Ann Matsushima's Blog
words / Nov 2, 10:30 AM
I walk briskly down the street, the morning cold nipping against my face. I pass vacant lots and homes in disrepair, but glory to the faces that say “good morning” with a smile, and glory to that old Weeping Willow tree that grows within that vacant lot.
Yet as time passes by I remember the feelings more than the images.
the history of an hour:
he showed me some drawings and read poetry
talkin about drugs, sex and all the hypocrisy
he spoke openly and never a disrespect
only wished to paint murals with some sort of message
said people travel through a path full of signs & images
yet none of it makes them stop and think of it
his father, a jamacian, his mother, west indie
yet all people see when they see him is black.
he said i was a down-to-earth spirit
so open, so willing to listen, and kind
yet it was his words that pulled me in
it was his aspiration that shined
he grew up in brooklyn, brownsville, new york
his teachers discouraged him from making real art
so he moved out here to gain support and paint
and be a responsible father for his 4 kids
he drew faces in ballpoint pen
sketchy like, marked with wrinkled history and scarred pain
faces with background stories and lives in secret boxes
we met for a reason, if not for conversation for an hour
so we shook hands and parted, never to see each other again.
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Read more of Ann Matsushima's Blogs.
hey ann.
thanks for his story.
best to you in atlanta.
enjoy every moment – it’s all gift.
By melissa from chicago / Nov 14, 11:20 AM / #
I’d love to hear more.
Your writing reminded me what a blessing it was to sit down and have a conversation with a “stranger” (who is no longer so unknown to me) just the other day.
By Andrea in chicago / Mar 4, 11:00 AM / #