Holding A Stranger

Mary-Ellen Krause - 22 Feb 17

Marching down the street with a mind full of; to-do’s, what-nexts and no-times. I walked past a middle aged man standing next to a wall.

He was shaking and clearly very anxious. The closer I got to him, the more in pain he appeared. I don’t know if it is motherhood or just human nature but I placed my arms around him and held him. The feeling of union with another person, despite him being a stranger- felt strong and powerful. I repeated that cliched little phrase of reassurance, yet I meant it. I stayed fixed on that pavement for what seemed like an eternity. Holding this stranger in the middle of the street. That wall, him and I.

Just holding him. Uttering natural, human antiphon. I had never done this before. Normally, I am reserved and balk at too much physical contact. But I found myself clasped in an embrace with a man who I had never met before.

I will respectfully call him The Gent.

I learnt that he was having a PTSD attack and the noise of the near by building site had awakened in him, a memory that he wanted to smother. The Gent had no one with him, no family or friends. He was companionless on the pavement and in life.

After a while, The Gent and I ended up in a small coffee shop where I held his hand, sat face to face across a table. I could see large bulbous tears on his face, salty gratitude for someone’s time perhaps. He shared his stories, his life and I listened.

I’d always assumed that this coffee shop was simply a bunker for solo wifi-seekers or broadsheet readers. How wrong I was. The Gent is cared for here every day by these silent samaritans. ‘Amy’ poured his favourite coffee and passed him the paper, rang his carer and sat next to him. With such solicitude, they rallied around him. I felt as though I was a tiny cog in a well oiled machine. Part of a thriving but secret community.

During my time with him, I learnt that he has no close family to speak of and I was struck by his tales of isolation and unrest. When my daughter awoke, she was a welcome distraction to his troubled mind. Her toothy smile bringing momentary joy to his complex life.

Children have a habit of doing that, becoming a positive focus amidst difficulty or unease.

Many appeared out of the woodwork to support him. The ‘village’  was present and on high alert. Just a blurred and different one. In a truly unselfconscious way, a vast group of human beings nestled themselves in his pain.

In today’s political minefield of propaganda and hateful repartee, I find myself losing grip of positivity. Yet I saw humility in that cafe, in a purest form. This notion of coming together and supporting each other will have happened not only in our town, but all over the globe. The towns, cities, gardens, playgrounds and offices. Random acts of care blossoming like spring bulbs in perhaps hostile ground.

Recently as a mother, I have been anxiously following world events. Fearful of the future for my children. The fog of political uncertainty too thick and suffocating to contemplate.

Meeting The Gent has made me think differently. These brilliant people are amongst us, they are strong and prevalent. They weren’t marching in a mass protest but they were practising the very qualities and values that were emblazoned on those placards. It was the lady with the umbrella, the teenager with the high tops and the builder who held the door. They were marching.

I had often doubted if we have a ‘village’ anymore. I think we do. It might not be door to door terrace streets and shared washing lines, an outdoor loo and a tea dance but there is a sense of community. It just takes on a hundred different faces. I wonder if it is a resurgence, a need for closeness. Finding hope in our small communities when our global ones are at war.

The Gent taught me so much. So did my community. I’m going to spend more time looking up, eyeballing the faces of good instead of bemoaning that which I cannot change.

One night, I told this tale to my almost four year old. I regaled the need for empathy. To look for the good. To feel gratitude every day, to never feel superior to another. I hoped to teach him about positivity and responsibility. Yet it didn’t feel like his lesson at all. It felt strangely like mine.

Mary-Ellen Krause

A mother and Drama teacher. Best things in life- My children when they first wake, sitting on the beach at sunset, drinking prosecco with my mum, climbing a mountain, laughter, a vintage dress, a nostalgic piece of music, walking into my little town and seeing familiar faces, holding hands with Mr K.

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