So I met the 28-year-old resident for a “date” (don’t freak out, I asked for permission, the guy knows I’m married, and we didn’t do anything). We spent four hours walking around Boston, through the parks, the bridges, the streets. The diffused sun behind us illuminated his teal jacket, as if a tasteful indie director is making a rom com with Zoey Deschanel and Joseph Gordon Levitt (I’m Zoey of course). We exchanged stories. We talked about coming out in a brown immigrant family. We contemplated death (he’s a doctor and I’m just…morbid). We talked about Bridgeton and Grey anatomy. We shared future aspirations and how we will change the world. We talked about Arts and alcohol. We hugged and said goodbye at a train station, promising to meet again in Canada. Except we won’t. Because a rom-com with Zoey and Joe set it Boston with one being married has zero chance of going anywhere. Also for my hubby who is reading this, I love you and no one can replace you. It’s just… One of these experiences that you thought to yourself that it must be from a movie. The last time I had this was with a guy from university and the circumstances we meet was very “how I met your mother”. And we never met again.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to ever date again. Dating is horrible (stay in school and stay married, kids). Exchanging stories as you are making new ones, in a new city, new setting, new world is so exciting. I think humans were built to tell and share stories.
I’m loving Boston. Well, not Boston. I’m loving the trip, with the backdrop of Boston. The libraries, the museums, the walks, the marketplace. It allows for new stories.
I bought a smoothies for a black homeless man. And almost an hour later, a black homeless lady cursed me in mumbles because I didn’t have change for her. It didn’t bother me. It just made me incredibly sad. I love my BIPOC. Yet we live in a place where we are trained to hate each other, to compete, to climb this ladder of minority got the scraps of what capitalism allows us. It’s a story I wanted to alter, to change. It’s a story that reminds me of Philadelphia, how I learned to unlearn my racism and fall in love with my African American neighbors and their culture, their resilience, and their unrelenting love for life.
I got an unexpected call from my coworker in my last job. He was looking out for me and informing me of some news. This came as I am sitting in a crowded place at lunch full of old white people. It’s a reminder that I am now an old white person eating lobster at lunch on a Monday. Kidding. It’s a reminder that my Canadian people are kind. They are loving. They lookout for you even when you left them. It’s another story worth repeating. Canada’s weather is cold, but its people are so warm.
And here I am, with the stories I wrote and wove in my head, as the sunshine and warmth starts on a spring day in Boston. Some days, in my life, all I needed was to step out of my life and reminded me of the choices that I’ve made in my life.
Those choices made good stories
Pace Fine Arts 