Truth is Subjective

I've been reading some blogs lately by my friends in NOLA and most of them are pretty cynical about the city. I get what they're saying; I really do. It must be beyond frustrating to live there now. Friends are afraid to go places they've always gone because of the crime. The demographics are changing, but the class system is still firmly in place. My last trip home, I went to my brother's in Chalmette and wanted to cry for all the closed businesses and endless lines of trailers along once-busy Judge Perez. I felt, coming back to Austin, a sense of returning home only because this has become what is familiar to me now.

I described Austin to Rebekah as this: it's a really pretty package, the wrapping is fancy and the bow is fluffy, but to me it's a big empty box. That's not to say there aren't things and people here I love. Of course there are. But when you focus so much energy on the outside of the package, and get frustrated and angry because there is no bow, you lose sight of the great present inside. I know I'm simplifying. But there are a lot of things in Austin I would gladly give up for a fraction of what I left behind.

Life has a way of balancing itself. I am an introvert by nature. I have always lived a good portion of my life inside my head. Any entertainment I needed came from books, movies, or my imagination. From childhood, I processed every thought and emotion fully before expressing myself--if I even did that. My friends in high school used to say: when I spoke up about something, they knew to listen, as it was so rare for me to express how I felt about anything. Truth be told, by the time I was in my twenties, I thought I was invisible. Not literally. I just figured no one ever noticed me. I was "the quiet one" or "the smart one," not "the one you call to have a blast." I thought I was the most boring person in the world. I had some self-esteem issues, yeah, but I realize now that it was okay. It freed me to form my own sense of self, to create ideas and opinions outside the box my peers lived in. I was able to look at a situation and see not just two sides, but infinite sides, each as much the truth as the other.

Sometimes I feel like that invisible girl again. Back inside my own head, where it's both safe and dangerous, for I have infinite sides, and they are all the truth.

We have a lot of homeless people here in Austin. That's understandable. The weather is mild and city politics are fairly progressive. My favorites, though, are the ones who stand at busy intersections holding hand-made signs. They put a lot of effort into those signs, making them clever or heart-felt (some faves: "A couple $$ of some 4:20 would be nice"; "Testing the kindness of Humans"; "Even a smile will make it better"). I never mind these enterprising folk. I figure, hey, this is their job; to stand on this corner and remind everyone that passes--even if for just 2 seconds--that, as Jesus said, "The poor will always be with you." I rarely have cash on me, so from me it's a smile. Sometimes I offer a cigarette.

Two months ago I'm driving home from the car lot where we just put ourselves back into debt to get Rick a much-needed vehicle. My head is swirling, wondering: how are we going to pull this off? and was I going to find a job to help cover this new expense? and were we now going to be able to fix the air conditioning in my car---please God before summer? and is this ever going to end? On the corner stood a rough-looking woman, smiling at the cars passing, holding a sign. I stopped at the light and read, "Didn't Come Prepared" and started laughing my ass off.

I rolled down my window, gave her my last dollar, and thanked her.