Down the Las Vegas Strip

This past week, I spent time in Las Vegas. My husband attended an automative conference held at the convention center, I explored the Vegas Strip alone. Exploring Las Vegas is an adventure. I learned which street performers to engage with and which ones to avoid. One morning, I went for a jog from our hotel room at the Palazzo up to the Stratosphere, a round shape bulb with a needle on top that sits at one end of the Las Vegas Strip. Of course, in my usual fashion, I started out running but realized I needed to reserve some energy for the trip back and begin to walk. The scenery changes from the central portion of the strip. As I walked, I came across miles of undeveloped land, graffiti and tiny shops with "Everything on Sale" signs in the window. Unlike areas in front of the Cosmopolitan and Bellagio, the homeless people in this area appeared to be unable to even ask verbally for spare change; they merely seem to exist, holding their signs and staring off into the distance. Homelessness is prevalent in Vegas. In Nevada there are 7,900 people without homes and 58% of those people are "unsheltered." I came across a senior man who attached a change cup to his two-legged walker. He had a long beard and wrinkled hands. I noticed him because his walker was missing two legs, so it leaned forward while he attempted to hold it in place. He did not look up or say anything as a walked by but he was someone I felt called to give some money. It wasn't much, and I could have given more, but I never know what the correct amount is. He, however, was the one I could affect that day. 

I picked up my pace. I wanted to make it back to the hotel before my husband finished his meetings for the day. There was no sense in trying to run because the wind had picked up. During the almost thirty-five minute walk, I thought about my friend who I encountered early. I thought about his life. I thought about all the people I passed living on the street and if things would ever turn around for them in a city that promises so much winning. 

An Observation: Older Man Younger Woman

PHOTOGRAPH BY ANDREW WALTON 

I noticed a woman holding the hand of a man who was at least three times her age and I could not help but wonder how this came to be. As they strolled hand in hand out of one of the fanciest restaurants in town, she wore a trench coat, low neck animal print blouse, knee-high boots, and a skirt to match. He wore a tan suit, red lapel, rocked a white beard and white long white hair.  A possible question in this situation or any situation resembling this one: is it love? Is it security? Is it companionship? Is it a father figure? Of course, no matter what it is, its none of my business and I should get back to writing my book about becoming the real version of yourself, but this world and the people in it fascinate me. Their stories, their choices. You probably, think its a way to keep from gazing at my own life, a way to disengage from the story of my life. The truth is, I’ve never been happier, although I am not naive to think this bliss could last forever – maybe; or just maybe I look at the hard times as a character building activity, one in resilience and perseverance, then perhaps I can have the best life until my last breath. I am fine either way. I’ve come further than I deserve and I am merely grateful to see the rising sun in a world with so much to give, to take, to teach, to disrupt. 

Now back to this older man and his younger bride or perhaps back to my work. 

The Story of Jorge

He could not tell I was annoyed or maybe he could from the twenty-eight minute wait in the lobby. The only working bank employee avoided direct eye contact with any of the bank's patrons waiting in the small sitting area. I struck up a conversation with a friend I noticed sitting in a chair not far from where I was. He used to live in the same high-rise as my husband and I. We talked about his travel to London and his plans to visit Japan. We also spoke about business and community politics, mainly broken promises from our city leaders. He was happier than usual. He spent about 90% of his time in London where "business dealings are better than in the states because a handshake is a handshake."

He was up next so our conversation ended abruptly when the bank employee beckoned for whoever was next. The employee, whose name I learned was Jorge, seemed to be having an okay day. He was tall and noticeably uncomfortable about something. He was a big man but appeared as though he could own a small cat and a potted plant. My friend finished his transaction in a short time, and I was up next. Sitting in front of him, I could see that Jorge had a few things going on in his life after he left the bank. He appeared anxious and uncomfortable in his suit.  

I gave him my ID and after he made a few jokes about my photo I gave a look that meant "let's speed things up, buddy." He took the hint, and as he was typing my information into his computer, I noticed a slight head nod and then a shake, another one, and another one. He was falling asleep right in front of me. The head nod meant his eyes were drooping and the shake was to keep from falling into his computer. He had the process down. I felt justified in telling him that he probably needed some coffee and more sleep. The unexpected part came when he said it was a medical condition.

"The man has narcolepsy," I thought to myself.

Jorge then proceeded, as if I were family,  to tell me about his undiagnosed diabetes and sleep apnea, all things I was familiar with because I have a family history of diabetes and my brother has sleep apnea. Then, Jorge shared the story of a mini heart attack he had a few months earlier while drinking a Monster energy drink, he did not stay up late, and had a habit of bingeing on hamburgers and fried food. He was going to get his doctor results back in a few weeks to see if he indeed had diabetes and if he needed a sleep device to get some rest.

I could empathize with him. His struggle to live unrestricted and at the same time enjoy all that life has to offer had caught up with him. 

I explained that I lost two aunts and my grandmother to diabetes and my mother has the disease. I cautioned him against the medicine most doctors would prescribe and kindly told him to lose some weight, completely cut the Monsters, and take back control of his life. 

Jorge nodded in agreement.

As I walked out of the bank, Jorge told me to take care of myself.

I smiled and said, "no, you, take care of yourself" with a nudge to his left shoulder. 

"I will try." 

This is a true story. Names have been changed to protect the identity of the individual the story is about. 

Conversations With The Dominant Class

What would conversations with the dominant class in American look like? What questions would the rest of us ask? What would we say?

How would we self-justify our position in the world against theirs? 

Would we talk about needing better schools for our children and better jobs for our families? What would be the response to this? 

Would we discuss politics in a way that encouraged them to take our side and reason against capitalism? 

Having to resort to theatrics, what If I took out a blade and cut open my hand to show that we indeed bleed the same blood would that make a difference in how we relate to each other? 

Who would I have to become to speak the language?  

Hospital Visits

photo credit: https://unsplash.com/@daanstevens

You learn a lot about yourself in a hospital, like what the end of life looks like, how to exist in a space where death is breathable, what comforting the sick and injured feels like, and how to accept that this life, like everything in it, is fleeting.

My father-in-law had no idea what he was getting into when a caramel girl, who loves books, art, and the insides of people decided to marry his son. It's not like I knew I was gaining a father who loves cookies, spending time at his car shop, having the backs of his oldest friends, and a man who would not leave Cleveland, Ohio if you told him the world was ending exactly where his house sits. We got each other. A decent exchange.

This past weekend, my father-in-law of one year and ten months lay still in a hospital bed at the Cleveland Clinic. He looked tired. I guess triple heart bypass surgery will do that to you. All I could do is stare at the man my husband loves with all his heart. The room was dark, except for the dancing medical machine lights. I sat in a chair next to his bed. He heard us come in and said, ''oh, I'm not sleep" as if he wanted and needed the company.

While sitting in that chair across from my father, I thought about his life, the many choices that led to this exact moment. This distress was what he had hoped to avoid after watching and caring for his mother. She died of a health-related disease.

My mother spoke of generational curses often growing up, and at this time the bad omen of diabetes has my older brother and older sister in its grip. We do unspeakable things to ourselves.

As I do to my husband nights when I can not sleep, in the dark, I rubbed the back of dad-in-law's head and whispered you're okay, its okay, you're safe now.

What I learned that day in the hospital is that family can comfort you in your darkest moments. They have the ability to whisper in your ear -- you're okay, its okay, you're safe now.

In those moments, you and I remember what we have in each other; we remember that in order not to labor in vain we need mission and purpose, we remember that what we have given, we will receive.

This piece was originally posted here as "You're Okay, Its Okay, You're Safe Now"