A 1972 Chevy Nova passed me by today.  Orange with two blue stripes down the hood no less. My mind went back to Mrs. Johnson in the cafeteria of Marumsco Hills Elementary School.  She drove a Nova.  Somehow I noticed that fact as she drove along Grayson Road and it has stayed with me for 38 years or so now.  

Kids made fun of her. "Eeeww, she just ate the old sandwich off that plate!" someone would say.  "So gross!" another would reply. She wore a drab greenish dress that resembled more of a hospital gown than a custodian’s uniform.  But we called her a janitor in those days.  My classmates weren't exactly kind to her.  I honestly cannot recall participating in the banter but I remember my heart aching for her, but not knowing exactly why. 

My response to gossip then is similar to what it mostly is now - silence.  Hoping that somehow my silence won’t offend the speaker and yet also won’t indicate passive agreement either.  It’s an in-between kind of place, a familiar place that’s not all that comfortable anymore, but old habits are hard to break. I pray it’s not collusion.

Sometimes I wonder if others’ hearts ache as mine does.  Yesterday, in the border line, waiting to cross back into the United States, the land of opprotunity, I again saw a severely disabled man selling his bag of candy.  He's there almost every day.  I didn’t want any of his candy, but I also didn’t want him to think that I thought he was begging if I gave him a few pesos without taking anything.  "He has pride" I thought, as he uttered what I think was “Gracias, senor.”  

The amazing thing about the Mexicans that I’ve encountered is that they work and have an entrepreneurial spirit that is extremely strong. It’s what I imagine the US was like in another age.  Even the most destitute mom with three kids on the corner of Avenida de las Ferias and Las Palmas offers chicklets for sale. Few beg.  Taco stands and impromptu bars, complete with music and beer, pop up everywhere in a matter of minutes. I respect their spirit and ingenuity.

I console myself by thinking that in 1976, driving a 1972 Nova must have meant that Mrs. Johnson wasn’t likely hungry.  Resourceful probably.  Kids leave a lot of food untouched on their plates. She was a precursor to the sustainability movement before it had a label.  Back when we just followed the common sense principle of trying to not waste so much.  For some reason now, I fantasize that she’s still kicking around collecting her Prince William County pension longer than they ever expected.  Beating the odds and actually getting to enjoy a long retirement after an even longer stint of mopping the floors in the gymnasium turned cafeteria, enduring the jeering and giggles of school kids. 

I guess this is my way of saying “Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. I hope I didn’t laugh at you.  You had a cool car.”