*cover photo by NEOM on Unsplash*
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I often wonder if I desperately needed help and could rely only on strangers if I would even bother asking. Or would something in me already anticipate their rejection, the disapproval, or the possibility that they could easily just ignore my presence like I was nothing more than a chewed piece of gum on the ground and simply sidestep me?
When I was younger, still a preteen, I'd floated down the shore of Myrtle Beach. Neither my family nor my hotel were in sight, just a crowd of entirely unfamiliar faces. Upon making it to the boardwalk, I lay across the wood, unable to walk further due to the sweltering heat. I lay there, only a child, as countless people walked past me. It's like they had spotted me from afar and had already done the calculations necessary to avoid stepping on me without even acknowledging that I existed and was clearly in need of help.
Do those people ever think about me? Have they ever thought about what had led me to the point of lying across a busy boardwalk in the heat of day? I wonder if they tussled with the idea of turning back but decided against it. I wonder if, in my perceived neediness, they didn't see themselves in my reflection but instead saw a burden. I wonder if they'd ever asked for help, but people pretended to not hear them. I wonder why it was so easy for them to overlook me or had it not been easy at all?
When they began talking to me, I admit I was rather annoyed. I'd just shifted my position on the rigid park bench and changed the song on my playlist before returning to The Collected Regrets of Clover by Mikki Brammer. I'd started reading it the night before, and I was totally engrossed with the story of Clover, a death doula who was learning a lot about life through those she supporting in their dying days. I reluctantly took out my headphones, not wanting to be rude, allowing the stranger, now seated a mere foot away from me, to gain more of my attention.
After a few boringly long conversations with random people that I'd rather trade in for a refund of my time, I was prepared to engage with the person beside me briefly before refocusing on my reading. But instead, we talked for the next 45 minutes or so. Like old friends who'd never met before in this life but were reuniting with each other on a perfectly sunny Sunday afternoon. So much so that when I finally departed from our time together, I wondered, "Where do I know you from?”
Hugo, as I would come to know them, had been living on the streets of Mexico for the past few years after being deported during 45’s presidency. They’d been in the States for nearly forty years, and it had all been snatched away from them just like that. Though they hoped to return sooner rather than later, their head sank when they talked about the danger of the border and just having to stick it out here instead. But finding a space of refuge in this city when you didn't have a home to call your own also came with a level of unease. They often slept during the day rather than at night because, at night, people were more likely to try and grab your things. They’d woken up one time with the shoes removed from their feet. Most recently, someone had taken their blanket. When I asked if they thought the person who took it felt they needed it more, they’d responded, "I guess so."
We must have been a spectacle. Everyone stared, people's eyes lingered so much that they had to crane their necks to continue taking us in as they refused to slow their walks. They didn't know that this conversation with Hugo had been so aligned. It was an answer to a silent plea I had offered out, unsure if anyone had been on the receiving end.
I told them about the accident and how I'd found myself in grief work. They asked me if I believed in God. I informed them that my beliefs are shifting, and I believe in a power that's bigger than I am. They told me you had to believe in something to help make sense of the things you go through. I asked them if they believed in past lives and reincarnation. They hadn't until they’d met a woman from Egypt who'd told them they had been a lion in one of their lives. In this life, they had this uncanny ability to make a kitten sound. As their lips vibrated, the sound slipping out, a dog walking past us stopped in their tracks. They were looking for a cat, and the whole time, they were in the presence of a lion.
When they initially sat on the bench beside me, they seemed uncertain. Their posture reeked of someone who was approaching this shared space with caution. Would I nod to them, would I just continue on as if I hadn't noticed them, or would I just get up altogether in search of another area to sit in. Once they realized that I was actually listening to and engaging with them in a way that went beyond mere obligation, something lifted in them. Something lifted in me. The sting of annoyance I felt when they’d first approached had disappeared.
As we chatted about hardships and this human experience in general, they said, "But life is wonderful. It's all in how you live it." I did my best to keep my eyes from crying when I began to feel them burning. With an air of gratitude suddenly engulfing them, they proudly declared, gesturing upwards, "Look at the trees! They give us air! The ground! It gives us food!" While someone could have easily looked at their words and replied, "Duh," as if the earth owes us anything, I agreed wholeheartedly, turning my face towards the sky where the trees towered over us. It's so easy to become consumed with all that is wrong that we forget some of life's most simple but significant pleasures.
When I'd asked Hugo if they had heard of alternate universes, I told them about how I'd become lowkey obsessed with the idea of them after reading The Midnight Library. If the idea of alternate or parallel universes stood up, it meant that another version of us existed in some far-off place. We may have been entirely different or only encountered slight tweaks from this world to the next, but we were somewhere. Their face was alight with curiosity when I said, "Yes, we're in this park here, and our circumstances are what they are. But somewhere else, we may be living completely different lives. Different joys. Different pains. But, we may have still encountered one another along the way."
When I'd prepared to leave, I could have sworn there were tears in Hugo's eyes. They’d said how much of a blessing it was meeting me, and I'd felt the same way. It was only when I was well into my walk back home that I had an aha moment. Hugo had been the name of one of the characters from The Midnight Library—one who kept trying on different lives for fit but always found they were never fully satisfied in any of them. So, instead of grounding into one space, they’d found themselves drifting through different realities and experiences at a startling rate. They were living life, but not really their own.
When I thought about the Hugo I'd just met in real life, I wondered what other lives they may have been living in some far-off place. I wondered about other lives with a bed, a blanket, and the daily guarantee of a hot meal. I wondered about other lives where their love of carpentry was still present. I wondered about other lives where they’d always stayed in their home country. I wondered about other lives where they laughed with their head tilted back, mouth wide, for all the sound to escape instead of off to the side like they were too shamed for anyone to hear.
I wondered about all the ways that their world could have been and how much we grieve what we don't know.
But then I thought, what a joy it is to know the battle we face in this life and still call it wonderful.
What a joy it is to face rejection but still open ourselves up.
What a joy it is to have someone try to stomp the pride out of you but still laugh, even if you must turn to the side to do so.
What a joy it is to look up at the trees growing from the ground that have carried countless generations and still see yourself as worthy and grateful for that support.
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I just added both books, "The Collective Regrets of Clover" and " The Midnight Library" to my purchase list.
My favorite line from this is, "It's so easy to become consumed with all that is wrong that we forget some of life's most simple but significant pleasures."
Convos with some strangers can really be life changing. It sounds like you and Hugo have a lot of gratitude in common.
Chills. This one was next level. Long live Hugo 🤍