I had my headphones in, alone, whistling, loving life on my walk home from a concert. Last night, the crisp air in Chattanooga carried the aroma of a campfire from the growing wildfires surrounding the city. Passing Reagan's, a local 90s dance bar and nearing my home, I approached two guys sitting against the metal exterior of a small church charging a prepaid phone.
Cliff and Dustin hopped a train out of Mobile, Alabama a few days prior and worked their way to Chattanooga where Cliff lived in his 20s. Two nights ago they met a woman who told them about an abandoned house that they could sleep in for a few nights.
"Man, I came up here with nice stuff. I made some money down in Mobile and bought some Jordan's and a real nice watch. I like nice things. I knew they were some crackheads, and that was cool, ya know. I'm fine with them doing their thing as long as they leave me alone. I woke up that morning and they jacked all my stuff: my watch, my shoes, my phone." Cliff said they weren't going back there, ending his report of their current situation with his eyes fixated on the old, worn out white shoes he still had.
Dustin didn't talk about much at first, seemed to prefer Cliff handle the conversation. They were looking for work and wanted to know if I knew of anything. I pointed out a few different places near us that might need some extra hands, construction sites and a few garages. That's when Dustin finally spoke.
"People just don't get it, man. Once you get out here... you just stay. I don't know. Nobody wants to hire you when you don't have a place to shower, don't have clean clothes. If I go to a job I have to carry around this bag with me. If I leave it somewhere, that's it. It's gone."
A few days before we met they managed to land a day of work with a landscape company. At the end of a 10-hour-day, they walked away with $15 each. That’s their reality. That’s life, for now.
I went home and grabbed a few things I had lying around that I thought they could use, including three packs of MREs that I had been keeping around for my next weekend camping trip.
This is why this story matters. When I handed Dustin and Cliff the bags full of items, they immediately dug through them and were very grateful. This post isn't about what I gave. Stay with me.
No more than 2 minutes later, after I was already walking back to my house, another man passed me and walked over to those two. Two white men. One black man. Three humans.
I heard him ask if they had any food.
Over the course of the last few months, I’ve become less and less sure of just how much progress American citizens have made in becoming better members of the human race.
“Yeah, we do,” replied one of the two.
Just three humans without politics, without a platform and without hate. I stopped about a hundred feet from them before turning down the alley to my house and watched them sit and share. There, in that moment of survival, there was no division. Compassion steered their interaction. They gave of what they had, enjoyed another night alive, just happy to make it another day.
As I turned the corner I heard a laugh echo through the air. Being an American is a gift, a veritable win in the lottery of life, but love is a choice. Choose it.
