The Power of the Mundane
I remember Judy; a backwoods teenager from Kentucky who was the third wife of a man in his forties. Bright and energetic, she chafed at her limited life as a housewife and yearned for more. She was surrounded by women in their 20s, employed in various jobs, and free to make their own choices. Ultimately, with my help, she got her driver’s license, a tangible symbol of the freedom that could be hers, and the possibilities that lay ahead. In the end, her lack of education and her acculturation kept her from seizing those possibilities. A second marriage and children soon followed a divorce from her first husband. I don’t know what has happened to Judy in the years that have passed, but I would like to think that her life turned out better than she expected.
Judy’s story is important as an example of how the little things we do can make a significant difference. For a moment, a seemingly trivial event, the conferring of a driver’s license, opened up her world. My help in the process was not terribly significant, or so I thought at the time. I let her drive my car and helped her practice for the driving test, which she aced. This is hardly the heroics of John Wayne or Indiana Jones or Princess Leia, but all the same it made me a hero to her. My assistance by performing a routine, even mundane, act made a difference. So it is for me when I think of Robert and Louie Beltran.
Robert Beltran had been around long before Voyager, but it wasn’t until he took the role of Chakotay that I found out who he was. If you remember the Littleton, Colorado school shootings, then you remember Robert’s response to that, given in a speech. We learned a lot about this very private man in that speech, including his passion for the people at the margins. I was impressed with his candor, and his obvious love for his brother Louie. It struck a chord and has stuck with me to this day.
I began a Master’s program in Culture and Spirituality in the summer of 1999. The Master’s program encourages us to look at the world through different eyes and with an open heart. It can be very transformative, especially for those of us who fall into ways of being that are at odds with the truth of who we are. I was a manager with career aspirations to the Executive suite. I had the capability to get there, but getting there meant becoming more of what the agency wanted me to be, which was different from the person I wished to be, and should be. Participating in the Program has changed my life forever, but it got a boost along the way from the Beltran Brothers.
At the same time I started the Program, my involvement on the Internet with Robert Beltran fans began to grow. As a consequence, I was given the honor of delivering the Birthday Book to him in the autograph line at the 1999 Galaxy Ball. It was at this Ball that I met Robert and Louie, and had an experience that will live with me a long time. As I described in my report, I went on the Bakersfield Bus Tour to Cheney’s, Louie’s usual venue. It was the Halloween weekend, and I was armed with light up devil’s horns. I got there wound up tighter than a tick on a hound dog’s ear, but for reasons that went beyond the Tour.
There is a Creative Process in the Master’s Program that pushes the participants to express their experience of the world through the arts. From September through October we had been making masks, and the previous weekend we had used those masks in an activity that brought us, literally, face to face with ourselves. For the first time in years I was able to reach out and touch a piece of myself that I thought dead and buried. It was a theophany. So when I got to Cheney’s I was filled with the buzz from that experience, and unsure of what I would encounter.
At Cheney’s Louie noticed the horns, made it clear he liked them, and wanted them lit at all times. I danced and had a great time with all of the fans that were there, along with Cheney’s regulars. Imagine my amazement when Fitz, my dance partner, had me turn around during one set to face the stage. There was Louie; waiting with his hand outstretched, for me to reach out and clasp his hand, a huge smile on his face. I took his hand for a moment and it was electrifying. Later he consented to having his picture taken with me. A friend of mine describes that picture as a ‘happy’ picture and insists I take it with me whenever I head into stressful situations. An enlarged version graces my office, as a memento of the moment.
At the Ball itself I felt Robert’s energy. I had watched Luminarias and thoroughly enjoyed the movie. I got an opportunity to share my thoughts with Robert, and I came away with the impression that he appreciated the sentiments. Unlike Louie, who freely expels energy to the world like a torrent of rain, Robert is more focused and reserved. You feel that if he ever let go it could be an extremely intense experience. When I got home I found myself writing The Return as a response to the experience. The theophany that began within a mask had come to its end in conversation and dancing. Yet its effects have stayed with me long past those moments.
I have let go of my pretensions to the Executive suite. I worry less about the next promotion and more about how we treat the people who do the work. What I really want is a just and loving world, even though I am no Mother Teresa. So I do what I have done best in the past; I am there for others and try to help them find their voice. Who knows when I will encounter my next Judy? I try to share the same openness and kindness to others that I received from a timbale player in southern California, and his actor brother.
Neither Robert, nor Louie, knows about this. Neither realizes that by simply being who they are, and doing what must seem routine, even mundane, they helped this woman stay on the path she had reclaimed. They didn’t dance with me, have a drink with me, spend lots of time visiting with me, or ask for my phone number. They were just themselves. It was more than enough and I will always appreciate them for that reason. I hope Judy remembers me as fondly.