diary entry on travelling on train
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For the past three years, I’ve only traveled long distance by train. Traveling by train has given me incalculable experiences and interactions, all in which I’m grateful for both as a human and as a writer.
Below you will find segments of my travels through the American South, Midwest and North. Most of these stories were written after I got off the train, when I had computer access, so some may be in past tense.
June 24th, 2013
Tuscon, Arizona to Austin, Texas
The dining car attendant pointed to the booth with the older couple.
“Please sit over there,” he said.
I hobbled my way to the table and introduced myself. It was my first time on the train, traveling through the painted Southwest from Tucson to Austin, and I was enjoying the ease in which people were talking to me. Long, idle trips on America’s least effective mode of transportation lend well to deep and personal conversations from others. On the train, we are sharing the experience as one, and we have no choice but to open ourselves up; we have no option but to learn about the stranger sitting beside us.
“I am Frank, and this is my wife Anne-Marie,” the man at the booth said.
They were dressed sharp, the way people one, two, three generations before me did. I was dressed in jeans and a sweater, and their poise brought both familiarity and shame in my lack of grace.
After the waiter took our orders and brought our meals out with startling promptness, we eased into sharing our respective histories.
Frank was traveling back to his hometown in Mississippi for the first time in 50 years. He was bringing his new wife to his class reunion, but their trip carried more weight than just visiting old friends.
“After segregation ended, I was one of three black students, two men and one woman, to be accepted at the local college,” he said. “People didn’t take too well to that.” He went on to explain the ugly effigies his neighbors strung and burned from the trees. When the threats turned to violence, it became difficult for the students to arrive to the school safely. One morning, the three students, who drove to school together for moral and physical support, were chased by townspeople with guns. It was after a bullet entered through the front window and slid past Frank’s head that he decided he needed to leave his home.
Frank was forced to leave his hometown because he wanted an education.
His wife spoke of Medgar Evers, the Civil Rights activist who was shot down in his driveway in Jackson. She spoke of Dr. King and Malcolm X and the countless victims of a hateful and ignorant country. “We had to fight so hard,” she said. “Sometimes it feels like it hasn’t gotten any better.”
And here they are, 50 years later, citizens of Los Angeles, traveling back to the husband’s hometown, the town that did not accept him, respect him or love him simply because of the color of his skin.
What would they find once they arrived?
December 20th, 2013
Austin, Texas to Chicago, Illinois
I can’t remember how our conversation started, but we talked from 8AM to 10:15AM. He was 60 years old, a truck driver. His daughter bought him his first smartphone, and he asked me if I could download a few apps for him. I was surprised how relaxed he was giving me his phone and personal information, but the train has a way of making you feel comfortable. I find myself sharing stories of my own life to strangers.
While I was downloading the apps, he began talking about his daughter who gifted him the phone. His face lit up when he spoke of her. “She’s an artist, a poet, a rapper. She’s cool,” he said. Many years went by where they didn’t see one another, and when he saw her again, he noticed that she had a very beautiful “female friend” with her. “You know, my daughter likes members of her own sex,” he told me. He mentioned God once or twice in our conversation, so I wasn’t sure where the conversation was headed. “She was afraid to tell me that she liked women,” he said. “Everyone in the family knew but me.”
His ex-wife encouraged his daughter to come visit and tell her dad in person. They went for a walk and she asked him, “Daddy, how do you feel about people who like people of the same sex?” He told me that it hadn’t yet dawned on him what she was trying to say. “I like women,” she said. He told me that he turned to her and said, “Baby girl, I love you for who you are.”
He raised his hand in the air, entwined his forefinger with his middle finger and said, “She and I are like this now.”
He asked me to look her up on Facebook to see her photo, and I could tell that this God-fearing man was so proud of his gay daughter.
HOPE IT WILL HELP U
Below you will find segments of my travels through the American South, Midwest and North. Most of these stories were written after I got off the train, when I had computer access, so some may be in past tense.
June 24th, 2013
Tuscon, Arizona to Austin, Texas
The dining car attendant pointed to the booth with the older couple.
“Please sit over there,” he said.
I hobbled my way to the table and introduced myself. It was my first time on the train, traveling through the painted Southwest from Tucson to Austin, and I was enjoying the ease in which people were talking to me. Long, idle trips on America’s least effective mode of transportation lend well to deep and personal conversations from others. On the train, we are sharing the experience as one, and we have no choice but to open ourselves up; we have no option but to learn about the stranger sitting beside us.
“I am Frank, and this is my wife Anne-Marie,” the man at the booth said.
They were dressed sharp, the way people one, two, three generations before me did. I was dressed in jeans and a sweater, and their poise brought both familiarity and shame in my lack of grace.
After the waiter took our orders and brought our meals out with startling promptness, we eased into sharing our respective histories.
Frank was traveling back to his hometown in Mississippi for the first time in 50 years. He was bringing his new wife to his class reunion, but their trip carried more weight than just visiting old friends.
“After segregation ended, I was one of three black students, two men and one woman, to be accepted at the local college,” he said. “People didn’t take too well to that.” He went on to explain the ugly effigies his neighbors strung and burned from the trees. When the threats turned to violence, it became difficult for the students to arrive to the school safely. One morning, the three students, who drove to school together for moral and physical support, were chased by townspeople with guns. It was after a bullet entered through the front window and slid past Frank’s head that he decided he needed to leave his home.
Frank was forced to leave his hometown because he wanted an education.
His wife spoke of Medgar Evers, the Civil Rights activist who was shot down in his driveway in Jackson. She spoke of Dr. King and Malcolm X and the countless victims of a hateful and ignorant country. “We had to fight so hard,” she said. “Sometimes it feels like it hasn’t gotten any better.”
And here they are, 50 years later, citizens of Los Angeles, traveling back to the husband’s hometown, the town that did not accept him, respect him or love him simply because of the color of his skin.
What would they find once they arrived?
December 20th, 2013
Austin, Texas to Chicago, Illinois
I can’t remember how our conversation started, but we talked from 8AM to 10:15AM. He was 60 years old, a truck driver. His daughter bought him his first smartphone, and he asked me if I could download a few apps for him. I was surprised how relaxed he was giving me his phone and personal information, but the train has a way of making you feel comfortable. I find myself sharing stories of my own life to strangers.
While I was downloading the apps, he began talking about his daughter who gifted him the phone. His face lit up when he spoke of her. “She’s an artist, a poet, a rapper. She’s cool,” he said. Many years went by where they didn’t see one another, and when he saw her again, he noticed that she had a very beautiful “female friend” with her. “You know, my daughter likes members of her own sex,” he told me. He mentioned God once or twice in our conversation, so I wasn’t sure where the conversation was headed. “She was afraid to tell me that she liked women,” he said. “Everyone in the family knew but me.”
His ex-wife encouraged his daughter to come visit and tell her dad in person. They went for a walk and she asked him, “Daddy, how do you feel about people who like people of the same sex?” He told me that it hadn’t yet dawned on him what she was trying to say. “I like women,” she said. He told me that he turned to her and said, “Baby girl, I love you for who you are.”
He raised his hand in the air, entwined his forefinger with his middle finger and said, “She and I are like this now.”
He asked me to look her up on Facebook to see her photo, and I could tell that this God-fearing man was so proud of his gay daughter.
HOPE IT WILL HELP U
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