On the Question of Compassion
by Kim-Marie Walker
Our taxi driver in downtown Addis Ababa stops for a light change at a busy intersection. A thin, medium height boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, approaches on the left passenger side where my widow is rolled down. His left hand holds a tall metal stand on rollers, the kind that hospital intravenous drip bags hang from. My gaze follows upwards. And yes, a bag of clear liquid sways a little.
His right hand—palm cupped upwards, comes within inches of the window. My gaze follows the IV tube under the skin on his right hand. On his lower right side, I notice another tube underneath his torn and raggedy sweater. It runs down his leg into a grungy plastic bag filled with yellowish-brown fluid. When he sees where my gaze has traveled he whimpers through pursed lips. He raises his sweater to show his skin and the tube entering his flesh. His cupped palm thrusts impatiently towards me. My brain tries to accept what my eyes are seeing.
I stare in numbness from the taxi window.
I have seen material poverty and cupped palms in America, Europe, Mexico, the Caribbean, and Africa. I have been duped by able-bodied panhandlers. I have seen limbless people make their “living” on street corners and at bank and store entrances. I have looked into the eyes of resilient souls who might as well be walking on water. Yet, nothing has prepared me for this moment in downtown Addis Ababa, sitting in a taxi watching this kid with the IV stand.
He lifts his sweater again. I see the catheter-like tube clearly entering his lower abdomen. Nonetheless, I determine he is faking. This cannot be real. The amber-colored liquid in the bag is probably apple juice and not urine. I mean, come on, who in the world would stand in the middle of a street, for real, begging with a catheter stuck into his body? And an IV? I don’t want to believe that he may have been forced to do this.
The traffic light switches to green. I do not rush in my purse to dig out coins. Guilt floods my senses. The taxi lurches forward. I have the audacity to look into his eyes as the taxi accelerates. A block away, I don’t dare look into the driver’s rear-view mirror. I am awash in my own pool of shame for not giving.
Hours later, guilt and suspicion linger, a feast for the soul. Suspicion makes me feel better about myself. It justifies my non-action. Guilt promises I’ll give twice as much to the next destitute person. I will be a better person. Next time. I really don’t know what to do with my shame. I’ve never encountered it in this form. But before long, I discover shock beneath the layers of suspicion and guilt. Not culture shock. Universal shock. Why should anyone suffer? Then comes internal outrage. I fling it to the universe and accuse the divine of negligence. It is a rage so pure I could scream.
I take all the internal agitation to the zafu cushion and sit. It is only after meditating, after countess inhales and exhales of present moment awareness that I realize the outrage rattling my bones has transformed into a deeper vibration of empathy and compassion. It creates a knowing space that I did not possess prior to sitting. It feels like a space that will never contract.
I used to wonder who in the world were the meek who shall inherit the earth. Now I know. And it isn’t me—not right now. The meek are those who have no guilt or suspicious thoughts. They are pure being, right here, right now. Right in my face, a taxi window away. That boy grasping the IV stand was my Jesus Christ and crucifixion, my In’shallah on-my-knees-five-times-a-day, my Buddha sitting under the Bodhi tree, my Mother Teresa—the quintessential compassionate empath of our time. Even if he was a con artist, his thrusting upturned palm changed my life.
I will never forget his teaching. Until that moment when we shared a glance, all my previous intellectual ideals about being compassionate proved insufficient and immature. Compassion should never be turned on or off to suit one’s well being. It must flow in every breath of one’s existence, ready to accept the deeper lessons contained within the flesh of a cupped palm.
Kim-Marie Walker’s debut memoir, Zebras from Heaven (Onyx Communications, 2007) is available online. She has been published in Alaska Wellness and Alaska Women Speak and writes a blog about her 2016 pilgrimage to historic U.S. slave trade ports. She is editor of the forthcoming Loving Anthology: Our Voices on the 50th Anniversary of Loving v. Virginia. For more information, please visit www.kimmariewalker.com.
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by Kim-Marie Walker
Our taxi driver in downtown Addis Ababa stops for a light change at a busy intersection. A thin, medium height boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, approaches on the left passenger side where my widow is rolled down. His left hand holds a tall metal stand on rollers, the kind that hospital intravenous drip bags hang from. My gaze follows upwards. And yes, a bag of clear liquid sways a little.
His right hand—palm cupped upwards, comes within inches of the window. My gaze follows the IV tube under the skin on his right hand. On his lower right side, I notice another tube underneath his torn and raggedy sweater. It runs down his leg into a grungy plastic bag filled with yellowish-brown fluid. When he sees where my gaze has traveled he whimpers through pursed lips. He raises his sweater to show his skin and the tube entering his flesh. His cupped palm thrusts impatiently towards me. My brain tries to accept what my eyes are seeing.
I stare in numbness from the taxi window.
I have seen material poverty and cupped palms in America, Europe, Mexico, the Caribbean, and Africa. I have been duped by able-bodied panhandlers. I have seen limbless people make their “living” on street corners and at bank and store entrances. I have looked into the eyes of resilient souls who might as well be walking on water. Yet, nothing has prepared me for this moment in downtown Addis Ababa, sitting in a taxi watching this kid with the IV stand.
He lifts his sweater again. I see the catheter-like tube clearly entering his lower abdomen. Nonetheless, I determine he is faking. This cannot be real. The amber-colored liquid in the bag is probably apple juice and not urine. I mean, come on, who in the world would stand in the middle of a street, for real, begging with a catheter stuck into his body? And an IV? I don’t want to believe that he may have been forced to do this.
The traffic light switches to green. I do not rush in my purse to dig out coins. Guilt floods my senses. The taxi lurches forward. I have the audacity to look into his eyes as the taxi accelerates. A block away, I don’t dare look into the driver’s rear-view mirror. I am awash in my own pool of shame for not giving.
Hours later, guilt and suspicion linger, a feast for the soul. Suspicion makes me feel better about myself. It justifies my non-action. Guilt promises I’ll give twice as much to the next destitute person. I will be a better person. Next time. I really don’t know what to do with my shame. I’ve never encountered it in this form. But before long, I discover shock beneath the layers of suspicion and guilt. Not culture shock. Universal shock. Why should anyone suffer? Then comes internal outrage. I fling it to the universe and accuse the divine of negligence. It is a rage so pure I could scream.
I take all the internal agitation to the zafu cushion and sit. It is only after meditating, after countess inhales and exhales of present moment awareness that I realize the outrage rattling my bones has transformed into a deeper vibration of empathy and compassion. It creates a knowing space that I did not possess prior to sitting. It feels like a space that will never contract.
I used to wonder who in the world were the meek who shall inherit the earth. Now I know. And it isn’t me—not right now. The meek are those who have no guilt or suspicious thoughts. They are pure being, right here, right now. Right in my face, a taxi window away. That boy grasping the IV stand was my Jesus Christ and crucifixion, my In’shallah on-my-knees-five-times-a-day, my Buddha sitting under the Bodhi tree, my Mother Teresa—the quintessential compassionate empath of our time. Even if he was a con artist, his thrusting upturned palm changed my life.
I will never forget his teaching. Until that moment when we shared a glance, all my previous intellectual ideals about being compassionate proved insufficient and immature. Compassion should never be turned on or off to suit one’s well being. It must flow in every breath of one’s existence, ready to accept the deeper lessons contained within the flesh of a cupped palm.
Kim-Marie Walker’s debut memoir, Zebras from Heaven (Onyx Communications, 2007) is available online. She has been published in Alaska Wellness and Alaska Women Speak and writes a blog about her 2016 pilgrimage to historic U.S. slave trade ports. She is editor of the forthcoming Loving Anthology: Our Voices on the 50th Anniversary of Loving v. Virginia. For more information, please visit www.kimmariewalker.com.
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