The Power Of Silence

I can’t say if there was a singular moment when I realized there is power in the silence that hangs between words or if that lesson was learned over time as a way of survival, but in listening to that silence and watching others move through it, it has helped me to see them as they are. Not as they wish to be seen. At times those moments can hold more truth than words. So when a boy once described me as “alarmingly disarming” I smiled a quiet smile and let him continue as I had learned to do long ago. Was it my silence that kept him talking, sharing, and revealing? I’m not sure. I’ve never been certain as to why people tear themselves open in front of me. I simply accept it along with their truths and perhaps therein lies the answer, but who’s to say.

I was on one of my solo adventures again, riding busses across America, when Monroe Emanuel found me. Sitting on cold concrete somewhere on the outskirts of Cincinnati, reading the self deprecating inner thoughts of Holden Caulfield, I heard someone approach. “You look like someone I can talk to, can I sit down?” Just as I thought to use my book as a shield I looked up and saw something in the kid that reminded me of someone. My brother Jamie. As children we were thick as thieves Jamie and I, even had the combined nickname of Jesse James. Although much has changed between us since then. Maybe it was the familiarity in his eyes or maybe I just needed a break from Holden. So I said “sure” actually finding it difficult to say no.

I didn’t say much, mostly listened. That seemed to be what he needed. Monroe jumped right in starting at the beginning without much of an opening. He told me about his tumultuous childhood and his past incarcerations. He expressed a sadness over the battered relationship with his father and went on to emphatically expressed his desire to be nothing like him. He then laughed and admitted out loud that it was possible he was losing that battle already. He showed me photos of his little girl, the one he had just visited for the very first time. He talked about the trials and tribulations of split custody and being such a young father. And he was young, that much I could tell. His fluffy mop of dark curls fell into his eyes whenever he moved. Scratching at the scabs on his arm I could see his unkept nails full of dirt and specks of dried blood. Monroe lit a joint and kindly offered me some as if it were a cup of tea at high noon. I declined having preferred the flask of bourbon I brought with me for warmth. I had a 22 hour bus ride ahead of me and the harsh chill of winter was kicking in.

As it turned out Monroe had more in common with my brother Jamie than I ever could have imagined. Parts of his upbringing, the incarcerations, missing the birth of his first born, trouble with past addictions, behavioral issues that went undiagnosed for far too long in his youth. However it seemed to me that he was in the midst of a revival and I knew too well how hard and long that road can be. I watched Jamie fight those same battles many times over. I was really routing for Monroe, all these years later I still am. I found myself wondering where Jamie was right then. How he was doing, I tried to recall how long it had been since we had last talked. Long gone were the days of Jesse James. That was certain.

When Monroe’s bus came he thanked me for listening. Amazed that I actually had. He asked if we could talk again some day so I took his contact info and wished him well, but instead of calling Monroe I picked up my cell and called my brother. To see how he was getting on in life. To see where his own battles had brought him. I sat and I listened. Thank you Monroe.