The man who passed away over the weekend was an old man, a homeless man that would occasionally show up for my sister’s small group bible studies. I felt uncomfortable around him, because all of my sister’s friends are in their 20s and Asian, and this man was different. He was old and homeless and had done drugs for most of his life and he had a mustache. But one day last spring this old man emailed me, saying that Lynn had told him how fucked up crazy I was, and how it resonated with him because he was fucked up crazy too. So we became brief pen pals. And I have never been as honest with a stranger as I was with him in these emails. I would spend hours just staring at my words, at his words, just challenging myself to be even more real. Unfortunately, these two or three emails never broke the ice and we never got to know each other beyond those email exchanges. Every subsequent time that I saw him after that, I’d still feel uncomfortable. I’d walk through my living room on Sunday afternoons when my sister was hosting a small group session, feeling his eyes on me, trying to look anywhere in the room but his direction. But whenever I did finally make eye contact with him, he’d smile eagerly and say, “Hey Pete!” and extend his hand to shake mine. His handshake was firm and we’d nod at each other, knowing what we knew. And I’d feel warm and good and a little ashamed of myself for my silly walls. It was a strange, short friendship. His name was Kevin.
PREVIOUS: Times I have felt American
NEXT: Untitled
