The Nelligan Review

Atlanta, 2015
 

It was too hot to stand in the Georgia summer sun and wait, so I pulled my suitcase back into the airport vestibule to watch for the hotel shuttle. The air conditioning felt sacred. I stoodin a back corner inside the sets of sliding doors between baggage claim and the hot street. After a minute, the doors opened and he came in alone from baggage claim carrying an old-fashioned briefcase, wearing a black suit and a white shirt. He stopped silently in the opposite corner, putting his bag on the ground at his feet. The doors closed behind us, and we were there waiting, the way you do in an elevator between floors.

I knew that he was John Lewis, congressman and man-giant icon of civil rights. He stood with his back to me, only inches away, his eyes facing the street. He was not much taller than me, bent over a little in the way life will bend all of us. He had spent his years reaching down to light pathways to justice and freedom where others would walk, always reaching out to gather everyone in, never leaving anyone behind. He was beaten and jailed and came back to keep going. He made it his life. Don’t be afraid to make trouble, he told us. Good trouble. I breathed in and willed my brain to imprint everything about these few moments, standing near him in this ordinary space he made holy.

When his car arrived, he picked up the bag and pushed open the door, leaving our space and going back into the world that he had made better with his life. Thank you, I whispered like a prayer.

Now, the world seems to have unraveled, and I try to be hopeful and optimistic. To make noise. To get in good trouble. Because I still see him standing there, a little bent over, eyes forward, watching.

And I thank him again.

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