Essence

When I lived in Southern California I had the most wonderful dentist. Loved going each and every time. I wouldn’t be lying if I said it felt like I was visiting family. Everyone always asking about the kids. Even asking about Thumper the dog. The staff had been the same for years. Never any new faces. That’s very telling.

She was actually my neighbor -lived about five doors up from us. But I never saw her in the neighborhood so we caught up during my appointments.

Kind, funny, smart, beautiful on the inside and outside.

And she was a refugee.

When she was just five years old her parents, four siblings and a ton of other family members boarded a boat to escape Vietnam. No idea where they were going but the Dad knew they had to flee.

She told me she could remember being in a sack and thumping her head on the bottom of the boat.

They were rescued at sea, after floating for days amidst bombs, by a ship and soon found refuge in the United States. A Catholic Church in the Midwest sponsored them.

Sadly, her mom died from cancer some time after they arrived in the U.S.

Dad, a physician, ended up doing a fine job raising his children.

My dentist originally was pre-Med but once completed decided on dentistry. Her father had five children. All chose medicine or dentistry.  That’s a bunch of Drs. in just one family.

That is truly a success story. Against many odds.

Being a doctor might not necessarily be everyone’s idea of the pinnacle of success. We all know a profession is not the whole person. Doesn’t make you a better person or a person who is better than anyone else. But it is a wonderful accomplishment, an honorable profession and requires tremendous hard work. For anyone but especially for folks who start off fighting the odds without the usual support systems in place.

During the recent elections I read that a woman said her candidate would win if only the people whose four grandparents were born in the U.S. would vote.

I pondered that one. And I’d say she was probably right on the money.

But what she missed with that statement was that we all should be reminded that America has always been a nation of immigrants and refugees. Always. Even folks whose four grandparents (or great grandparents) were born in the U.S. have immigrant blood coursing through their veins.

 

My dentist arrived in a boat. Fleeing murder and mayhem. No papers. No nothing.

It was only through the goodness and generosity of the American people and a church community that allowed her family to not just survive the ordeal but to flourish. To serve the greater community. To become respectable, outstanding, tax paying citizens.

This story just reminds me of why I always loved my country. Her essence. The goodness, generosity and community of the people. Candidates and politicians come and go but I have every hope that the essence of America will and should remain the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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No Good Deed

No good deed goes unnoticed. I would take it one step further and say no good deed is ever forgotten.

When I first married my husband we would sometimes go grab a bite at the Greek sandwich place in “The Arcade” in Providence.

The Arcade was a lovely, historical building. It was the first enclosed shopping mall in the United States. Built in 1828. Looked like a Greek temple.

The owner was a young guy named Steve. He was always so glad to see my husband. When he spotted my husband he would greet him by his first name and it was always followed by, “my friend.” Said with the utmost warmth.

His older parents, when they were working in the restaurant, were also always glad to see my husband. Big smiles all around for him.

We would sometimes run into Steve at another Greek place on the East Side of Providence. Where we used to sit outside in the summer, whiling away the evening (pre-kids) with conversation and people watching. He would sit and chat with us.

I once asked my husband, “How did you guys meet?”

Apparently one day, my husband (then a college student) was in The Arcade and noticed Steve’s parents, just over from Greece, working behind the counter. Steve was not there at the time. It was lunchtime in the city and the crowd was growing. Steve’s parents were getting a bit flustered and/or overwhelmed with the cash register and the crowd. I can’t remember if the waiting folks were getting antsy or upset.

I do remember that my husband jumped behind the counter and took over the register. And started helping them out.

When he relayed the story to me there was no braggadocio in it. More a recounting of an amusing episode.

This would not be the first time that I heard or saw my husband stepping in, without second thought, when he saw someone in need. I would observe this many times in the twenty-seven years we’ve been married.

It is just a reminder that sometimes we forget how even the smallest act of kindness can ripple and reverberate. And how we can all be a positive association for our fellow human beings.

Never to be forgotten.

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Most Dangerous Woman in America

I joked with someone the other day that I will never be known as Typhoid Mary. I said it because I had been given the Typhoid oral vaccine in preparation of the upcoming move to Kuala Lumpur.

But it got me thinking.

Many years ago there were two Irish born women who were each pegged as the most dangerous woman in America during their lifetime. Maybe not precisely at the same time. These ladies not only shared a birth country but also the same first name.

Mary Harris Jones (Mother Jones) was one of the two. I am sure she loved the title and wore it well during her years of fighting for the rights of workers all over this country.

But the other woman was Mary Mallon. That was her name before she got tagged with the moniker, “Typhoid Mary.” Born in County Tyrone, she came to America as a young woman. She worked as a cook in New York. And everywhere Mary worked illness was sure to follow. Three people died. While Mary herself was always perfectly healthy.

Can you imagine how scared she must have been? She must have had a very difficult time being convinced she was a carrier of something so awful. Especially when she felt fine.

Mary’s only means of support was her work as a cook. That is all she knew. There weren’t a lot of choices for someone like her. An immigrant. Single. Female. No family in the United States. Alone. No education. No other skills.

Imagine being picked up and taken away by the police. She would spend a total of thirty years of her life in quarantine. On an island with no freedom. But outwardly healthy.

I am thinking that Mary Mallon was never the most dangerous woman in America. She was probably just the most frightened.

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