Inherent Dignity

 I was twenty.

I lived and worked in the Rheinhessen region of Germany. I busked at a bar occasionally and had fuzzy dreadlocks. My favourite skirt had been made from an old pair of jeans torn open at the inside seams and resown together with Sesame Street patches of Elmo and the Grouch.

My blue suede runners were two distinctly different shades. I’d talked the sales lady into giving me a discount. :)

And now I was wandering on foot through the town of Worms (Vvurms!) looking for a friend’s apartment to crash at. I had a guitar and a huge backpack with the obligatory Canadian flag. And I was lost.

The side roads were starting to look a little sketchy. I‘d stopped trying to find my friends’ place and decided I’d settle for an urban centre with a coffee shop (no cell phone... it was the dark ages still). But try as I might, every turn I made seemed to lead me onto an even narrower and more isolated street. The row apartment buildings were tall and tightly shuttered like those Easter Island heads with their eyes and mouths squeezed shut.

I turned a corner and walked into a group of young men hanging out on the street. They were laughing and talking loudly in a language I didn’t recognize. Dark-skinned, baggy clothes and bright bandannas.
The group fell silent. I nodded and smiled and kept walking. My bag was so heavy. My arm hurt from carrying my guitar.

One of the guys peeled away from his group and began following me. He began to shout. ‘Hey, girl! What are you doing, pretty lady? Nice ass...”

There was NO ONE on the street. His footsteps quickened behind me. “Come on, girl...” I began to weigh my options. I could drop my stuff and run. I could scream. I could turn and attack, try to take him by surprise.

And then I heard a voice inside of me: strong and clear as a bell. As the words filled me, my body grew still, and peace washed over me. The words were:

“Give him his dignity.”

I didn’t think. I set my guitar down and turned around with a smile and an outstretched hand. The man was only a pace or two behind me. He reacted without thinking, and his hand fell into mine. It was awkward, but we shook hands. As soon as our palms connected, I knew I was safe.

“Hello! My name is Charity. What’s your name?”

He responded on instinct. Despite a start of surprise, he introduced himself. I asked about his family, I shared about mine. He told me he was a refugee from North Africa looking to support his mother and sister. I shared some of my adventures travelling in Europe.

As we spoke, I couldn’t help but read the confusion on his face. But he was smiling. We both were. We’d made a connection.

The conversation wound down, he asked me if I’d like to go for coffee with him. I told him how great it had been to meet him, but I had a friend waiting for me.

He shook my hand again, and we parted. He walked back the way he’d come: easily, his head high, his hands in his pockets.

I found my friend’s apartment half a block away. I’d been going in the right direction the entire time.

:) God bless.