Bhagavad Gita in the Philly Airport
A woman with a faint Haitian accent asks me to look after her bags while she
goes to the bathroom. Or I’ve profiled her as Haitian because she has a soft (?)
Romance language-seeming accent and she is black.
Why soft? Are Romance languages softer than other languages, like German, or,
more to the point, African languages? or do I mean that the more different people
are from us (from Europeans) the more uncomfortable we feel, and that can be
described in physical, tactile terms? I can’t name a single African language,
except Arabic, which is imperial, and English, which is even worse imperial, and
Swahili, which is probably indirectly imperial, Europeans preferring
that Africans have a universal language to complain about them in, after all
they’ve done for them/we’ve done for them/ in our various variations on, mainly,
Latin, or other branches of the so-called “Indo-European” language,
which really hit the jackpot when people were swarming all over the contiguous
land-masses, the Volkerwanderung, wandering of nations, over the silk road or
some ur-silk road, from which we know as well as we know anything about those
long-ago times that tea and wine were discussed
because those words last almost intact in all the descended languages, and I
wonder whether Hungarians and Finns even picked up chai and vin because
apparently as far back as history goes, and longer, people needed their tea and
wine, stat, and who can blame them? Chai, vin, two things too important to risk
She could be French or Canadian, or something else completely; it’s not like I’m
some dead-shot with accents, and here I’ve gone and politicized it, turned it into
some post-colonial thing an undergrad would come up with in a paper about
House for Mr. Biswas.
And I’m too caught up in the developing battle between self-reproach and self-
defense to fully consider whether to look after her bags, which, let’s face it, I’m
going to agree to, although it’s expressly, constantly forbidden over the
loudspeaker when they’re not killing us with Fleetwood Mac.
This could be it. She is disaffected, radicalized, and why shouldn’t she be?
It’s always young men blowing things up—which is rich, she might say. You feel
like the world’s against you? Try being an older black woman, she should say to
the terrorists, who could all use a good talking-to. If anyone had the right to blow
up the Philadelphia airport, it would be this nice lady.
She must have profiled me too: white, not quite young, not yet old, dressed like
someone who would dress well if they could figure out how to easily and cheaply.
Was it my Danskos? Did she think, no one with shoes that heavy would attempt
theft. For there are many kinds of people who wear Danskos and they are all
united by this: they will fall if they run.
And they spent a lot of money on shoes which are ugly and last forever, so you
will spend like a decade wondering why you did it. Then you’ll get rid of them in
a fit and wonder why you did that, until you start to develop a spur on the back of
your foot because life is hard for women and you’re on your feet working just to
try to get by in this world,
and you repeat the cycle on Zappos one morning after the spur keeps you up all
night, and then you’re comfortable and somewhat uglier and if you do more than
trot you will twist the crap out of your ankle, which is fine with you, because you
don’t want to run anywhere, because you have to work every day just to afford
healthcare that carries a $6000 deductible, so you can’t afford to use the insurance
you can’t afford,
and every month there’s some mystifying problem with your birth control, like
they don’t carry it, or you’re in the wrong state, or the prescription’s up, or they
don’t work with that insurance card. At the CVS they’ve never heard of Vermont
or Bernie Sanders--they’re just trying to get by in this world, to pay off their loans
for pharmacy school. They wear Danskos, because they are medical professionals,
sort of, and that is one of the populations vulnerable to German shoes.
They, too, would make more understandable terrorists, but once again, this time in
Belgium, in the wee hours last night, it was young men, inheritors of the whole
damn earth, who tried to destroy it, destroy the tired people taking the metro
back and forth from work.
I bet there was a Hatian woman on one of those trains, with not only her own
life’s, but centuries’ worth of sorrows. It’s a vale of tears, they say, and
sometimes, when I have a view of a valley, I imagine a mist hanging in it made of
the tears of regular folks, and that all the people on earth are slogging through it,
like a massive herd of wildebeest, and are stained by those tears at best, and
drowned in them at worst, as some wildebeest always are as they try to ford
rivers, trying to make it by in this world, thirsty and hungry and simple as they are, as we are.
Her luggage does not explode. I hope she would choose someone else to blow up
or get arrested for illegally agreeing to watch her otherwise unattended bags, if
such were her intentions. I hope that, even though I racially profiled her as Hatian
and assumed she had a lot of sorrows and wrote a poem about it which is basically
a privileged white bullshit thing to do, that, like her, I was too nice to kill. One
wants to think so but knows there was never anyone too nice to kill, and there sure isn’t now.
I couldn’t report her, even if it was my duty or because they’re always prowling
around airports trying to arrest the innocent because catching terrorists is basically
impossible and trying to drives you crazy.
She wore a full denim outfit, and I realized that no one would bother to match
their clothes that perfectly if they also meant to blow up the Philly airport. She
was grateful, or at least polite, and both are unusual things these days. I fantasize
that the mural of flowering trees on the glass partition changes depending on the
life cycles of the real trees in Philadelphia, so it is not a coincidence that it depicts
a tulip tree this week and no other, when they are rich violet and magnificent.
I feel robbed that we have kicked so much out of our lives in order to make room
for panic, and I want her to come back and tell me her real story while we have
tea or wine like they’ve been doing since so long ago that terrorism was just
called might or marriage or war and the Gods would sometimes visit to explain why this is so,
which would take a really long time and would result in arguments so complex
and contradictory even Arjuna pretty much forgot them as soon as it was over.
We’re all prejudiced; I learned that in seventh grade, and from experience and
instinct I know we’re all a bunch of caffeine addicts and drink too much. Why not. It’s ok. I forgive us.