Hey there!! I am probably dozing by the window, please give me a bit more time :)🎬 Human After All Script
Strangers are a strange species.
It’s not defined by physical entities. The same person can turn from a stranger into a friend within a short time frame. Or the other way around. One can call others strangers while being a stranger to many others.
It cannot exist by itself. It’s a form of relationship. To label someone as a “stranger”, there must be at least two people. It’s an expression of exclusiveness. An attitude to justify personal values. An instinct to self-protect.
It’s defined by who we think should matter to our lives, very subjectively.
We have the tendency and “confidence” to summarize strangers all the time. In statistical numbers. In daily news digests. In the articles that capture the story of a massive crowd.
It’s a social norm to generalize.
Until one day, I became part of the denominator. But I couldn’t recognize myself in that “story”, in which I was a figure without unique characteristics. My emotions were conveniently scraped off. As if I were muted in a hearing for me.
How can the sum of individual accounts carry the same weight as a macro narrative? How can strangers as a species be the same as strangers in individual forms? Why wouldn’t I want to talk to a stranger? Why wouldn’t I be curious about what made that person show up right here, at this exact moment? Which denominator do they belong to?
That’s why I want to document my connections with strangers. Without utilitarian intentions. Without an agenda. Fully spontaneous. Face to face. Just talk and listen. As simple as that.
Who I am doesn’t matter. Who I talk to doesn’t matter that much either. It’s all about flowing emotions, and my subjective perceptions of our mutual existence. On a bench in the park, on a train to an adventure, in a street festival, in a neighborhood event. Under the burning sun, in the gloomy rain. On an ordinary day.
I want to celebrate these little joyful moments. And normalize pure connections with a stranger, another human being.
Because in the end, we are all human after all.
When several art vendors are located side by side in the market, it’s easy to tell the differences in their styles. It’s also more likely that one of them stands out from the others. With inexplicable attraction, amazement, a desire to interpret and devour, it can hit you in a few seconds.
She had a diverse set of displays. The size and shape of canvas, the choice of frame, the use of wood surface, the amount of white space… There was no consistent style. Her energy unabashedly emitted from the thick white strokes on sapphire blue, the ripples and dots of warm hues, unconventional contrasts, and soft gradients. But a part of her is sensitive, deep, breathing quietly in the cautious touches, or that massive piece of black.
I was trying to read the meanings behind the “tree trunk” and the flapping waves. Until she stood up from the chair and told me it was not a tree trunk. She listed a few other misinterpretations she once received, some are vulgar.
Her voice was poised and determined when she explained the stories behind each work. I was not surprised to learn she hasn’t received formal art training and only began doing this during the pandemic. Her creativity is entirely free-form. Even without her mentioning, I knew she poured heart and soul into each creation.
“All of these are original. No copies.” She repeated. But her works have been copied constantly online. It heavily impacted her fame and sales after winning the Etsy Design Award. Reporting the infringements never worked. Justifying her ownership was tricky. She hung quite a few “no photo” labels near the frames, but had to interrupt our conversation to politely remind passersby who were raising their phones.
Probably her most acclaimed work, Blue Roads almost looks like an enlarged mosaic tile. She was looking down at a river landscape from the plane. There were paths wandering around the river, as if they divided it into irregular pieces in blue. That’s how she got the aha moment. “Those people (who steal my work) can never tell such a story.” I always find it reasonable for an artist to promote their work on social media, often accompanied by descriptions of inspiration and the creation process. But she never does that because “other people may steal the stories too”. I completely understand, but a voice was telling me, it may be worth the risk. We both attach significant weight to human emotions and stories from our hearts. But for people who are not able to look beyond what they see, they may not even care to read or copy the text.
Later that afternoon, I stopped by another artist’s vendor. I loved the works too, and tried to open up a conversation. But that artist didn’t show any passion in explaining herself. I guess she was there mainly to sell the works, without the mindset to present herself as the creator behind them. That’s why I love DinaD. That’s why we laughed and nodded whenever our commonality in storytelling and building connections brought us to the same dreamland. Somehow, I see a version of myself walking on the same wild, unrestricted path she’s been treading on. It carries a momentum that only grows out of the turning points in life. But it has to be rooted in kindness, care, and sincerity. She has all of them. Plus, she’s crazily talented.
That was the third time I have biked past her. From each three-second encounter, I couldn’t tell whether she was a protester or a panhandler. She was sitting straight, earnestly looking ahead, and dressed a bit too neatly to be homeless. In her hands was a crinkled paperboard with signs written on it.
I returned to her after docking the bike. The signs read, “Spare Anything”, followed by two transaction accounts. “Anything. They have yogurt and bakeries.” She pointed to the cafe behind.
I’ve grown old enough to know not to spare kindness to every panhandler. Her calm, almost robotic tone of request made me slightly uncomfortable. After learning her typical practices, I asked if she ever feels guilty or embarrassed, trying not to sound condescending. It was a question I’m always curious about. And based on my intuition, she seemed to be the type who would say yes. But I was wrong. She shook her head, and made some noise in the same robotic tone.
I was planning to find an excuse and leave, but then she started to disclose her life to me. So I sat down beside her. And suddenly realized that I’ve been standing all this time.
The burning sun from the west blatantly shed on her body. I could see the rash on her arms. She was far from being skinny. Her legs were swollen, tanned, and shiny, reminding me of smoked pork skin. It was a clear imprint of surviving countless summers. She had a black headscarf fully covering her head. As she slightly turned her body while talking, some short white hair was revealed above her ears.
(recording part I)
Her narrations remained calm, self-deprecating, but not at all pitiful, even though there’s a tale of woe behind each word. I couldn’t infer whether that’s her original character or a consequence of what she has gone through.
Although I didn’t fully agree with her stances, as the stories unfolded, I started to understand why she doesn’t feel guilty. The world in her eyes is not defined by hierarchies. She would help other panhandlers, and even shared job leads with me. In her perception, it’s a natural act to take care of each other. She’s trying to be a good wife, a good mother, and she likely already is.
(recording part II)
Compared to the years of dormant suffering, it seems much easier to look back and condense the miseries into a revelation that people love to read and study. But I always remind myself, only that person who has experienced every second, can have the right to say, the pain shall pass, things will get better.
So all I can say is, she’s barely making it, but she has won many battles on the journey to make ends meet. Battles with her physical survival. Battles with the places or people that repel her existence. And battles with hope. Except that her happiness is transient but concrete. She never lingers after the successes. She can’t linger. All the emotions and weariness accumulate in her vessel, which builds up the capacity of what her mind can sustain. It grants her peace, courage, and the seemingly “ungrateful” attitude that almost pushed me away. Because I could only recognize an acre of the land she had conquered. To me, this is an alternate version of a heroic story.
(recording part III)
I was mentally prepared to vanish in the world for a few days. Simply lie in the woods or sit by the lake, doing nothing. But the moment the taxi driver dropped me at the homestead by the highway, I shivered. I was the only guest, and the only human within a half-mile radius. It was off-season. The color green wildly dominated the air, swallowing my senses with all possible shades. It never appeared so overwhelming. Can I really survive the silence?
I like the phrase “getaway trip”. Being a traitor to nature is indeed a serious crime. Getting away from one state with the hope of getting rid of it is not a promising idea, often fruitless. All I had was a version of me who only existed at the present. Those who chose to visit the north shore at that time may have similar mindsets. This primitive, expansive land has absorbed the heavy weight we carry, stripped off our camouflage, leaving us no choice but to be honest with ourselves and others. There seems to be a tacit understanding. We are careful not to reopen each other’s past, but we are ready to empathize. Where are you from? How long will you stay? What do you plan to do? That’s how most conversations started.
Another tacit understanding is, we are all passersby in our own flowing currents. There’s no need to be invested. So I was constantly caught off guard by the warm greetings and friendly gestures. From a lady in her 50s wearing a bright red sweater, waving from afar as I biked downhill. From an old cyclist, who rang the bell loudly from behind just to say hi to me. From an elegant lady at the tourist information center, who was willing to give me a free drive up north and convinced me, “Envision the future you want by Lake Superior, it will manifest it for you.” From an old, hearing-impaired shuttle driver, who returned to where he dropped me off and stayed with me until the bus arrived on time.
These people are well aware that most encounters happening here do not carry implications for future intercourse. A moment, even if shared for the first and last time, is more than enough. We almost forget that, before the advent of technology, people could be connected in simple ways like this. In that world, there’s no such thing as “surviving the silence”. Silence doesn’t need to be filled. It is not the opposite of sound, but rather a different way of coexistence. Everything was born to be random, equal, and ephemeral. We embrace whatever’s coming, so the present is all we have. And presence has become its own kind of grace.
A day after I left Grand Marais, Nita sent me this text. I immediately laughed, almost feeling like receiving a love letter. She also loves using GIFs to say “hi”, “love you”, and send virtual hugs. I often wonder, how can this 82-year-old lady be such a natural?
The story between us was a painting that only showed its peak beauty after layers of touches. It was easy to delineate the skeleton of the initial draft. A local artist. Pure and sensitive on the canvas. Gentle, curious, empathetic in life. And vibrant for her age. But it took me days to fully flesh out her soul. Unsurprisingly, it’s exactly as colorful, serene, and primitively simple as the northern landscape she’s been recreating for over 40 years.
I first met her and her paintings in a shed, among the four that she bought in an open space downtown. Grand Marais is renowned for its artistic vibe. Hundreds of artists’ works, depicting the beauty of the north in various ways, can be found all over the town. Even so, it was hard to miss her signature painting style. Birches in different seasons, with leaves still in the air or blowing in the wind. The gradient colors were seeded in the backdrop, blooming in the sky, the lake, and the woods, meticulously made to look careless. It got me seriously wondering, what does the world look like in the eyes of an artist? Would it be possible that this is the exact palette she sees?
Hearing the story of why I came here, she nodded and said, “It must be tough.” Later, when I replayed that conversation, I understood that it wasn’t a normal gesture of empathy. Not the kind of “I’m sorry” that others offer. She was carefully considering the solutions to guide me out of the situation. Although I was surrounded by dozens of her paintings, her identity as an artist was less prominent than her as a vivid person who was having an equal conversation with me, despite our huge age difference.
In the next few days, I would always stop by her shed to talk to her. The puzzle of her life story was gradually pieced up through each encounter. At the center was a sheer inclusion. She only has foster children, which was a decision made early in high school. She likes working with problematic kids and nonprofits, and would proudly recall the young people she once acquainted with in this town. She resents the arrogance of some artists who believe certain arts are better than others. Her voice softened with sorrow when talking about her sister with amnesia, whom I had the fortune to meet the following day.
It rained on the last day of my trip. I couldn’t help feeling nervous on my walk to the shed, although I had envisioned several ways to say goodbye. She wasn’t there. It could have been a convenient way to avoid the farewell, but I had to brush the painting with a finished touch.
That night, we talked for hours on her couch. Nothing surprised me until she said, she doesn’t consider herself an artist. “I paint something I like. Some people like and buy them. I get money to make a living. That’s all about it.” And yet, through this “simple” living, she has enriched so many lives—those alive and those gone.
She ponders a lot, with fingers resting near her lips, then conveniently wiping off the invisible saliva that bothers her. Her life has been through divorce, depression, cancer, and many other forms of loss. When I looked at her that night, and when I looked back on all the time I’ve spent with her, all of a sudden, I saw her living entirely in her soul, not her body. The “old people’s issues”, in her words, sound like external problems that she needs to handle. For many times, she threw the question in the air, just as genuinely and innocently as a child: why do people turn against and look down on each other? I don’t understand.
At every encounter, she would always end it with an ask, “Can I help you with anything?” This, to her, is the essence of life. “Someone drops a handkerchief; you pick it up.”
That same spirit weaves itself through the fabric of Grand Marais. There are traces of everything everywhere. It’s a cohesive community that takes pride in its heritage and the vibrancy extended to this day. I arrived as a traveler from a refined city, having dropped much of my past, yet I was embraced by so many beautiful souls and quiet wonders. The neighbors Nita introduced me to, shop owners, protesters, grocery clerks, and even a musician on hiatus living next door. These people, along with the primitive beauty of the north shore, picked up my struggling self and sheltered it with heartfelt blessings. They have anchored a Lake Superior in my heart. It keeps calling me home. I’m calling it home.
I still can’t figure out why I was attracted to Joe’s vendor. The sun was bright, I was tired after a walk and probably lost my senses. The market was about to close, so no one else was there when he stood up and greeted me in.
He was selling a variety of stuff. Garden plants in metal pots, glass jars wrapped in rice paper, garden-patio stools, and a table of books waiting for their blind dates. He didn’t look like an ambitious businessman. Otherwise he wouldn’t choose such a unique portfolio of things. I mean, these were not even the most creative and well-crafted work. I would guess that this guy was content with his life and one day he just decided to come out and have some fun.
His insensitivity was also exposed by a pink artistic short sleeve button up, loose enough to cover his beer belly. I was most interested in the books and read through the hint cards, on which he disclosed the category and a few lines of synopsis. Each book was paired with a tea bag and a snack, an idea he was very proud of. Our chat was on and off. He kept saying, “I’m old, I need to sit down and have a rest.” Then retreated to the chair in the corner.
He had a playful sense of humor, justified by his past career as a bartender and actor. I tried to search for the names of the books based on the cards, but he quickly “warned” me, “if you Google it, I’ll charge 2 dollars more.” In retrospect, I was strangely determined to leave with one book even though I knew this whole thing was only a business concept. This guy didn’t appear as a stereotypical avid reader–later he confessed too, “there’s no way I can read all of them. I sell dozens every week.”
His knowledge of the books was too limited to help me decide which one would interest me most. But that’s perhaps one of his strategies. As a matchmaker, it’s not professional to overpraise or criticize your candidates. I spent 20 minutes walking around the table, picking up and putting down each book multiple times, and finally picked a non-fiction about a lady and her dog living in Paris. As I was making the payment, he assured me that I could return it if I didn’t like it, although I quickly reminded him that I was here only for a day trip. “Then email me, tell me how you feel.” Meanwhile, we both noticed that he forgot to put the email address on the business card.
It’s been over five months since we met. I could still vividly recall that conversation. His lightheartedness and quirkiness flapped around like a feather, completely unconventional for a transactional context. It gave off a flee market vibe. Delicacy or high quality is no longer a necessity, replaced by personal attachment to the crafts, amusing life stories, and the invitation to genuine conversations. So what attracted me to Joe’s vendor? The sun was bright, I was tired after a walk, and we both needed a rest.
I could almost see it. Three men in the lobby, one with a gun, the other two fleeing. He entered the elevator to seek help from the policeman resident. When the door was about to close, he heard the gun shot toward the young man. That was the most heartbroken moment, he said. Not the fear for the gun. Not the fear for his own death. But the guilt of “leaving” someone behind in the danger.
The crime scene was told like a movie imprinted in his mind. I already regretted bringing up the topic as he disclosed the details. I didn’t mean to, but I was too surprised when another resident greeted him “Mr. Michael” while walking out. That name rang like a bell. Michael, THE concierge who survived and called the police. Visions of that cold early morning from seemingly a decade ago swamped to my mind. I never expected to see him again. We’ve actually never met because I rarely come down when he’s on the night shift. How can anyone choose to stay in the job having experienced trauma like that?
It started out as a regular encounter. I was there to pick up a package but he couldn’t find it in the storage room. He asked if the delivery provided any photos. Luckily they did, and we soon found the package in the area where recipients are not located in the system. A common mistake made by new staff, my legal name and preferred name are different. He started troubleshooting the system regardless, and said he would mark this issue in the excel sheet, on which he detailedly documented every abnormal event that happened when he’s on duty.
I was intrigued by his storytelling. Every character was accurately retrieved from his memory as he recalled how he solved the troubles. A girl came to blame the leaking water from the ceiling. He went to check on the resident living upstairs, and was greeted with a naked girl apparently with mental disorders. A homeless man sneaked into the building and slept on a couch in the common area. Difficult visitors who refused to stay in the lobby before their friends came down. Some residents stayed in the penthouse after it was closed. He shook everyone’s hand and emphasized that driving them out was nothing personal.
His accounts fully illustrated the much-overlooked professionalism required by a concierge: adaptability to urgent situations, wisdom to avoid conflicts, patience and care toward each resident and visitor alike. Adhering to protocols and keeping everyone safe are his primary missions, and, as known to us all, he has a proven track of record.
Later I got to learn his earlier career in several government agencies, memorable residents in the previous apartment he worked at, and his upbringing in a well-educated black family. His clarity, empathy, and a peaceful aura were absolute proof of his decent past, although mixed with rough situations, some way more dangerous than the incident in January. He was forced by the management to take a break before returning to work, because he insisted that he was doing ok. “Things like this don’t faze me anymore.” I wanted to believe him. In fact, I was convinced by his positive charisma and one of the warmest smiles I’ve ever seen.
This late night conversation was a surprising callback to the starting point of my most chaotic and toughest year. Those bullets in the lobby have never reached the dawn. In the endless darkness, they whizzed through a rollercoaster journey of survival and self redemption. But by the time I met Michael, both of us could calmly and casually bring up how we’ve been creeping yet staying hopeful in our tunnels. “Life has treated me good. Keep moving forward, things will pass.”
I leaned by the counter, looking into his eyes, a pair of eyes so brightly and innocently shining under the light. Something flashed and vanished into the first beam of morning glow. I could almost see it.