What began as a frightening moment ended with a conversation at a fast food restaurant in downtown Chicago that forever ended my habit of judging people by their appearance.
I set out early one morning from the hotel in downtown Chicago to buy some extra socks in the face of oncoming rain. We were going to see the White Sox play that afternoon and wanted to stay dry.
As I walked along deserted East Monroe street, I came to a corner.
I jumped as a person in a hoody and jeans suddenly popped out from behind the corner and approached me. I feared my holiday would be cut short, although I saw no gun or knife. As I started to back away, he reassured me, saying he ‘just wanted to talk’.
I thought, “Our chat will end with me handing over my wallet, phone and watch or face the consequences.”
The figure said, “I just got out of hospital this morning and I need food. Thanks for not running away from me.”
I felt the knots in my gut subside.
He showed me his hospital bracelet. The name on it read Jermaine Jackson. He showed me his social security card. It looked real.
Jermaine Jackson is my real name.” “My daddy loved the Jacksons”.
He was type one diabetic and had a seizure triggered by diabetic hypoglycemia the night before, was admitted, treated and quickly released. We had something in common as I am type 2 diabetic.
Jermaine began to shake and pointed to the Popeye’s restaurant across the street. I feared another seizure was coming.
“I got to get some Popeye’s”, he said.
The counter server did a double take when he saw Jermaine standing beside me. The server ignored Jermaine and asked me what I wanted to eat.
“I ain’t servin’ him, he said motioning to Jermaine.
Jermaine gave me his order and I repeated it to the server.
Two orders of ghost pepper wings, one order of popcorn shrimp with double sweet heat sauce, a large coke and for dessert,a Mississippi mud cake. I didn’t order for myself, as I felt ill looking at the array of food piling up on the tray.
I paid and carried the tray to one of those tables with the chairs attached that I could barely fit into. We sat down and Jermaine dove in to the food.
“If a patrol car was going by back there, the police would have probably picked me and I would probably be sittin’ in a cell with no food,” he said.
He said the Chicago police are frequent visitors to Jermain’s neighbourhood in the 4400 block of Garfield park on Chicago’s west side, the worst crime area in the city.
Jermaine had three young children who lived with his sister and aunt. He had bounced around the system (including foster homes and juvenile and adult correction centres) since he was eight and hadn’t worked in three years. He had been born diabetic and fought drug and alcohol addiction all his life. Anything he could get his hands on to get high was fine by him.
As he finished breakfast, four of Jermaine’s buddies entered the restaurant. They stood staring at us, wondering what was going on.
“Hey Jermaine.” one called, “What the f— is goin’ on?”
I thought I should get up and introduce myself, and invite them to join us as any Canadian tourist would.
“Yo!” Jermaine shouted as he rose from behind the empty food wrappers.
“This here is the first white man that’s spoken to me in weeks and he ain’t no cop. He is my friend. He’s feedin’ me, he’s listenin’ to me and he is savin’ my life.”
One of his friends said something I couldn’t quite hear and they turned and left the restaurant.
I felt numbing fear on that street corner when I wrongly assumed he saw me as an easy mark and was going to rob me, or worse.
Instead, we built unexpected mutual trust when we realized we had something in common: the same health challenge.
I often wonder how Jermaine is doing. I’d like a chance to thank him for teaching me never to judge people again based on their appearances.
That was a stiff shot of reality he offered me that morning in Popeye’s. It changed my once diluted and carefully managed life.
