Dear Friend,
In the days surrounding U.S. Independence Day, you may read many reflections; some romanticized, some bitter, and some in between. I’d like to share a true story from my own life — a story that has informed my feelings about my country and our flag.
2008
It was about five in the evening, but very dark.
The frigid, July winter confused me, a girl who’s lived through scorching Texas Julys her whole life.
Our group of thirteen young pilgrims had sent out a pair to scout downtown Sydney for cheap places to eat dinner. We’d been waiting in Hyde Park for about an hour, taking turns holding the enormous American flag that we’d duct-taped to a fallen tree branch. Exhausted, I slumped down on my luggage in dirty, sweaty clothes, blowing my nose into the handkerchief off my head.
Finally, the yellow and blue jackets appeared with their report.
“There’s Chinese a few blocks down from here.”
After a thirty-minute trek, we filed into a hole-in-the-wall eatery, piled our luggage in the corner farthest from the door, and took up three tables. The menu was a laminated piece of paper with eighty items numbered and ready to order. I felt like the restaurant had not hosted a group this big since Chinese New Year.
A bumbling Chinese man with an accent both Asian- and Aussie-flavored asked, “What can ah get you to du-rink?”
Without reaching into my money belt, I simply ordered tap water. The five other women who sat around the table with me began a discussion about Asian food in the States. My nose sucked in strawberry lemonade and cooking oil wafting around the nearby kitchen. Others from our group sat at two tables behind me, engaged in joyful banter.
Suddenly, their voices were cut off by the sound of a gruff Sydney-sider. I turned, and saw a tallish, pale man wearing a white, long-sleeved dress shirt and gray pants, approach the two tables of my companions behind me.
“Who do you think you are, waving your American banner around here?” he accused us.
“Who is that?” someone whispered from across my table.
Our chaplain, Father Rob, sat directly in front of where the man stood. Father had once been in the U.S. Navy, and as he addressed our visitor, his voice sounded as strong as that of a Naval commanding officer, but subtly gentle. “Sir, would you care to sit with us?”
Silence.
“Oh no,” the man stammered, “I…”
“Please, do,” Father entreated.
The whole thing was like a radio show, since I didn’t want to turn around and look at this man, who was clearly upset with us. I heard no chair pull out, so the visitor must have refrained from acquiescing Father Rob’s invitation.
The food took a while to arrive. I used the time to study my environment: the magazine rack nearby jammed full of Chinese-language publications, the eyes staring at us between sips of hot tea, the old potted plants at the entrance.
As I ate my chicken and noodles, I caught bites of the conversation taking place behind my head. It began with harsh political accusations on the visitor’s part. Then, he explained how he had gotten here.
“I was waiting to catch a bus at Hyde, and saw you leaving down the street with that damn flag hoisted up in front.”
He’d gotten so angry that he had left his bus, followed us ten blocks from a distance, and walked into the restaurant to tell us what he thought of our country. Kat, a fellow pilgrim of mine, and a far more experienced traveler than I, calmly joined Father Rob in explaining our flag-bearing to the visitor.
“We’re here for World Youth Day,” she began, “to learn about our Catholic faith and to meet young people from other cultures who share the same faith as us. I’m sure you’ve seen the groups from other countries with their flags.”
The visitor seemed to realize that we were not hostile. I heard an empty chair pull out. Then, filled with weight, it scooted up close to the table.
I spent the next hour caught up in my own table’s discussion, listening, laughing, and scraping shapes with my fork into the liquid on my plate. As we got up to leave, I finally turned to see what was happening behind me. Our visitor stood and shook hands with Father Rob before exiting the restaurant, a crooked smile on his face. As we headed down the street toward the train station, Father explained what had happened.
“When he realized we weren’t uppity U.S. propagandists, he sat down and actually ate with us. It was amazing how quickly he became comfortable speaking to us! He shared his struggles with religion and doubts about God, told us he was addicted to the bottle, and had been using drugs, but that he wants to start over.”
His face widened into a smile, turning his cheeks into wrinkles.
“Before he left, I asked him if he had a flask on him. He said he did, so I told him, ‘Hand it to me under the table and I’ll get rid of it for you. Do you really want that second chance?’ He thought about it, gave it to me, and I just now threw it away. He took a rosary with him, and asked for our prayers.”
An hour later, as I watched the walls of the train tunnel race by in streaks of gray, I whispered a thank you to God.
This is the freedom our flag should stand for.
Love,
Angela
Thank you for sharing this beautiful experience, Angela. A great lesson in the difference a caring response can make. ❤️