Chance Encounters

All three of us spotted him the moment he slipped through the restaurant's back entrance. Fortunately, he made a detour to the bathroom prior to passing by our table, and the kids had a chance to get their excited observations out prior to him being in earshot (discreetness is a character trait my children may never have).

"That man! Did you see his dreadlocs Mommy? What he doing?"

"Two boys Mommy! Two. With dreadlocs!"

He emerged from the restroom at about the same time that our giant plate of vegetarian Ethiopian delicacies, side of doro wat, and mountain of injera appeared at our table and was able to pass with only momentary wide eyed stares from each of the kids due to the distraction only a coveted injera-filled lunch could bring. Our eyes caught each other's, smiled to match our faces and nodded a quick hello as he passed our table and disappeared into the adjacent market.

"Mommy his dreadlocs are just like mine! I want mine to be long like that someday."

Injera hypnosis overtook all three of us and we didn't notice as he approached our table again.

"Man, I can't help but ask. Do I know you from somewhere? You look so familiar."

The ice was broken (and for this I thank him).

"No, I doubt it. We live up north in Ventura. We only come here every few months. My son was admiring your locs. He wants his to grow long like yours someday."

"Oh yeah my little man? I've had these locs since I was a little boy in Jamaica. Littler than you even. You keep growing yours and I bet they'll be down to here (pointing toward the middle of his back) by next year. Come on boy, pass it on (holding out his fist for Ashagre to bump)."

Ashagre sat a little taller in his chair, his smiling eyes and beaming grin brightening our table in the darkness of the restaurant.

From there the conversation flowed for a good fifteen minutes or so. His name was Osai. He had never been to Ethiopia before, but was planning to go in November and stay through Christmas. He wanted to visit an Ethiopian Orthodox Church. Did we know that the first Orthodox Church in the western hemisphere was in Jamaica? He asked about the kids, patiently listening as they told him how old they were and where they were born. Neither kid felt inclined to resort to acts of shyness or socially awkward behavior and comfortably and politely carried on the conversation. When Elsa proudly exclaimed that she was born in Addis Abba, he immediately greeted her in Amharic. She was puzzled for a minute, but then finished my sentence, with a tint of sadness in her voice, as I explained that she had already forgotten her Amharic.

Finally, the conversation subsided and he headed back into the market as we continued our lunch. Passing through once more on his way out back to his car he stopped to say goodbye and give Ashagre a pat on the back. The other man, younger and with a more frenzied energy about him than Osai paused briefly to compliment Ashagre's locs.

Ashagre sat yet even taller, visibly more comfortable in his own skin. Proud. Validated.

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She showed up just as I had resigned myself to sitting quietly (slightly bored) as Brent napped on the bleachers and the kids splashed around in the pool at their regularly scheduled swim lessons. This week it was so much easier than last week. Last week I sat just behind her in the bleachers, for at least 30 minutes, trying to come up with a non-chalant way to break the ice until our kids finally got out of the pool and that look of absolute understanding melted her seemingly closed off demeanor as we both helped our brown-skinned kids get dried off and warmed up.

She sat down right next to me and struck up the conversation immediately.

"Don't you guys live up the street? I've seen you walking."

"Not any more. We moved. We bought a place over in Montalvo off Victoria."

"That little girl of yours. She's a fiery one. Just look in her eyes. Fiery."

The 30 remaining minutes flew by as we got to know one another. She grew up on the islands (Fiji) but had lived in Ventura for a long time. The boy with beautiful locs swimming with our kids was her grandson - eight years old and quite the little man.

As the conversation continued Elsa pulled herself up on the side of the pool, her eyes bright and comfortable curiosity written across her face. "Mom, who you talking to?"

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They notice. Every. Single. Time. They need it. People, with beautiful brown skin just like theirs casually chatting with their mom at the side of the pool, complimenting them on their dreadlocs, actively making an effort to get to know them, to see them for all the beauty and promise they embody. For moments, they do not stand out as the only. They are validated.

And so I continue to reach out because what we're doing now is not enough. Even when it feels awkward or makes me uncomfortable. I remind myself it can't be as uncomfortable as moving from a country full of people just like you to a community where you are often the only.

I send emails to nice gentlemen met in the hallway of my office building. I make a conscious effort to visit the man at the bagel shop at least once a week and wrack my brain trying to come with a way to take our connection beyond my bagel order (and his adoration of my kids, which light up his sleepy face early in the morning and leave him asking where they're at when they're not with me). I visit the Starbucks that is on the way to nothing in hopes of chatting with the handsome young man with the big cubic zirconia earrings. I pass my phone number to the girl at the burrito shop with hair just like Elsa's and huge amounts of self-confidence to match. I hope daily that she will call me back like she promised.

I joke with my friends as I explain my efforts, "Hi! (said in my nerdiest nasal voice) I have black kids! Do you want to be my friend?" If only it were that easy...

Still it's not enough, and It's too important to mess up. So many studies have shown the importance of a strong sense of racial and cultural identity to a person's self-esteem. I have to work harder at it. I need more ideas.