As I turned to meet my
fate, expecting the worst, I was greeted by a smiling Latino face. He pointed
to my cigarette, and I realized that he just
wanted to bum a smoke. Hands shaking, pulse pacing 100 beats per second, I
reached into my pack and offered him a smoke. He smiled, shook the pack, and
gratefully lit up the coffin nail.
We sat silently for a
few moments, the acrid smoke rising slowly in the dark, stale, Bronx night. The
cigarette oddly became the "peace pipe" bridging the polarity of
culture and language. He could not speak one word of English, and I could speak
no Spanish. The gulf would have normally been too wide to bridge, but not this
night.
An understanding began
to slowly and delicately unfurl. He sensed my apprehension, and I began to sense
more to this young man than that of just being another Bronx gang banger. He pointed
to the cement step and said the word in Spanish. He then pointed to me indicating that I
should repeat what he had said. I did so. He then to something and asked “English?"And on and on and on we went. He seemed
to never grow weary of our mutual vocabulary lesson.
Then it started. Laughter,
the human bond that needs no translation, knows no language or cultural boundaries, and weaves a common thread that paves a
road leading to shared, spiritual healing.
I had a new friend. No,
I never saw him again, but he lives in my mind and heart. I wonder if I do in
his.
The kid from Wallace,
and the kid from the Bronx, bound together with the gift of laughter.
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