A Year Ago

A year ago I rode a train from Ottumwa to Chicago.

I had been home for a funeral of someone who was too young to die. The train ride back to the city was the conclusion of a long, emotionally trying week. Heart heavy, sad and worn, I did not want to get on the train; I did not want to lose the support of my family. I did not want to be alone.

Per normal, Amtrak was late. Very late. 5 or 6 hours late. A train I should have ascended at 10:07 am I instead boarded mid-afternoon. Quickly finding a seat, I settled in amongst passengers who had been on the train for hours, some days. Several rows behind me a young man was speaking loudly on his cell phone. “We’re at some station in Iowa. Yeah, Iowa. Thank goodness I’m passing through here and not staying. Oh man, I hope there are no locals on the train.” I shot my hand up.

Normally I ignore other passengers. Having made numerous train rides in the last two years, I am very familiar and comfortable with the mode of travel, with the typical passenger make-up, and so forth. I’m always polite and courteous, but rarely engage in conversation with my fellow travelers. This time, however, I could not ignore the man on the cell phone.

Iowa routinely gets a bad rap. Iowa is routinely portrayed as full of ignorant, backward, uncultured, unsophisticated farmers. People commonly believe the stereotype that people in Iowa are only knowledgeable about 3 things: John Deere tractors, corn, and hogs.

Now, there is often a hint of truth in stereotypes. I will not deny that, as a giant in agriculture, Iowa is filled with hogs, corn, and John Deere green, but that is not what defines Iowans. Farming may be what we do, but it is not who we are.

Iowans are among the kindest individuals I have ever met. Ask an Iowan for help, and they will never turn you down. Wave to an Iowan and they will wave back, even if they don’t know you. Smile at an Iowan and you will not only get a return smile, but a greeting and a genuine conversation.

Iowans are polite. They are generous with their time, their resources, and their hearts. An Iowan looks out for their neighbor, knowing their neighbor is doing the same for them. An Iowan respects all individuals, regardless of race, religion, or political affiliation. An Iowan knows a person is not defined by what they say but by what they do.

An Iowan has the strength of steel in their blood. We endure scorching summers, frigid winters, tornadoes, and floods. We come through crisis and disaster, assess the situation, and immediately begin anew. We hurt deeply and overcome greatly.

Iowans are the largest family in the world. Iowans are brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins. Regardless of blood, an Iowan treats you as one of their own. You are always welcome in the life and home of an Iowan.

Iowans are intelligent. They are innovative. They are globally and environmentally minded. They are compassionate, proud, and faithful. Iowans never ask for more than they need, and they give back more than they got.

For these and so many other reasons, I could not ignore the man on the cell phone a year ago. Having just returned to Iowa and my family to be wrapped in love and strength, I could not ignore that man. He needed to know that there were locals on the train who could hear his disparaging tone. He needed to know there are people who choose to live in Iowa and accept all that being an Iowan means. He needed to know that for Iowans, it is not just a state to pass through, but a home.

And so I shot up my hand. His mortification was instantaneous and incredibly loud. “OH MY GOD!! Someone just raised their hand! Oh god! I’m so sorry!” Some people laughed, most ignored him, and the train began to move.

A few stops later, the empty seat next to me suddenly had someone in it. I glanced over and went back to my book. A finger poked me. I looked again. “I am so sorry honey!” The voice was unmistakable. It was the man that was on the cell phone. I just sat and looked at him and so he continued,”I meant no disrespect. Really!” I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “Yes you did.”

He did not expect this but I was not in the mood to placate a stranger. After staring at me a few more seconds, he softened a bit. “You’re right. I did. But I truly am sorry.” He told me his name, which I quickly forgot. He explained he was one his way to the South from San Francisco. He was moving, for love. I responded with the generic and safe information. Student in Chicago. From Northeast Iowa. One year down, one to go. I have this speech down pat.

He asked if I had known anyone in Chicago when I moved. I said no, save for a friend from high school I rarely see. His response to my answer caught me off-guard. “You are so brave! I am moving without knowing anyone as well, and I’m terrified!”

In true Iowa form, my heart softened. I had not been brave. I was just as terrified and reluctant as he. I often wanted to back out, drop out, and return home. I cried nonstop practically the first month. Oh, no. I was not brave at all.

We talked a bit more, and then he returned to his seat, but his admission stuck with me. Pulling a blank journal from my bag, I let my thoughts go on the first page. Thoughts of faith and strength and hope in the face of new and scary experiences. Thoughts of encouragement and trust. Thoughts of overcoming greatly.

Reading over what I had written, I made a snap decision. Penning instructions on the inside front cover, I signed my name under my entry on the first page, added the date and location, and my email address. I closed the journal, wrapping it with its ties. And breathed.

As we neared Chicago I passed him the journal. ”I think you are courageous as well.” I put my headphones on and fell into my own world. Through the music I could hear him, exclaiming in shock. I could hear him talking to the other passengers. Then it fell silent as he opened the journal and read.

Soon he was back in the seat beside me. “I can’t accept this.” “Yes, you can.” “Please, take it back.” “No.” And then I ignored him. Realizing I was not going to relent, he returned to his seat, with the journal.

As we arrived at Union Station, he tried once again to return the journal. Once again, I refused. I disembarked and walked away without a second look. I had done my part. I had reached out to someone who needed it. I made a connection with humanity. And, perhaps best of all, I taught someone that Iowans are more than the stereotype. There was nothing left for me to do on that train.

As I, exactly one year later, again ride a train to Chicago I wonder where that journal is now. The instructions were simple, merely asking whomever possessed it to add their own words of wisdom, whatever they may be or pertain to, and then pass the journal along to a stranger who needed it. I suppose I will never know what happened to it, but someday I hope I get an email from someone who has the filled journal in their possession.

~g