Poem: Our Corner of America
In our corner of America,
the groceries have to be carried from store to car,
car to elevator,
elevator down the hall,
hallway into our home.
And it’s a burden on my Lyme-tender joints,
stiff-fingered grip, mental Lamaze through the pain as I lug
each
load
out
of the car, to the ground, to the stroller, to the
e l e v a t o r (so far from our parking spot),
two young children in tow:
one to pull and one to push.
I buy a lot of groceries.
But, in our corner of America,
the Colombian abuelo sees me,
approaches in his quiet way,
extends his hands, offering to take some bags,
and takes them all,
walks us to the elevator (not so far, really),
rides up with us,
and delivers us and our groceries to our apartment door.
Then he goes back downstairs
to stroll with his granddaughter,
having lifted my burden.
In our corner of America,
the isolation of staying home every day
with a 3-year-old and a new baby,
husband in law school,
no money to spend on fun
or a babysitter,
makes me tremble with the looming
loneliness.
Insignificance.
Monotony.
The journey doesn’t seem worth it today.
The call we followed
that brought us here
is distant now;
I can’t hear it
over the baby’s cries
and preschooler’s chatter.
But, in our corner of America,
the Saudi mother texts me out of the blue,
invites me into her home,
pours sweet, steaming tea into delicate cups with saucers
and tiny, shiny silver spoons.
Crusty bread on the table,
homemade hummus.
“Eat more!”
I do.
Our daughters play together,
we talk, commiserate, laugh,
and learn each other,
and she coos to my son in Arabic, “God bless you, God bless you,” smiling. I receive this benediction in goodwill, and pray the same for her.
My Saudi friend says the first impression she had
when she landed at Dulles airport in Virginia –
the most powerful thing about her first moments in the United States –
was that she felt human.
Not free, but human.
For the first time in her life.
Now, with her friendship and her tea,
she has extended the same dignity to me.
In our corner of America,
we attend a folk dance
on Friday night at Glen Echo.
We dance with the wealthy white people our parents’ age.
We dance with them, yes,
and we dance with
the Korean man, the gay couple,
the 25 year-old Indian engineer,
the Jewish woman, the grinning first-dates,
the elderly man with hearing aids who knows the dances by heart.
These others welcome us, guide us, teach us. We receive their extended hands with gratitude,
and they literally pull us along to keep in step!
We are pulled along; we allow ourselves to be –
“Balance and swing, all join hands, circle the ring…” –
learning with every beat.
When was the last time I really let someone else teach me something?
We are,
each one,
image-bearers of the One who made us all.
Each one loved, each known and valued.
Each.
One.
Each one an eternal soul in an earthly body,
and our humanity transcends
colors and traditions,
beliefs and appearances,
countries of origin, languages, genders, hopes,
abilities, preferences, experiences and understandings.
Beautiful humanity,
balancing and swinging
up and down the lines,
all together
in our corner of America.
Shannon Lucas-Roberts grew up in Virginia and has also lived in China and Colorado. She is a believer in Jesus, wife to the man of her dreams, and mama of two marvelous children. Shannon is a teacher by trade and poet at heart who believes that each of us was made to be loved and to love. She writes for Apples of Gold which can be found here Apples of Gold.
