It took me forever to get a college degree. Really. It was nearly 30 years and over 330 miles apart — from September of 1970 when I enrolled as a drama major at Hartnell in Salinas until March of 2000 before I got an AS degree from a community college in Riverside. The fact that for the most part we all have phases in our lives, birth to adolescence to teen to pre-marriage/relationship to marriage/relationship to etc., etc.; and during those 30 years I changed majors four times and because academic requirements changes over the years with new discovery in all fields of education I could fulfill required core subjects with classes repeated from a decade before, and so I sat through many hours of varying sociology and philosophy classes; ergo Mr. Kant in today’s column.
Immanual Kant was a philosopher during the Age of Enlightenment, publishing his most known works between 1781 and 1787; one of his philosophies dealt with his Categorical Imperative. You can look that up but to get even a modest understanding of it takes a semester; or at least that was the experience of this student.
The categorical imperative is best recited in its original: “Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law.” A maxim here is any simple rule one remembers as a guide for how to live one’s life, our personal philosophy of how to live. Most of us practice these maxims, such as donating time or money in cases of need, with the inner idea that this should be, when possible, always practiced by all humans. If we universally treated each individual we came across in daily life just as we wish to be treated, the number of ill feelings and hostilities would lessen all around the globe. In short: You will never get an honest “you’re welcome” if you never offer an honest “thank-you.” That is all rather utopian, so let me tell you about Lobo.
I was at the bus stop on Canal Street just south of Division Street last week waiting for the Number 23 Salinas northbound bus when a fellow came around the corner from the shopping center, sat cross-legged in the middle of the sidewalk about 30 feet north of the stop and began rolling either a cigarette or a joint, which is a cigarette rolled from cannabis (some might not know, OK?) all the while keeping up a non-stop narrative. Now many times what would be called “street people” don’t often make a lot of sense in their louder that necessary rantings, but when I ventured closer to him and could make out the words, he really was saying some very cogent things.
OK, I thought, there is a few minutes before the bus is scheduled to arrive and I have always maintained that everybody has a story and most are willing to tell part of it if encouraged, so I struck up a conversation. My first comment was that he needed to be careful rolling a joint (it was a joint after all) in his present location and he replied it was no problem as he had already been in contact with local law enforcement. Given the miniscule amount of product he had to roll I told him the police would likely be far more forgiving than would the Valley winds, which were just beginning to show some activity. He thanked me for the warning and the conversation went from there.
I offered my name and he said, “I am called Lobo.” I guessed his age at around 47 or so, greying with tanned face and arms and in clothes worn but cleaner that most. I won’t recount all of what we talked about, but he stated he was headed to Salinas the next day (he was taking a one-day break from travel) where he would meet up with a friend and then head to Oregon to his parents. He mentioned they were in their mid-70s and failing in health; his mother had had an operation on a tumor in her head and so for them to stay in their home, rather than move to a care facility, Lobo was going to take on the duties needed for them to stay home: “Hey,” he said, “they took care of me for years, right?” The more we spoke the more I realized he was a very knowledgeable man both academically and with the stuff you only learn by living among people from all over the country; I could relate to that. Then the bus came and we parted.
The next day I decided to head down to the bus stop and see if Lobo was still in town even though it was mid-morning and he probably had already headed north on one of the earlier busses (the 23 bus runs north 17 times on weekdays), but I was pleasantly surprised to find him sitting on the bus stop bench, wearing a tuxedo print T-shirt over a long-sleeve white sweatshirt, eye-catching travel wear, busy cutting up an aluminum can with a pair of scissors purchased at the Dollar Store. He explained he was making an “infinity flower” and in the 15 minutes I was there he did indeed fashion a very handsome flower out of a soda can. He said he learned it from a Native girl and he often sold them on consignment at shops he knew up and down the Coast. Cool. Because it was the day before payday, I gave him the last few dollars I had plus something he could roll up on his way north and Lobo and I parted ways, probably forever.
That time for me is one of the categorical imperatives in my life; I believe we should all do what we can when we can to make life better for all of us.
Take care. Peace.
