A Serious Second Look at Strangers

Stranger danger echoes in my ear from the memories of my first few years in the school system. Such a negative association to a word introduced to me by concerned parents and teachers. The caution was always to never talk to strangers, which was probably their way of instilling within me a mental self-defense mechanism to protect me from unsuspecting harm.

But, I think today, strangers are people. When I’m standing on a platform in front of the subway, I am most certainly a stranger. We’ve all been trained to walk fast and purposefully down a city sidewalk. We’ve all been taught to hold tight to our belongings inside subways, trains and airplanes.

Public transportation, however, is swarming with different kinds of strangers. Sometimes, I find myself snapping out of this cold, disconnected role I play as a stranger watching out for other dangerous strangers. I like to observe the crowd that has chosen to divert their glances, plaster on blank expressions, and turn off any awareness for true human interaction.

Every once in a while, a stranger makes me smile when they break the silence and strike up a casual conversation with me. What a pleasure to meet you! Words like spontaneity and serendipity are not normally associated with the interaction between two strangers. But, I believe they go hand in hand!

My memory takes me back to the moment I was sitting quietly on a bench in the middle of London. A notebook, a pen and the observations I’ve made about my travels were my only companions. Suddenly, a tap on the shoulder interrupted my thoughts. A middle aged man cautiously asked me if I could watch over his luggage while he used the portable rest room located at the busy street corner. Without hesitation, I chose to help him. (My family members reprimanded me later on, reminding me that the luggage could have been a disguise for bombs and explosions.)

The man, however, returned for his bags and seemed both astonished and grateful all at the same time. Thinking back, he may have also assumed the worst of me, suspicious that the bags would have disappeared in an opportune robbery. I smiled at the man as he repeatedly showered me with thank-yous. He immediately walks to the outdoor flower boutique across from me and brings me back a beautiful bouquet of white lilies, his symbol of gratitude. My mouth drops open in shock and I sheepishly accept the gift in pleasant surprise. As the man walked away towards his next destination, the flower shop owner and I exchange looks of unbelief.

So many of us are taught that strangers are dangerous when we really need to learn the fine line between reservation and interaction. I wonder, will we ever stop being uncomfortable with the idea of a stranger?

Why Do I Write?

I write mainly to organize the chaos of thoughts that bombard my mind like those fidgety pin balls that bounce uncontrollably from side to side within an arcade machine. My thoughts grow into this overflowing mass, pressuring my head worse than splitting migraines that beckon for Tylenol’s relief.

Finally, I would yelp in frustration and scramble for a pen—my momentary mouthpiece.

I write for myself, because my eyes alone should see the first impressions of my intimate reflection lingering in the pages. It is so that I can make sense of my opinion and feelings, giving voice to those thoughts that frequently remain silent out of fear.

Writing in my journal is most importantly my connection to God. I write mostly to Him because it feels more real than just saying my prayers out loud to an empty ceiling. Over time, He gently reminds me of just how many blessings and promises have filled these blank pages. He winks at me with every sigh of relief I release when I use my writing to shield me from dark thoughts that fill my mind at the most random times of day… when I leave myself unguarded and vulnerable.

Writing helps me remember the details of my intricate movements through life’s… performance. My memories become immortal, easily accessible with a turn of the page. Somehow, it also calms me before my thoughts struggle in the midst of waves of doubt and worry over the future. I sometimes think about Jesus during times like this— when He is able to sleep soundly in the middle of a scary storm.

The act of writing enables me and empowers me while elevating me to heights that so many out there can never reach because they weren’t taught to explore and find their voice. While others are forced to remain silent, I choose to write because I so freely can and should express myself.