Lessons from George

(originally written 2/2016)

This week has been weird. Like…really weird. Have you ever just looked back on the events of the preceding week and thought, “My, my. What was that?” Not so much as a literal means of devising explanations for the seemingly strange occurrences of the week, but more so as a catalyst for introspection and reflection on the significance (or lack thereof) of said events. As I write this, sitting atop the plush carpeted rug on my bedroom floor, my headphones blasting Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “Love’s Holiday” (rest in peace, Maurice White), I think about the hodgepodge of events that comprised the past seven days: hearing the tiny heartbeat of my first neonatal patient, enduring the incredibly awkward experience of performing my first medical examination on male genitalia, experiencing the daily joys and frustrations of being the prototypical self-sacrificing (and consequently sleep-deprived) medical student. But perhaps the most enlightening and stimulating encounter that I experienced this week had absolutely no connection to medical school at all. Rewind to Wednesday. The day I met George*. 

Boston Public Library

It started off as a typical day in the Tosteson Medical Education Center at Harvard Medical School. 8am: Small group tutorial session.  10am: Renal pathology lecture on nephritic conditions. 11am: Pathophysiology lecture on disorders of potassium. After two cups of coffee and—what the young folk call—“le struggle” of fighting sleep during two hours of lecture, I decided that I needed a change of scenery. So I slammed my laptop, packed up my things, and headed to the Boston Public Library. I’ve always loved the concept of public libraries. Even though we exist in a society that prides itself on the advances of digital technology, there’s something intrinsically magical about the physical entities that are books—physical connections to the character, personalities, and thoughts of thousands of authors spanning centuries upon centuries of human history. Call me old school, but there’s something special about the phenomenon of an entire city communing together to read, study, and ponder in a collective space. 

Boston Public Library

As I arranged my books and laptop on one of the narrow study tables in Bates Hall, I saw George. Well, actually, I smelled him before I saw him, carrying a scent so strong, anyone would perk up and take notice. He was tall, about 6'2", muscular build with a handsome face and scraggly beard. He sat down in front of me as I noticed his large, calloused hands, a shade of deep ebony. Hands. Hands that revealed a life of hard work. A life of struggle. A life attuned to the beat of the daily grind. What was different about George, however, was that he was homeless. A homeless 72-year-old Black man originally from South Carolina who (I would later discover) had not showered in at least a couple of days. He carried a Walkman cassette player with a pair of headphones jammed firmly onto his ears. He was reading a day-old newspaper. He intrigued me. I wanted to know more. I found myself stealing subtle glances of him, ensuring that I avoided his eyes, but oh so curious about what he was reading and thinking. What was on his mind?

After a few minutes of silence, I heard him mumble a string of indistinguishable sounds underneath his breath. He repeated the sounds again, but this time audible enough for me to make out the words: “tick tock.” As he continued staring at his day-old newspaper, he continued to repeat the words: “tick tock.” They grew in frequency. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. They grew in loudness. TICK TOCK. TICK TOCK. TICK TOCK. At this point, I was doing everything in my power to act normally. To be chill.  To pretend as if this 72-year-old man wasn’t practically yelling words that made absolutely no sense within the context of the quiet study space that was Bates Hall. Unable to ignore the sound any longer, and peeping from my peripheral vision that George was beginning to accumulate stares from the other patrons, I finally glanced over my MacBook. Slightly taken aback, I noticed that George was gazing directly at me. Eyes piercing the back of my retinas. You know that look Mama gives you that screams, “ You know you don’ messed up?” That was the look. Reflected in George’s face…all the while exclaiming TICK TOCK. TICK. TOCK. TICK TOCK. *Cue suspenseful music* Sounds like something out of a TV thriller, right? Not quite. I wasn’t afraid. Eventually, one of the security guards forced him from his seat and escorted him from Bates Hall. I felt bad for him, and in my head all I could think was, “What the hell was that?”

Maybe George was suffering from mental illness? Approximately 20-25% of our nation’s homeless population suffers from a plethora of mental disorders, ranging from schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, substance abuse…you name it. And as public libraries across the country operate as welcoming public spaces for all citizens, it’s no surprise that metropolitan public libraries and library employees are at the forefront of America’s homeless crisis. Unsettled by what had happened, I decided to find George. Eventually, I found him outside, resting on the library steps, headphones still tightly jammed over his ears. I kept a bit of distance until he finally noticed me. He removed the headphones and said, in an Ossie Davis-like vocal timbre, “Tick tock, young ma’am.”  “Why do you keep repeating ‘tick tock’? I asked plainly.  He held out the earphones and Walkman for me to have a listen. Initially reluctant to take the cassette player, I finally acquiesced and held the headphones close to my ear. I heard the percussive rhythms of drums and the powerful voices of Black men in harmony. Spoken words that reverberated 

“I understand that time is running out

I understand that time is running out

Running out as hastily as ni--ers run from the Man…

Time is running out on our natural habits

Time is running out on lifeless serpents reigning over a living kingdom

Time is running out of talks, marches, tunes, chants, and all kinds of prayers

Time

Is running out of time

Heard someone say, “Things were changing”

Change. Changing from Brown to Black

Time is running out on bullshit changes……”

George began to complain, and I lowered the headphones, eager to hear what he had to say. He spoke of his frustrations with Black leaders. The stagnancy of progress and the seeming disregard of the American people for the lives of the country’s Black citizens. He spoke of imminent revolution, comparing it to a stick of dynamite…patiently waiting for its opportunity to detonate and explode. He spoke of Sandra Bland. Trayvon Martin. Emanuel A.M.E. Eric Garner. Flint, Michigan. “Black people are fed up.” He spoke, and I listened. He spoke of his early life in South Carolina. About the struggles of a young Black boy growing up in the South during the 1950s. “It’s amazing how much has changed. But equally amazing how much hasn’t.” He spoke. And for the rest of the hour, I listened as he recounted his own Black history. Towards the end of our conversation, he thanked me. “Why are you thanking me? What did I do?” “You gave me the time of day when other [mfs] wouldn’t even take the time to look me in the face. That’s what it means to be homeless. People never take the time to see who you really are.” My heart swelled, and after saying goodbye to my new friend, Mr. George, I headed towards the Copley T stop and made my way home.

Later that evening, while scrolling through Spotify, searching for that perfect study playlist, I came across The Black History Salute playlist: a daily playlist dedicated to honor those artists who have “contributed greatly to Black music and culture.” I decided to give it a listen. About 30 minutes into the playlist, I paused. Absolutely not. Am I imagining this? As I sat at my desk, perplexed at what I was hearing, I heard the familiar percussive rhythms of drums and the powerful voices of Black men in harmony. Spoken words that reverberated 

“I understand that time is running out

I understand that time is running out

Running out as hastily as ni--ers run from the Man…

Time is running out on our natural habits

Time is running out on lifeless serpents reigning over a living kingdom

Time is running out of talks, marches, tunes, chants, and all kinds of prayers

Time

Is running out of time

Heard someone say “Things were changing”

Change. Changing from Brown to Black

Time is running out on bullshit changes……”

This was weird. Like…really weird. Though I’m not one to believe in signs and superstition, I could imagine my grandmother—an incredulously insightful woman with roots in Louisiana—saying to me, “Now, what is the universe trying to tell you, young lady?” I finally decided to look up the poem. It was titled, “Run, Nigger,” a poem recorded in the 1970s by an Afrocentric group called The Last Poets. I gave the entire Last Poet’s album a listen, and, since it was Black History Month, took the time to reflect on what being conscious and being Black in America really meant. I thought about my own family, all the way back to my ancestor William Parker who served in the Colored Regiments for the Union during the Civil War. About my grandfather, a born and bred Mississippian, who refused to seek medical services up until his death because of his distrust of the medical profession during the turbulent Civil Right’s Era in Mississippi. About the lineage of beautiful, Black, southern women who taught me how to speak, walk, and stand with my head held high. I thought about my people. My beautiful, strong, powerful people, who, since the beginning of time, found ways to survive and thrive in settings unimaginable. 

God saw fit to mold me as a Black woman, and despite the occasional adversity and struggle, I wouldn’t have it any other way. My speech. The subtle southern drawl when I say y’all. My body. From the crown of my head to the curve of my hips to the soles of my feet. My soul. All molded within the context of the Black experience.   So I say, “Thanks.” Thank you George for reminding me of not only how far we have yet still to go, but for initiating my own thoughts about my perceptions of myself and of my people at this crucial moment in time. Thank you for sharing your story and for sharing with me the beauty of the human experience. 

I hope to one day see you again. 

*Name changed to protect identity