My wife tells me since I left my first profession that I’ve become, unwittingly, more like her father in a few ways. One of these ways is my new habit, at times, of striking up conversations with strangers. I tell her it’s likely because I no longer have coworkers or customers to fulfill my social needs for the 8-5. The dogs have been my only company, and conversations with them tend to be both dull and one-sided as they prefer activity to words.
At any rate, Gene, my father-in-law, rarely runs even the shortest of errands without returning with a story of an interaction with someone known or unknown, and it’s rarely dull. Talking to strangers, though we’re warned of such things as children, is one of the most satisfying changes I’ve made as an adult, and my only regret with the practice is not having picked it up sooner. It’s also a source of occasional embarrassment for my children, which I consider a satisfying bonus.
This morning I met a man with the most outstanding name I’ve ever come across – Babatunde. He was my Lyft driver, carrying me home from the shop while our minivan underwent a few tweaks. The interaction, I soon learned, would be a pleasant one over the short drive. I spilled some of my courtesy coffee in the back seat as I climbed in, apologizing profusely, and he chose to respond graciously, tossing me a hand towel and insisted that I not worry about it. Most drivers might be put out over the accident for the risk of not maintaining the profile status of a clean car, but not Babatunde.
I inquired about where he was from. “Nigeria” was the reply. My previous boss was also from that part of the world, and I bear nothing but fond memories of her. Babatunde would continue over the 10 minute drive to bolster my positive opinion of anyone from the country, as we chatted about what brought him here, who he is, and what he thinks about his time here in general.
Two years now working here in the U.S., and specifically in Houston, he appreciates the opportunities he has had here as opposed to elsewhere. While he’s here on greencard status, he’s earnestly pursuing citizenship. He shared with me about his family, the innumerable dialects in Nigeria, and about his friends elsewhere in the U.S., who have encouraged him to stay here in Texas for the low cost of living. Concerns about the political landscape, though duly important to most of us at the moment, do not overwhelm him to the point of either elation or depression. He has been a part of another world much different from my own and knows what he has and what there is for him to appreciate now, even today.
Babatunde, I would venture to guess, makes very little as a Lyft driver. He possesses few of the privileges I do and, in fact, may never have them. I, to be frank, entered his ride thinking about a few things in my life that could be better. He struck me, however, as someone thinking about a lot in his life that could be worse.
Our ride was soon over, but I learned a lot about this stranger, no longer a stranger but now a pleasant acquaintance, should I run into him again. I was reminded of a thing or two personally for the brief interaction, something I daily forget:
Perspective is everything.
Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to talk to strangers.
Time in a Bottle 