You’re Free. Live like it.
| Freedom through the eyes of the Unseen |
Waiting for my friends visiting the Duomo, Milan’s opulent cathedral, I wandered through the adjacent and equally as opulent Galleria, filled with every luxury brand known to Italy.
Looking for something more reflective to pass the time, I eventually find myself in front of a simple basilica a half kilometer or so away, well outside the shadows of opulence.
On the sheltered steps of the old basilica, thumbs poised above the phone cupped in my hands in what has been called the modern prayer pose, I’m approached by Che-che. 55 years in age, I guess, or maybe late 30s. The weathered skin of many years on the streets makes it hard to know.
The usual predictable banter culminates with me handing over the scrapful of Euros left in my pocket. Che-che gratefully receives the change, and with a tinge of humor, or is it sarcasm, or just simple truth, he states approvingly that this is enough to live on. I smile at his wit, careful not to offend in the same way he sought not to offend my meager offer of coinage.
Che-che tells me that he loves alcohol, that it makes him feel good. I ask him what he does when the feeling goes away. He replies quickly, with honesty and a hint of humor: I like dope too. A burst of laughter this time, despite myself.
His sunken eyes convey a soulful intelligence, a deep penetrating knowing that holds me in place. I sense that he’s also experiencing something similar.
After a long silence I say, you remind me of someone very important to me.
Is he dead? he asks. A look of trepidation overtakes his face.
Yes.
Che-che bursts into tears of grief. Not for my loss, per se, but from the self-confirming truth he has long feared.
We remain standing face to face as his tears subside almost as quickly as they came. I ask if he did the tattoos on his fingers and knuckles himself.
Yes.
He brings his fists together in front of his chest so that the “i” and the “e” on the first joint of his index fingers are side by side.
Inferno eternal
His demeanor suddenly powerful, he launches into explanatory prose. Voice determined and poetic. Words flowing with unrehearsed familiarity, pride, insight and threat.
As he speaks his fingers and hands turn hypnotically, like one of those folded paper fortunetelling games of youth. His other fingers and knuckles come into focus: 666, with hand-drawn script mirrored in a language I don’t recognize.
His thumbs now side by side display “t” and “b”. The beast, he proclaims excitedly, a sudden fury, intensity, and echo of growing threat in his voice.
…and “the best”, he adds with a note of sardonic humor.
You are clever, he says.
You are clever, I say, shifting my weight ever so slightly should I need to bolt, my awareness heightened for any sudden movement.
Che-che’s anger and passion flare even further as he begins to relay the names of every major company. His knowledge of the world’s major corporations is impressive in its breadth.
I own them all! he states with an air of victorious dominion.
I am the beast, the best, he says again, but with less furor or conviction than before.
These people are in hell, he motions to the streets behind him, eternal fire.
They are blind, he says, they do not see.
I understand, I say.
Che-che’s face softens, his shoulders draw in, his fury passes, and he now resembles a young lost child.
I’m scared, he says meekly, I’m so afraid.
Tears well up uncontrollably in his eyes, and in mine too.
I’m invisible, I live underground.
I know, I say.
I see you.
Noticing now my outstretched hand, he takes ahold of it firmly…a lifeline from me to him and him to me.
My father also liked alcohol, I say.
He was brave, like you. A survivor.
I am a survivor Che-che says proudly, I am brave, but nobody sees.
Thank you, Che-che, for your bravery.
Only a brave soul can walk the path that you are walking.
Our hands release in mutual gratitude.
My cellphone vibrates reminding me of the world out there and lunch ahead. Che-che asks if I’d like a drink…he has a $15 credit at the restaurant down the road.
Friends await, I explain apologetically.
I look into Che-che’s eyes, knowing that our time together is coming to an end. I’m grateful for him, his ability to express himself in his second or third language, his presence against all odds.
Thank you, Che-che, I say.
But the words feel incomplete. There’s something more to say. Something more to ask…
Che-che, What advice do you have for me?
Sightseeing? he asks, slightly confused by my question.
No, advice, for this life.
A solemn intensity comes over his face. The answer so clear he speaks without pause.
You are free, he says as a half reminder.
I am free, he adds.
They are not, motioning again to the streets around us.
You have freedom in this life.
Live like it.
Che-che and I shake hands once more…and part ways.
How was the Duomo? I ask my friends as we sit down for a drink.
Hot, they lament…the intense afternoon sun on the white marble churchtop was like an oven…we almost got burned alive up there!
Yeah, the same down here, I think to myself.
Eric Martin is the Author of Your Leadership Moment. He is also the Founder of Adaptive Change Advisors (ACA), the preeminent organization for mission-driven Adaptive Leadership development.
