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. . The
Face in the Mirror
Last Spring I was in Washington DC with my family. We were there to see the sights, go to some gallery exhibits, and see some performances. It was a glorious Spring DC evening and we hailed a cab to go to the Kennedy Center, to see a silly tourist play called Sheer Madness that has been running for years. As the cab pulled out and we settled in for the ride, I caught a glimpse of the driver's eyes, the way you do in a taxi most times. I looked down and noticed the name on the his taxi license. It seemed to me an Iranian family name. I greeted him in Farsi, the Iranian language I had learned something of some thirty years ago or more, as a Peace Corps volunteer in Iran. Suddenly, he slowed the cab down, pulled over to the curb, and turned to look at me. It was obvious I wasn’t Iranian, or even from the Middle East. He looked into my eyes and, after a moment, he responded in kind, in Farsi.
I didn’t respond to that. Instead, I told him how much I loved Persian culture, especially the poetry. His eyes lit up. We exchanged some lines from Hafez, Sa’adi, and especially the 13th century mystic, Rumi. It was something I’d done many times in Iran, in the evening, walking along the village streets, sipping tea, reciting poetry with the men of the village. For a moment, as we moved along the darkening early spring streets of Washington, I felt delighted to be back again in that very civilized and tender culture. Eventually, we arrived at the Kennedy Center and I went to pay him. He declined. “I am your sacrifice,” he responded. “How could I take your money when you have given me so much tonight?” I offered to pay again, thinking maybe we were in the midst of bargaining, Persian-style. But again he refused to take my money and responded instead with one of the many glorious phrases of respect and gratitude one finds in Farsi, this one especially for one’s guest. It was then I realized that he was giving me a gift, something in exchange for the welcome and respect he felt I had shown him, and his culture. I thanked him and we said good-bye. Slowly, he began to pull away. But then he stopped and got out, leaving his cab running at the curb. As he approached us, I could see him holding something in his hand. When he was closer, he said, “I noticed your daughter was coughing. Perhaps she would like these?” He held out an unopened pack of throat lozenges. Mamnunam, I said, thanking him. He smiled, turned, and went back to his cab, then drove off into the deepening dark. We stood there a moment longer. I remembered again the evenings in Iran, the delight I felt ... and the poetry. And now, in the midst of these troubles, such things come back to me, the face of the cab driver, some words of Rumi ...
Tom Verner has been a therapist and a faculty member at Burlington College. He currently works as a magician. He performed this summer at the Addison County Fair & Field Days, and is currently visiting the refugee camps in Bosnia and Kosovo. He lives with his daughter Mira in Lincoln. . ******* ******* If you would like to submit something for our Living Together section, don't hesitate to let us know. Simply e-mail us at livingtogether@downstreetmagazine.com. The e-mail should contain your name, address, and a phone number where we can reach you. You may also send a copy of your proposed article. The text can either be included in the body of the e-mail, or you can send it as an attachment in just about any word processing format. If your piece is accepted, we will pay a small honorarium for your interest & your time. [See Freelancers Wanted for more details.] ******* ******* If you would like to advertise in this section, or throughout the magazine, please visit our Advertising Info Pages ... or call, write, or e-mail ads@downstreetmagazine.com. ******* ******* |
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