Freedom of Opinion (part two)

The giver of blows forgets,
the bearer of the scar remembers.
- Haitian Proverb

When Rasta and I got back to the American Residence, there was tension in the air. The parking lot was full of security people shuffling around nervously, glaring angry eyes that I avoided. Falcon, the chief, had appeared on the scene. His face was tight. We looked at each other in silence. He was doing his job and it was none of my business. What had taken place while we were gone? The party had cooled down but the guests seemed to be at ease. No sign of an attack or danger. Mother and I left soon thereafter. Rasta's path and mine never crossed again. This is not unusual in my life. I've had countless momentary friends, encounters that last a day, a few hours or minutes. They're meaningful nonethelesss, and I cherish every one.

The next day, Falcon told my mother everything. She confronted me after lunch.
"What did you do with him out there?" she asked in a tone that almost made me feel bad.
"We had the best conversation ever!" I told her enthusiastically.
"Did you have to leave? It caused a lot of upset. There was a huge drama."
I was astounded. "Why on earth would it be a problem? This is a free country."
My mother sighed. "Because a black man leaving with a white woman is not seen well by some people."

It turns out that smoking wasn't the worst thing that we could have done. In the dirty racist minds of some men, us having sex was the most wretched thing imaginable. Luckily, Falcon had been able to mitigate the situation.

I guess no one is immune to prejudice. The American Ambassador was a gay man and very likeable. We loved him. But someone decided to gender shame him by spraying hate graffiti on the Embassy walls downtown. I asked my mother why someone would do such a thing. "A political statement," she replied in her customary cool, detached, rational and compassionate diplomatic way. She meant "political smear".

What did I know anyway? I was nothing more than a philosopher doing what philosophers like to do: tackle the phenomena of the world in discourse head on, leaving room for the unknown but unafraid of going there. Diplomats are kind of like that. Except, they must be selective in their expression and often keep their true heart to themselves. Philosophers are free. Socrates, Ancient Greek philosophical legend, clearly undertood this. He drank the poison put before him and chose death, rather than to be restricted in his Meinungsfreiheit (freedom of opinion). Of course, freedom of opinion is a double-edged sword. Bigots exercise it, too. However, Socrates, unlike many of us, had carefully crafted, through humble and consistent efforts, an authentic and compassionate opinion. He created an art of perceiving and made philosphy. On the path to enlightenment, bigotry is dispensible and love of all inevitable. No one can call themself a philosopher who is a bigot.

The last time I saw Falcon was in Monterrey, Mexico, thanks to a nice coincidence. He was transferred there as Consul General for the U.S. I moved there to pursue a master's degree in the city where my mother had studied, where half of my Mexican family resides. First, I met with him at the Consulate when I went to get my laser visa at his office. About a year later, I'd aborted my master's abruptly half-way. Mexico was a tough no-bullshit teacher and I'd gotten myself into some serious trouble. That piece of humble pie still sits in my throat almost 20 years later.

Before leaving Mexico for good, Falcon and I had lunch one last time. Steaks and red wine. He was already at the table when I walked in encircled by a frantic, bruised and nervous aura. He stood up to greet me.
"You seem different," he remarked as I sat down. "What happened to you?"
Of course, he'd pick up on it. A man of his experience, profession and training. He wasn't the Falcon for no reason.
After staring into his eyes for what felt like an eternity, I decided to be, at least, as blunt as I'd always been with him. I mustered up the courage to tell him the details of my most recent odyssey. That fatalistic opinion I'd offered to him back in Haiti, that he didn't like, had been a manifestation of my undoing. I had no idea at the time. Falcon was an agent of free will with the balls to make difficult choices. Now, I had become one, too.

It was just the two of us in the elevated restaurant room sitting at a round table clothed in white with a view of the mountains. Black and white servers holding water, napkins and other things, surrounded and occasionally approached us. When I finished talking, I was a dam of held-back tears. He told me that he had been in a similar situation, which was of some consolation. Our paths never crossed again. But he flies through my memories and I hold him dearly in my heart.

I went back to Haiti to live with my parents and figure out my next steps. It sucks to fail. But life goes on as new friendships, experiences and adventures unfold. A philosopher's work is never done.