March 14, 2020
I woke up again to news that could make you want to stay in bed all day. I knew my neighbor Dan had been in his apartment without leaving since he returned from China at the end of January. To say he is cautious and concerned about getting sick would be a rather gross understatement. Interestingly, his caution finally led people to think maybe he was the one who was ill.
He clarified the fallacy of that thought, and we moved on to further discussions—of setting up UV lighting in the tiny elevator well between our apartments, spraying the area with Clorox spray, and a ten- step program about how to receive delivered food without encountering a human being or a germ. I also learned all about negative airflow and how germs can move through large buildings. My solution for now was to prop the door open to the outside so fresh air filtered through.
As I pondered all this, I debated my plans for the day. I had agreed to meet a friend—who has just finished radiation treatment—at Jack London Square in Oakland for lunch. It certainly seemed more appropriate for me to go there than vice versa, although she offered either alternative. She suggested the ferry, a mode of transportation to the East Bay which, in sixty-five years of living in this city, I had never tried.
I debated just driving the twenty-eight minutes required rather than exposing myself to all those potentially germ-breathing humans on a crowded ferry boat, an alternative that also involved a one-hour walk to the ferry, two forty-minute ferry boat rides, and a one-hour walk home.
Common sense helped me realize I was not going to be in rush-hour traffic, there would be a lot of fresh air on the bay, and I needed my two-hour walking exercise in any case. It was a decision that made my day a pure joy. Warm weather, no wind, blue skies, an empty boat, beautiful vistas – what more could one ask for?
Well…
As I arrived at the ferry terminal—which of course I had never been to—at a little before eleven o’clock, I was dismayed to see the boat just leaving.
“Oh no!” I exclaimed. “Is that the Oakland ferry?”
“It sure is,“ said the dark-skinned man sitting on a small bench, watching the boat leave.
“Damn. I thought it was going at eleven!”
“To Oakland?”
“Yes. I need to be there for lunch, and the next ferry isn’t for an hour and a half.”
“Oh, don’t worry. It is at eleven. That one is continuing to Pier 41.”
A taller, fitter and lighter-skinned young man was standing nearby.
“Do you guys work for the ferry?” I asked.
They did and told me they could ride for free, We got into an extended conversation.
The tall man, Max, and I shared histories. He told me his family came from Arkansas.
“I recently learned that I am part Cherokee,” he shared.
“Really?”
“Yes. My great grandmother was 100% Cherokee.”
“Do you have a picture of her?” I asked, pointing at his phone.
“No, they didn’t have a camera. I do have a picture of my grandmother. I remember her.”
He scrolled to a picture of a gently smiling round-faced woman. I stared at it, trying to see if I could identify her heritage. But I didn’t even know what to look for.
“Maybe you could pursue that and learn more about her,” I suggested, telling him about the Mechanics Institute, where they would help him do the research.
“I would really like that,” he said. “I would really like to learn that I have a Cherokee background. I would like to be something more than a black face when people see me.”
I looked into his eyes as he continued, “I’m so tired of being just a black man. People don’t even see me. They just see the color of my skin.” He knew I saw more, and I could feel the ache for recognition in his expression.
“I will help you pursue that if you want.” I dug into my pocket and gave him my card. “Please send me a note. I will get you a membership at the Institute. They will help you.”
As we talked, the ferry pulled in, the door opened, and we walked on. It was almost empty, and as we pulled away, a surprised attendant noticed me.
“Do you have your ticket ma’am?” I was startled at the question.
“I thought I could use my Clipper Card?”
“Did you swipe it on your way in?”
“No, I never even saw where to do that.” As he looked at me, I called out, teasing, “Max! You let me get on without paying my fare!”
“Oh you’re a friend of Max’s!” His surprise was more than evident. “Well then the ride is on us.”
The ride was a joy, the encounter deeply touching, my lunch with Joanna wonderful. How could I have waited sixty years to ride that ferry?
That evening I searched online and came across the words that inspired me to continue: Just knowing you are Cherokee should make you proud.
The next day I walked to the Institute and sorted out the details. I doubt I will hear from Max, but the ferry is not far away, and I know the people who work on it will pass on the message about his gift membership.