The other night at work, a co-worker and I were discussing Los Angeles' inadequacies. We generally do this every few weeks, due to the mass ego that native Californians sometimes possess. He being from Boston, I; Minneapolis, compare how intelligent, and diverse our home cites are. Sometimes they are gaps in discussion, due to the daydream state we both indulge in.
I pick up with the lackadaisical began; continuing to describe my days employed at Wal-mart. At the time, there was a family of God fearing Liberian refugees, who had endured the horrors of a brutal civil war. They were some of the most kind, intriguing, and welcoming people I had ever had the honor of meeting. The eldest of the family, John, would always tell me I can always call him and talk if I needed to. And a few times, I did. I had such a great relationship with these people, and it's a regret that I was 18 and naive, and let that slip away. It was such a wake up call to me, interacting with people that I have only heard about on tv. The intense reality of the branding scars I was shown due to the constant rape she endured, stories from their childhood from when they were forced to drop the jump rope, and wield AK47s instead. One of their brothers still lived there, and they were trying so hard to bring him here.
I had such an incredible amount of respect for this family. After everything they had encountered; their consistently positive outlook made my teen angst completely trivial.
No comments:
Post a Comment