Zig Zag # 8

Connection.

I believe deep down that is what we all really want: To make a true and authentic connection with another human being. We want to belong not just to ourselves, but to each other. To be seen. To be heard. To be respected. To be understood. To be loved as we are.

To be able to have a moment with someone who can honestly say, “Yeah. I totally get that.” Or to find that person or group of people who light you up. Those are the people you can talk to for hours about everything or nothing at all.

As I’ve gotten older, and the more my life has zigged and zagged, the more I realize how rare those true honest to goodness connections really are. Often they feel more elusive than reaching out and being able to touch the moon. But when they do happen. Wowza. It’s magic in its purest form.

Over the course of my Zig Zag life so far, finding these kinds of connections varied depending on the town, city or circumstance I was encountering.

Washington, D.C. was on the tougher end of the connection spectrum. To me, D.C. always felt buttoned up. It was a lot of smoke and mirrors for the sake of getting ahead. A lot of posturing and politicking. I once heard someone who was ingrained in the whole D.C. scene say that it was like Hollywood for ugly people. Yikes.

I remember being at a party once, and I was surrounded by gentlemen who were having a very serious conversation about the level of their security clearances and whose was higher.

I’ve never been good at hiding my feelings. One look at my face, and you can tell what I’m thinking. It’s both a blessing and a curse. So I’m positive at this moment, I had the most perplexed look on my face because I KNOW what I was thinking: “ Are we really talking about this right now?!”

When you’re putting on a show for others, it’s challenging to make real connections. Nothing like a D.C. Metro ride to make you feel connected yet disconnected at the same time. You are packed so closely bordering uncomfortable intimacy. Like I-can-tell-which-flavor-of-toothpaste-the-person-next-to-me-used-that-morning level of intimacy. But at the same time, you don’t dare talk or make eye contact with anyone. Not even the people standing closest to you. It’s like this unspoken Metro riding rule. Not to mention, you get a true composite of humanity on the Metro...

Bespeckled business people, hill staffers, agency bureaucrats, musicians getting to the next, more lucrative Metro station to set up an impromptu concert, tourists with matching neon shirts and fanny packs, parents covered in spit up with crying babies, DC old timers and newbies alike. At least 10 different languages are spoken at any given time and there’s every skin pigmentation and shade variance in existence.

It’s actually quite the sight to behold. But a place for connection? Not so much. Or so I thought.

I was interning in D.C. in order to wrap up my grad school requirements. My commute that bookended my days was brutal. A bus, a metro ride and a mile of walking on either end. Gosh, I sound like my parents when they used to tell me they walked uphill both ways barefoot to school when they were kids. But hand to God, depending on the time, my commute could be up to an hour and half both ways.

One night, on the metro portion of my journey, I was packed into a random car in the middle. The only spot open was to hold the hand grips that hang from the ceiling. And just like always, people kept to themselves: scrolling on their phones making digital connections even as humans were smooshed up against them, people listening to music or podcasts or audiobooks and, on occasion, there was a person who held a real book in their hands.

One such person caught my attention that night. He was an older gentleman buttoned up in a very formal navy blue suit. He was clean-shaven with a whole head of perfectly styled dark brown hair with a tinge of gray sprinkled throughout. I pictured him working in a government agency as a lawyer. He was one of the lucky ones to claim a coveted seat.

He was reading a book with a pained expression on his face. I kept watching because he was so intensely engaged with this book. It had been awhile since I’d seen someone concentrating so intently. It was as if he was in his own little world. It was of no consequence that there were mere inches separating him from the human right next to him. His forehead was creased. His eyes focused on the words. He was taking long deep breaths as if he was trying to control his emotions.

Finally, he finished the book. He closed it. He let out a deep breath, put his hand on the back cover and looked with deep affection and appreciation at that book. As if he could feel me staring, he lifted his head, the book trance broken, and for the briefest of seconds we made eye contact.

This older, professional man dressed in an expensive suit was silently weeping over the end of his book.

Clearly embarrassed to be caught in such an emotional state, he quickly turned his head to look out the window.

I was so moved by this because his reaction was in such stark contrast to our environment. One which often garners loneliness and isolation even when you are surrounded by people.There was no posturing or smoke and mirrors. There was no politicking. There was only vulnerability.

Whether he wanted me to or not that evening, I witnessed his humanity.

In those seconds we made eye contact, I wanted to reach out and say: “Yeah, sir. I get that. I feel that. I’ve been there too.”

As my stop approached, I felt myself getting emotional about what I just saw. This kind of display of vulnerability felt rare. Especially in public. Especially in Washington, D.C.. I knew right then that even though it was for the briefest of moments with a random stranger on the D.C. Metro during rush hour, it would be a very long time before I would forget this connection.

That is to say, I don’t take connection for granted. It is a gift, even if it is with a stranger you will never see again.

I wish you a zig zag kinda week. Until next time.