THE FRONT POCKET OF MY HEART

the front pocket of my heartHis face had changed, he wasn’t so carefree the second time I studied him. Although it was a long time ago, I remember him like he’s part of me now. He turned out to be a life lesson for me. Now, wherever I go – he goes with me. My mom pulled him out of time like a note to carry with me, and tucked him into the front pocket of my heart and patted it twice to make sure he stayed there.

It was the late sixties in southern California. While I was just a tyke, I knew the world was not a perfect place. They called it civil unrest, some called it a fight for equal rights. I was just scared… We lived in a lower-income area where blacks and whites were forced to live together by destiny, or what I would come to understand as the hand of God.

Violence was a way of life even among the same colored skin groups and someone else’s pain was just a part of life, along with a good dose of my own. The reality of life calloused all the young hearts.

I was squirming in the front passenger seat of our old Plymouth in the middle of a blistering summer as we pushed up the steep grade headed east out of the Coachella Valley with the windows down; poor folks air conditioning. My mom who had grown up in the desert knew more than a few tricks to get worn out and temperamental clunkers across a scorching desert.

Before our old Plymouth began to overheat, my mom turned the heater on full blast to help dissipate heat off the big V-8. I’m not sure how she kept her foot on the accelerator in those pre-cruise control days: mine were on the dashboard as far away from the floorboard inferno as possible.

I was shocked when a long black Caddy began to pass us – a rare occasion for my heavy footed mother. Three African-American men slowly pulled along side talking and laughing – generally having a good time as they motored along. It felt like losing… I appreciated nice cars and I studied it and them carefully as they passed us by. They naturally felt like my enemies for all the wrong reasons…

The young men weren’t too far ahead of us as we made our way through the desert furnace when smoke began to billow from under their hood. The calloused world in our rear view mirror and my nature didn’t like getting passed by anybody and the ugly monster I didn’t quite yet know by name – jealousy had reared its ugly head… it knew I wanted a better car…

“Ha! – That’s what he gets!” I laughed and sneered with delight at the pain of another as we passed them while they were pulling over. The driver’s new expression showed anxiety, doubt, fear, and stress… Things I already knew quite well even as kid. “Why would you say that? – That could just as easily be us… I feel bad for them.” My mom said in disappointment.

I slowly began to see myself in the driver’s eyes.

What a gift; to be a passenger in the school of life with Godly principles. I’ll continue to carry that lesson my mom slipped into the front pocket of my heart…

I pull it out every now and then to see the stubble on the face and the pain in the eyes of the man who reflected mine…