“I’m in route. I’m further along than I was. But I am still in route. I know I know enough to try to live what I know. Now that’s a lot! But I still don’t have it all.”
— Dr. Maya Angelou, in conversation with Oprah Winfrey
During one of many conversations Dr. Angelou had with Oprah Winfrey, she was asked a second time –this one in her mid-80s– if she felt wise. Her response, in pertinent part, was “I’m in route.” And, in that one phrase, followed by the captioned, gloriously laconic expansion on the idea, Dr. Angelou conduced the listener to foster a spirit of continuous learning and growth. The idea is that we can all still learn, and as an upshot, expand and enrich our lives. Lamentably, while non-human animals are faced with either learning or dying, far too many humans reach the purportedly-sage older years and become less receptive to new ideas and novel approaches. We as humans choose to stop learning, moving obstinately and precipitously into our philistine years. Dr. Angelou’s acknowledgement –at well over eighty– that she was “still in route” is edifying, and it parallels wisdom attributed to the Dalai Lama, “When you talk, you are only repeating what you already know. But if you listen, you may learn something new.”
Lamentably, while non-human animals are faced with either learning or dying, far too many humans reach the purportedly-sage older years and become less receptive to new ideas and novel approaches. We as humans choose to stop learning, moving obstinately and precipitously into our philistine years.
So how do we learn during our willful later years? Just listen.
In my early twenties I launched, with all my free time, breakneck into volunteerism, for both religious organizations and non-religious community efforts. I had grown up the son of a preacher, in a devoutly Christian household. As such, my involvement with the Church was no quantum leap. But, I was twenty-three, living on the northside of Chicago, romantically unattached. The unrelenting pulse of the City was seductive, the late-night quiet beguiling. I lived alone, and was nocturnal like the owl, yet with far more dull survival skills. The consequence was that nothing within impeded me from going out into the dark of night. I was a blunt instrument destined to be sharpened by hard experience. I was certainly keen when I finally moved away!
Before then, Chicago’s night life lured me into rooms that thumped deep house music, and had less visibility than a dense winter fog at hours past midnight. There were revelers emerging and retreating again into the multitude of perspired bodies, at the rhythm of Frankie Knuckles’ now legendary productions; there were exultant howls and strobes of intermittent red, blue, yellow and white lights; there was turpitude in-waiting. Among the horde, the principled and unscrupulous abounded in equal measure, and I now had found interests outside of the Church.
I returned to the area during the day one Saturday, and saw a sign requesting volunteers for community initiatives. I leapt at the opportunity! I longed for community, and wanted to belong to something other than my Young Adult Sunday School. The volunteer coordinator was Native American, and the initiative was the Names Project. I was off to a fine start. Initially, I was trained to monitor panels of quilt prepared in grief to commemorate the lives devastated and lost to the ravages of AIDS. It was a solemn experience. Such was my reliability that I eventually became the volunteer administrator at the store front where the panels were carefully and lovingly guarded.
From there, I reached deeper into the community and volunteered at a convalescent home on Chicago’s storied Southside. From my one-bedroom apartment in Rogers Park, furnished by the vestiges of relationships come and gone, I travelled on the 22 Clark bus to the Wrigleyville stop on the Redline; I travelled the Redline to 95th and Halstead on the Southside; from 95th and Halstead, I rode the 352 Chicago Heights bus to my destination. On that first trip, a naïve, country adventurer, originally from Alabama, stepped down from the 352 anxious and beaming, headphones blasting Boris Dlugosch so loudly that I heard few of the voices reaching from one window to the next, sometimes down onto the street, or from one side of the street to the other. An entire other world teeming with life, both innocuous and perilous. In my case, ignorance was both bliss and danger, but I could only feel bliss.
I arrived at my destination, and was trained for basic cleaning and safe interaction with hospice patients. Everything I did had to be gloved, and there were certain tasks beyond my qualifications. Those I was instructed to avoid. I felt out of my depths and uneasy. I stayed nonetheless. I returned to this convalescent home every Saturday for at least two months. With each visit, one of the residents would ask about my route, where I lived, and specifically why and how I had arrived there. The questions felt obtrusive, and I replied with any details other than those that would have been responsive. On one of my last visits, that very resident was even more insistent than usual, and I was put off. I again filled the void intentionally left for meaningful responses to his questions with meaningless conversation, at times speaking over questions. But my enquirer was street-smart and world-wise. He took another route to reach me. His questions this time came through the Home Director who bluntly asked, “What is your bus route and how do you travel here?” I revealed the details to her, and my response left her mouth agape. She remonstrated me for exiting the bus at a stop on a darkened corner, while wearing headphones! She explained why it was important to give good attention to my surroundings at all times, including knowing if anyone walked behind me. She re-routed me to a corner that was well-lit and cater-cornered to a convenience mart. She restricted my hours so that I left before dark and would be at the stop just before the bus arrived. My legs shook uncontrollably, but my baggy jeans belied as much. In short, I was being watched and followed as I exited the bus, and the resident I thought was being intrusive was trying to save me from the perils of the neighborhood. I was unnerved by the prospect that my anxiously interposing random thoughts over his pointed, helpful questions might have led to a life-altering surprise down on the street.
He was helping me, and I could not hear him for the sound of my own voice.
I volunteered two more weeks, and then ended my time on the Southside. I was sad but shaken. I had learned that noise and restlessness are for the youthful or ignorant, and that I could learn more about the world around me if I listened as opposed to silencing other voices with my own.
