Bin alley memorial

FedEx delivery man I’ve seen many times is standing by me with a dolly full of packages, waiting for the elevator. Salt and pepper hair, worry lines on his forehead. We're both masked.  “Let me ask you honestly, do you like it here?”

Me: Portland? I do. Do you?

Him: Sometimes I do. I got a job here, pay is OK. People OK. But I’ll never belong here. My family, my heart, my culture is Lebanon. What I love to eat, the climate, everything is Lebanon.

Me: How long have you been here? 

Him: Twenty-six years. My wife, American. Kids grew up here, 100% American, teenagers now, only speak English. When I take them back home with me, they feel like foreigners, can’t speak the language. We come to Portland, I’m a foreigner again. People ask me, ‘Where are you from?’ I hate that question.

Me: Do you think of going back when you retire?

(Elevator arrives. We ignore it.)

Him: Three years ago, my father came to see us. He had a stroke and died. He’s buried here. He asked me to look after everything. I didn’t ask him, ‘Look after what?’ Did he want me to go back home and look after everything there? Did he want me to stay here with his bones? I know he’s somewhere else, not here. Should I stay for his bones? Is that what he meant? I don’t know. It worries me. I’ve got dual citizenship, I’d never give that up, but I don’t know what he meant, and I think about it.

Me: It’s a big question. Of course it worries you. That’s hard. What about your wife and kids?

Him: They’d never go there for more than a visit. I guess they’ll make me a grandfather one day, so I should be a grandfather, stay here. But I also love when I go back to Lebanon. Nobody ever asks me where I’m from. There are things I could look after there. Maybe that’s what my father wanted.

(Elevator arrives again. We step in. I thank him for the conversation. He puts his hand on his heart, slightly bends his head. Third floor, he exits. Cue R.E.M.)