Last weekend our planned Pajama Day was cut short by the need to travel to the big city so I could have my fingerprints re-done. (Now why I have to have fingerprints done is another story for another time, just be content to know that I am not a criminal; it was for a legit reason.) Anyway, we drove the Interstate to the far south side of the city where Fred was convinced the State Police office was located. He remembered the big star sign on the north side of the interstate. After a bit of on and off the highway, onto service roads, and driving down streets parallel to the interstate, we finally pulled over and plugged the address into the GPS. Voila! It is less than five minutes away, on the south side of the highway. But to justify the search, we did pass a huge building that both of us remembered thinking This Was Once The Place.
Inside, the State Police Headquarters was really nice. It seemed to be brand new, and the lobby was empty. No one was at the reception counter, no one was in the ample waiting area with its' many sofas and chairs. To my left was a window with an obvious declaration of This Is Where You Have Fingerprints Done. Actually, it was a bit more subtle than that, but it was easy to notice.
The polite girl there understood why I had come, handed me a fingerprint card to fill out (the highlighted areas only) and said wait, my name would be called. No sooner had I finished writing out the small details of my existence, I heard my name.
The super professional lady took my paperwork, led us to the computer fingerprint room, and began to politely chat. When she noticed I was from Greers Ferry,... you know, the area of the Lake that JFK dedicated right before he went to Dallas,... she became more talkative.
I Swear I Was Not Encouraging An Intense Conversation! Fred was there, holding my bag and my rings and he will vouch for that. I was, as I always am, polite. I admit that I am interested in what other people tell me. Their lives are fascinating, but today we were going to meet our son for dinner and I really didn't want to take terribly long. There have been times in the past when I would run in somewhere, just for a minute, to drop off papers, or cleaning, or buy a tube of toothpaste-nothing more, and I would come back to Fred waiting in the car 30 minutes later instead of five. But I always bring a good story.
Today was no exception. My fingerprint lady had attended a private Catholic school (Kennedy was Catholic, you know) because of a frightening experience she and her mother had at the public school she attended as a small child. Due to the racial prejudice of integration (must have been in the late 50s or early 60s) there was a mob of hateful white people outside her school at dismissal time. When her mama picked her up to carry her to their car, a brick whooshed by their heads, missing them by inches. Her mother refused to allow her child to return to that school, thus the childhood of academia with nuns and early morning mass.
She, in turn, put her kids into private schools to protect them and because she valued the education she had received. But, in that kind of sheltered environment, she noted that her kids did not recognize the difficulties people of color had experienced in the day. And as soon as the movie "The Butler" hits the theaters, she plans to take her whole family.
Now. I grew up in Memphis, lived with my grandparents all my life, so I was exposed to the most ridiculous comments and attitudes about race and gender. Somehow, I never bought into the whole bigotry thing. I enjoyed my senior year with the first integrated class, met and made new friends, and never thought too much about the racial problems of the world. My friends were a variety of colors, much to my grandmother's dismay. It didn't matter to me. I guess she noticed I was sympathetic because she talked a lot more.
She talked so much that she lost her place while computer fingerprinting my second hand and had to start over. She talked more and we did compare notes about sons and their Christmas present choices. Both of us have boys who wait until the last minute. My fingers had to be dusted, too, because I taught art for so long that the paper shuffling 'wore my fingerprints down.' I believe that.
About an hour after we went into the empty fingerprinting area, we left. I almost hugged her goodbye. She was really nice and I'm glad I met her. It's reassuring to encounter good people in our travels.
We passed thru the waiting area now full of people patiently waiting for their turn. Twenty to twenty-five, at least. Uh, sorry folks.
As we departed to the car, Fred noted that my address and reason for fingerprints should have led her to believe that I was not a friend to black history, that maybe I was a quiet racist. Why did she open up so to me and tell me so much?
All I can say, is that many people tell me their most private thoughts, life events, and concerns. People talk to me that I have never met, will probably never see again, and to my mind, have very little in common, except that we are all in this great adventure together.
Although I don't think I encourage this sort of thing, I'm very willing to listen. I've always wondered why, but now I'm going to pass some of their stories along to you. Maybe there's a lesson to be learned. I've learned most people are genuinely good folk. I've never heard a mean story satisfied with a hateful action. I've heard forgiveness, compassion, planning, frustration, and humor. My new friend at the fingerprinting place is a gracious lady. I'm pleased to have met her.
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