In April, I wrote about a run in that I had with a man in my town. It was a bit crazy for a gyal (girl) who has lived most of her life without anyone ever putting their hands on her or calling her mean names. Some would say I was lucky. I might add that I had been ignorant of the experience of violence. Regardless, I came to the conclusion that the only option for me was to write Mr. Morris a letter that explained that I cared about him and had hope even though he had hurt me. After doing it, I realized that I seemed a bit crazy, even the police came by my house twice to see if I wanted them to give him a warning but I figured he had enough trouble in his life without me adding to it. Nothing really came of it until I had a group of volunteers from Western Carolina University in Layou and then that little thing called karma showed her beautiful face to me.
In May, as I was rushing from my house to the school after one of the group participant's had an accident, I came across a van. Since I was in need of any way to get to the school faster, I peaked my head into the van and found Mr. Morris sitting behind the wheel. After a quick assessment of sobriety, I asked for a ride and he agreed. As soon as I got in the van, I felt nervous. I had never heard from him again after that night and had flown under the radar in terms of seeing him on the streets or at a rum shop. As I put my seat belt on and he started to drive, he looked over and said, "What's your name?" It occurred to me that he had NO idea who I was and my nervousness increased. "I'm Sarah. I'm the Peace Corps volunteer that works with the school."
I could see the light bulb go off. All of the sudden, Mr. Morris was explaining to me how that was the nicest letter that he had ever received and that he was sorry. Over and over again, he explained how the rum had gotten the best of him that night and that he could not forgive himself. He said he had been wondering when he would run into me (of course not knowing what he was looking for was proving to be a challenge). Well, I have to admit, I am person of faith but when actions of love and compassion lead to a ride when you need it the most, it has a way of bolstering your beliefs in the goodness of humanity. In a way, he said and did everything I would ever have hoped for in terms of 'repairing' the heartache of that night.
Now I see Mr. Morris on a pretty regular basis. Sometimes he is two sheets to the wind so I just wave and keep walking. Other times, he is more coherent so I join him for a coke and he tells me stories of when he first moved to England, how his farm is doing or how sad he is that his wife does not want to come back to St. Vincent. Sometimes he will tell the guys around us that I called him a drunkard which I have to remind him is not at all the case but most of all he tells them about how he got the letter. Sometimes he'll even go to his van, which is always parked near by, and get it so others can read. When I leave him, I always remind him to be safe (aka please don't drive!) and that I meant what I said in the letter.
Now, I am an advocate for love letters.
Especially those written to the people who have caused us heartache.
Write one today.
You just never know.
Love is the one thing.
**Blog about the incident, http://smithersisland.blogspot.com/2011/04/please-read-but-only-when-sober.html**
awesome, sarah. simply awesome. i love it!
ReplyDeleteanne