A night in Birmingham on July 3, 2018

After dinner Claire and I go to the porch to smoke a cigarette. From her porch we see the sun setting on the horizon. To the south of Birmingham there is a magnificent hill that makes it possible to look across an old southern city and see where the sky meets the trees, many miles off. Claire lives towards the top of this hill. Despite its relative simplicity, I find the view excruciatingly wonderful.

The two of us talk about the decisions we’re facing and the environments in which we find ourselves. There is music playing — a band called Lomelda. We speak about her job, which leads to a conversation on race. I ask her about the way she feels as a white person among black people, particularly in the hierarchical context of non-profit service. She tells me that the way she has found to navigate this situation is essentially to consistently acknowledge her lack of understanding and ask for patience. I then ask her about her financial situation, and about the pressure she’s faced in the last year working for little money. Our friend Alaina joins us, and eventually I ask if the two of them find it problematic that I feel as though I don’t want to have much money, which is why I’m departing from a high-paying industry to work in food service. Claire and Alaina tell me that not having money is difficult, and that it is wrong to glorify poverty. They tell me people in the restaurant industry will probably resent me if they find out I’m using them for some odd agenda of self-education.

We reach a point in the conversation that I have reached in many others. I find myself convinced with significant rigor that I cannot allow this perspective to dissuade me from pursuing the lifestyle and environment that I have found most appropriate for my growth as a caring individual at this time in my life — one that is as little marked by affluence as possible given my circumstances. I explain that while I do have financial safety in the sense that I can always rely on moving back in with my parents, which the two of them have as well, I am not given everything I want. I follow this train of thought: while my situation seems different than theirs, in the sense that I can immediately enter a high-paying career, this situation was not given — I chose to pursue the skill set that I have today, and I conclude that this choice should not necessarily dictate the remainder of my life. If I want to work in a restaurant, refuse to buy a car in order to keep myself within a local community, eat and spend less than I do now, and scrape by with paying for rent, health insurance, and food, I should be able to make this decision without guilt.

What I really want to express is that as an affluent person I have become severed from my relationship with the scarcity of the earth, from the precariousness of being an organism in an harsh environment, and that I know of no other way to attempt to fix this than to place myself in situations where this relationship seems a bit more real. I don’t want to be comfortable my whole life at the expense of both 1) my understanding of life as an individual within a massively interdependent ecosystem, and 2) my acquaintance with the millions who are less comfortable in a system where their labor and energy is essentially stolen from them and given to me.

At this moment my deep concern with this dilemma is not quite shared by the people I am talking to, which is understandable, but I become uncomfortable and decide I should drive Gil’s car to the park I know in Birmingham and see what happens. I drive in silence, downhill, towards town, knowing the general direction of the park, and once I recognize my surroundings, primarily the large AT&T tower seared into my memory from the last time I was downtown, I park in the same spot I parked with Cameron and our new friend Graham months earlier, and walk towards a statue in the southeast corner of the square. I sit directly in front of a chunk of concrete depicting Martin Luther King Jr. on his knees between two other religious men who are praying with their heads pointed towards the earth. Graham’s words echo in my head: “Everything we have we must ask for from the dirt.”

Staring at the statue, I begin to cry. I want only to find consistency and beauty in the world around me and be of service to people. As I begin to feel more and more tired and upset, I walk to the base of the statue, which is shorter than I am, and I lay before the praying men, staring up at their closed eyes pointed towards me. I take off one of my sandals to use for a pillow, and I shut my eyes and begin to rest. I begin to seriously consider sleeping outside under what feels like the safety of this concrete image of love yet completely vulnerable before the city and the elements. After at least 20 minutes, I stand up to change my surroundings. An old black man in clean khakis is sitting on a ledge very close to where I am. Afraid that I have startled him, I immediately offer him a cigarette, which he accepts.

I sit in front of my company on the curb across the sidewalk. Consumed with the unusual nature of the situation, and hyper-aware of myself as someone in a very different circumstance than the person before me, I am largely quiet. I stare around at the shadows in the park and rapidly take drags from my cigarette. The man, who later told me I could call him what sounded like “Choo”, is slow to respond to my questions, and I can’t understand most of what he tells me.

He sips his beer, and then asks me what’s going on. I tell him I am from North Carolina, that I just finished school, and that I work in a deli and am visiting town for a few days. I quickly ask him what’s going on with him. He tells me I don’t want to hear his sad old story, to which I quickly reply that I do. Between consistent misunderstanding and awkward clarifying questions, I gather that he was shot in the ankle in Miami when he was 21 and selling cocaine, but that he was born in Birmingham and has lived here his whole life. I am later told that he had a stroke and that he’s not acting funny, just that he can’t talk too fast. I tell him that’s okay with me.

As the interaction becomes increasingly uncomfortable, I decide I should probably leave this man in peace. I ask him where I can buy a beer, and he points me in the right direction. As I get up to leave, he asks if I am going to the store, and says he’s hungry. I tell him I’m happy to find some food, but we both know there isn’t much in the area. I tell him I’ll buy him something at the store, and the two of us slowly begin to make our way to the gas station 2 blocks away.

The conversation is still as difficult as it was before, but I feel a certain amount of respect and understanding. I explain to him that I’m familiar with the landmarks around us — Citizen Drug, the hotel where MLK stayed, the church where 4 little girls were shot — places that Graham had explained to me in detail. After a pause in the conversation, I tell him that all of this happened long before I was born. He asks me when that was, and I tell him 1995. He says “Damn. I’m 51.” He says it’s hard for him to forget about what happened.

As we walk through the night, many other men pass us, and I am again consumed with the unusual nature of the scene. When we approach the store, a man asks me if I need weed. I tell him no thanks, I already have some. He asks me for money for beer, and I give him 3 dollars. Another man asks me for a cigarette, which I give him.

I go in the store, which is small, only 3 shelves surrounded by a wall of fridges. I pick out a light beer, and Shoo places 2 on the counter next to mine. I pay for the beers, and the two of us leave the store. Another man asks me if I’m looking for weed, and I tell him the same as before, to which he responds “Oh then let me get a hit.” I tell him I’m walking back to the park, and he begins to follow me and Choo. Choo begins to grumble under his breath. Another man passes us and asks me for money for a beer. I give him a dollar and a cigarette. The man that is now walking with us begins to explain to me that the first man at the station I talked to is someone I shouldn’t ever talk to. He repeats again and again that it’s not safe for me to be doing what I’m doing, but that as long as I stay with Choo, who he’s calling L.A., I’ll be fine. When we get to the park, he asks me for the weed, which I give him, and he walks off.

Choo and I return to the ledge I met him at. When I sit down, he looks at me and says “Man, I was being fuckin’ real with you, what the fuck are you doing?” I stare at him blankly. He says “I didn’t know you were fuckin’ dealing crack, man.” I explain that it was only weed, but he continues shaking his head. I begin to apologize, and he tells me he understands, and that you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do, but I can tell he is still disappointed. From broken sentences I also gather that he thinks I was stupid to give so many people money in a place like this, where they might assume I had more money and try to jump me. I try to explain that I was buying him a beer and felt as though I shouldn’t turn down the others that asked for the same. He thanked me but was still uncomfortable. I get up and shake his hand, and then he asks me for money for food. Looking in my wallet, I stare at a one and a ten, hand him the ten, and walk off. He calls back and asks for a cigarette. I show him my pack with three cigarettes left, give him one, and we both walk away in different directions.

Back in my car, I begin to slowly drive home, lighting another cigarette. As I navigate back to Claire’s house without directions, and begin to feel almost a bit at home, while simultaneously feeling lonelier than I have in a very long time, I decide to continue driving up the hill to check out the view from above her house. I see several groups of people standing by the edge of the road overlooking the city, staring out at the night. The clock in Gil’s car reads 1:09am. I find a parking spot, pull over, and walk down towards the view with my beer. I sit on the grass, lean against the guard rail, and stare out at the city.

Almost immediately a white guy and his girlfriend walk up to me, and the guy looks at me and says, “Man, what are you doing up here all by yourself?” I tell him I’m from North Carolina and I just finished school and I’m thinking about moving to Birmingham. He explains that he’s from Oklahoma but his girl is from Alabama. His name is Jesse and his girl’s name is Stephanie. She smiles but says very little. He asks me what I do, and I tell him I did freelance website design for 8 years but got sick of computers and now work at a deli. He gets real excited and starts beaming a smile at me. He’s a nurse and does photography for fun on the side. He tells me “Even though you hate computers, how about I pay you to build me a website?” After a pleasant, clear, light-hearted and pretty enjoyable conversation, he gives me his number and then informs me that he has to go spend time with his girl because she got all dressed up to come out tonight. She’s wearing a fancy black dress. I smile and they walk up the road. I finish my beer and my last cigarette and drive slowly back to Claire’s place. After I let Misha out, he curls up right next to me on a twin air mattress as I pull out my MacBook to write this down.