear ya.
E
What a neat story. When I lived in Fiji, many moons ago, I had a sweet, unassuming boyfriend. I went back 20 years later and found he had died. It is the saddest, most poignant feeling to lose someone years after their actual death.
Hi Suzanne:
That's happened to me a time or two. It is weird . . . like your grief is on some kind of delay. And I have no idea if he died in sectarian violence or of some form of natural causes, though he would have been quite young. He was maybe 7 years older than I was. Maybe a little more.
E
Erica,
But, it seems such displays of chivalry are getting rarer...by either sex.
On the sadder part...I'm really referring to the motivation aspect. For example, that Stephen, who I've known for over thirty years, would feel the need to protect himself over protecting the honor of the woman. I guess you could say that for any person to feel motivated first to protect themselves rather than the person they are with is sad.
I guess you would not want me as Ruler of the Planet. Nothing I hate worse than a rapist. I'd chop off their offending bits and impale the rapist...slowly.
A murderer is taking your life. A rapist is after your soul. My opinion anyway.
How wonderful he was! It is a sad story, but you have a friend that you will never forget. Those kinds of friends are few and far between.
Touching and disturbing all at the same time. Isn't it funny how our lives are determined at birth by our culture and our families... and what extraordinary degrees we have to go to escape that and become our own person.
Maybe that is really what we are writing about... what our characters have to do to become themselves and overcome the "being" that society, culture, history and our own selves create for us by default.
Interesting to think about... well, there goes the next few days for me :)
Precious memories are our greatest gifts to ourselves. What a lovely gift.
Now I'm crying for Peter too. Thanks for sharing.
JLK:
AHHH, now I see your point. YES. Acts of kindness can be misinterpreted these days . . . all sorts of problems sometimes.
And while I am (of course, you know me) against the death penalty, yes, rape steals your soul and is so utterly awful, as is child abuse.
E
Muse:
He was a gift.
E
ewoh:
I am ALWAYS aware of that. I have been an ESL tutor, as a volunteer, to war refugees and people who underwent horrors to come to America. I am always struck by the accidents of birth.
E
anti-wife:
What a lovely sentiment. Thank you.
E
Erica, thanks for sharing that story. A special memory of a great guy.
Hi Ladonna:
I am lucky in that my life has been full of many magical people.
E
Your story was lovely. How lucky you were to know a true friend.
As for people who say hateful things... I'm rather cross with you for putting that link in your post and my damn curiosity. I have never understood people who make a living off of being hateful and hurtful to other people. In her favorite book did she miss the part where it says do unto others as you would have them do unto you? I guess when you feel you are fighting for the right you get to pick and chose your moral obligations.
Hi Beth:
I am sorry. Yes, sometimes it's better to utterly ignore the hatemongers in life.
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