I walked up to the kiosk on Selly Oak train station to get tickets for the train, a return to Birmingham New Street, with a student railcard. 1.25. I recognised the vendor, I'd seen him many times: middle aged man, shaved bold, with Kippah.
"So where did you get these glasses then?", he asks.
I am wearing my bright red glasses.
"Birmingham, Oasis market." He likes them. Says he has the same but he uses them for night driving, and the feew times he got pulled over for driving with sunglasses in the dark, policemen actually end up agreeing with him. We talk for a few minutes, and I couldn't have enjoyed our small talk more- talking with strangers always give me such pleasure- we talk about age and how he is often mistaken to be the son of his brother, who is in fact 10 years younger than Bret, that is his name, I see it on his name tag. No such chance with me, I jest, my sister is indeed 12 years younger than me, just 10.
The next thing he said, floored me. He said, if he still had all his kids, the oldest would be 31 and the youngest-10. He doesn't. His wife and 5 of his kids were killed by Christian Orthodox and he's buried them in Jerusalem. More people come into the train station now and they need his attention, to get their tickets. Arguably, a perfect time, as I realise I don't know what to say but "I am so sorry". He says such is life. Or the worst timing- he has just told his life-story to a stranger he may remember he has sold tickets to a few times. I enter the train, confused and touched by a story told by a stranger.
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The second time I talk to Bret was about a month after the first one, I've recently retured from Sophia where I spent Easter. I see him, he is in the kiosk, looking at his phone. He says hi, I smile. I suggest I go to the vending machine, if he is busy- the station is empty anyway. He puts the phone away and waves me to come over. He notices my hair colour is different, which is more than I can say about some of my close friends, he likes the red. Thank you. What Bret was looking at, on his phone, was a photo of his youngest, a 10 year old girl. He shows me a picture of her in a dress, preparation for a wedding. It is the only time he can get her to wear a dress, otherwise she prefers dungarees. I, again, compare her to my sister, who my father is worried about, because she hangs out too much with the boys and the short hair and constant trousers don't help. I have dungarees too and I've never been a girly girl. Hopefully, he won't be too bothered if his girl turns out to be a lesbian, I jokingly think to myself.
These conversations have made a difference to me. They are honest. Conversations with strangers are genuine and powerful, and to me, it seems sad that most of us avoid to share a moment with a stranger, out of some misunderstood social programming that strangers are bad. After all, strangers have the best candy.
"So where did you get these glasses then?", he asks.
I am wearing my bright red glasses.
"Birmingham, Oasis market." He likes them. Says he has the same but he uses them for night driving, and the feew times he got pulled over for driving with sunglasses in the dark, policemen actually end up agreeing with him. We talk for a few minutes, and I couldn't have enjoyed our small talk more- talking with strangers always give me such pleasure- we talk about age and how he is often mistaken to be the son of his brother, who is in fact 10 years younger than Bret, that is his name, I see it on his name tag. No such chance with me, I jest, my sister is indeed 12 years younger than me, just 10.
The next thing he said, floored me. He said, if he still had all his kids, the oldest would be 31 and the youngest-10. He doesn't. His wife and 5 of his kids were killed by Christian Orthodox and he's buried them in Jerusalem. More people come into the train station now and they need his attention, to get their tickets. Arguably, a perfect time, as I realise I don't know what to say but "I am so sorry". He says such is life. Or the worst timing- he has just told his life-story to a stranger he may remember he has sold tickets to a few times. I enter the train, confused and touched by a story told by a stranger.
______________________________________________
The second time I talk to Bret was about a month after the first one, I've recently retured from Sophia where I spent Easter. I see him, he is in the kiosk, looking at his phone. He says hi, I smile. I suggest I go to the vending machine, if he is busy- the station is empty anyway. He puts the phone away and waves me to come over. He notices my hair colour is different, which is more than I can say about some of my close friends, he likes the red. Thank you. What Bret was looking at, on his phone, was a photo of his youngest, a 10 year old girl. He shows me a picture of her in a dress, preparation for a wedding. It is the only time he can get her to wear a dress, otherwise she prefers dungarees. I, again, compare her to my sister, who my father is worried about, because she hangs out too much with the boys and the short hair and constant trousers don't help. I have dungarees too and I've never been a girly girl. Hopefully, he won't be too bothered if his girl turns out to be a lesbian, I jokingly think to myself.
These conversations have made a difference to me. They are honest. Conversations with strangers are genuine and powerful, and to me, it seems sad that most of us avoid to share a moment with a stranger, out of some misunderstood social programming that strangers are bad. After all, strangers have the best candy.
