The wife and I sometimes eat at Waffle House. Traditional egg dishes, over easy, fried, scrambled, pan fried potatoes, grits, coffee, and, of course, waffles. A cardiologist’s diet. Not too much silverware.
We sat in a corner booth talking about our grandchildren. We paid little attention to anyone. The waitress brought the bill, and before paying, took it back. We finished and went to pay the bill at the register. The waitress said, “you’re good - he paid your bill.”
He was a young Black man in sweats I did not know and had never seen. My first thought was about the generosity of this stranger. He paid the bill of an old white guy and his wife. There was no racial divide. There was no reason nor profit for his act, but kindness.
I fumbled my way through a thank you that became more inadequate to me the more I thought of this act of simple generosity from a perfect stranger. It caused me to think about the many acts of kindness that have reached back and brought me forward. Acts done out of genuine unselfishness, not tied to any quid pro quo. I do not know this man’s name or the circumstances of his birth. I do not know where he lives or what he does. I do not know his joys or his sorrows, but what I know is he was a man worthy of respect. And I will remember him all the days of my life.
Generosity of spirit and mind have taken many forms for me. All of my teachers who made school a warm, welcoming, safe place to learn and grow. The first-grade teacher who figured out I was color blind and not stupid. I remembered the foremen in the open pit phosphate mines I worked in to finance my first two years of college who, after regular employees turned down overtime, offered it to me because they knew what I was doing with the money.
I remembered the manager of the hardware store where I worked during college who gave me a job knowing I was a husband and father and needed the money and flexible work hours. When the Army offered me a scholarship in 1969, he came to me and told me the story of another college boy, a baseball player at the UNC who loved Indian motorcycles and was a member of ROTC. He wanted to fly, and when he graduated, ended up in a green hell, Guadalcanal, where he rose from Lieutenant to Colonel just because he survived as a fighter pilot. He hated war and offered to pay my tuition.
I remember many others who there is not space to mention, who reached back and pulled me forward. I am not a self-made person. I was made by those who took my hand and pulled. The anonymous man at the Waffle House took my hand and pulled me forward.
I would not change him.
David Madden is a retired trial attorney, was an Army Platoon Leader, JAG LTC and a spokesperson for the ACLU.
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