
Twenty five years ago I found myself in Indian Country. Yeah, how is a westerner ever not in Indian Country? Well, I was in Baltimore, Maryland working in a grocery store in an area in town referred to as "slum soup". The store was owned by a stereotypical Jewish merchant and my responsibility was the cereal aisle. I rode the bus to and from work and worked all day for peanuts in the grocery store.
It was quite scary as it was predominately a poor neighborhood with mostly a black population. The kid who worked the next aisle over was from the neighborhood. He took me under his wing and taught me the grocery gig not to mention the ways and means to navigate and survive in the "hood". The kid was gregarious and genuine towards all. No one messed with him at all or me when I was in his company. I was accepted in the street due to my affiliation with him. We listened to Billie Holiday who was born and raised in Baltimore.
One day I sliced my hand badly with a box cutter and he was right there to fix up the poor white boy. I cannot, for the life of me, remember his name. I wish I could but maybe it doesn't matter. He saved my life and I learned alot from him about ignoring skin color and loving the person. Thanks, man...
