| The Mitzvah Messenger by Sandy Swanson Fourth of a series Two days after being deported from Vietnam, this time with a proper visa, I stowed my bag in another overhead compartment, heading -- once again -- to Saigon. "I have always relied upon the kindness of strangers." In many situations, I am Blanche DuBois from Streetcar Named Desire. I wait, stupefied, for someone -- anyone -- to come save me from the perils of my life. I give away my power with both hands, then wonder, dumbstruck, why my heroes don't perform the miracles I expect. Being a victim can become an art form. And then there's the counter to my Blanche personality -- Joan of Arc. The martyr with a mission, she's dedicated to saving those who have no need of saving and throws herself on a pyre to do it. These two extreme personae constitute a pattern in my life, sometimes working in concert. In the past, I have been the happiest when I could save someone else and be saved at the same time. I lived unconscious patterns with unconscious behaviors. I'm a little more awake now; I can at least see the pattern as it runs. As I flew for the third time over the South China Sea, I felt Blanche and Joan alive and working. During the last two days, I had conquered every foe, but I developed a bad cold and laryngitis. Part of me stood in armor. Another part wanted to crawl under the covers. "I will carry you to your family," a gentle voice said beside me. I looked again at my seat-mate, a business man on holiday from Portland. We had talked for almost two hours, including breakfast. Anh Dip told me about his immigration to the U.S., how he loved his adopted country, how he loved his job and his American friends. In his soft-spoken, gentle manner, he explained how he returned to Vietnam every year to visit his family in spite of how painful the trips had become. "I see poverty," he had said. "I see corruption. Such waste. When will it change? How? I do not know." We spoke at length about his success and how his happiness gave his family hope. "You plant a seed of light," I told him, "every time you come home." I told him about my adventures over the last few days. And even though I kept the stories light and amusing, his face hardened. "I am embarrassed for my country," he said in a harsh whisper. "Terrible. Terrible." He had drifted off into a thoughtful silence, and then brought me out of my own reverie with his announcement. "I will carry you to your family. Immigration, Customs, everything we do together. I not leave you." "Anh Dip...." Tears choked my voice. "You are very kind, but I am not your responsibility." "Yes," he countered with passion. "I must say sorry for my country. It is my duty. Please." Blanche's voice popped into my head. Angels, she said. Angels with black hair and black eyes. Unburden yourself, darlin' and let him take care of you. And then Joan's voice. Never stand between an Asian and his duty, she said. Sacrifice yourself on the sword of his guilt. They were both full of crap. Luckily, I was conscious enough in that moment to realize it. I didn't need saving, nor did I need to save Anh Dip from his own fears and pain. What I could do was accept his generous gift with grace. I realized Anh Dip was fulfilling his obligation to humankind through me, creating justice and balance in a situation he found unjust and imbalanced. He was performing his own tzedaka. I touched his arm and touched my other hand to my heart where Marshall's money still waited. "Com on, qua, Anh Dip," I said. "Thank you." We sailed through Immigration, worked as a team to find and load our luggage, eased through Customs and pushed our luggage carts out the exit. Barricades kept the crowds back from the door, where they stood for hours in the heat and humidity waiting for their loved ones. A mass of people all yelled out the names of passengers filing out. Above the din I heard, "Xendi! Xendi!" And then there was Dr. Ty, baseball cap turned backwards on his head. And Vinh, his son, videotaping the whole scene. And Anh Tuan, his nephew who taught high school English and called me "mommy." And Anh Minh and Anh Sau, two brothers-in-law who owned a taxi company and would take us home. They all rushed to me, taking my bags, shoving water into my hand, clapping me on the back. I turned to introduce Anh Dip, but he was already moving off into the crowd. I called to him, and he turned and waved. "Com on," his lips mouthed. Thank you. Next month: Love and Bravery Sandy Swanson is a Ministerial Guide at Lake Harriet Spiritual Community, a certified Reiki practitioner and Sound Healer, and a student of the Mysteries. She offers spiritual guidance; classes on healing, sound and meditation; and rituals to connect with Nature and open to the Divine. Sandy can be reached at (651) 436-1965 or sswanson@visi.com. Copyright © 2001 Sandy Swanson |
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