The only “fixed” goal I had when my plans to visit NY were confirmed was to get me an I Heart NY T-shirt. I wanted a white one, and maybe a pink one, you know. I thought I would tease all of my friends when I go back to Jordan with my new T’s, and they will turn green with envy because the T’s are from The Source. I thought of this in the office one afternoon when all my chat buddies were offline.

That goal remained with me but my list of ‘things to get’ grew, and grew, and grew. It became this fat, shapeless sequence of numbers and things and I developed an addiction to fantasizing about “stuff” that I wanted to buy. Of course I fully realized that there is no way I can afford all of that expensive fantasy material, but I wrote everything down for good measure.

I went to Manhattan again yesterday. This time, I will get my T’s no matter what, I thought to myself. I even protested verbally before and during the tour in Manhattan to the people around me. “I want I Heart NY T’s,” I told them, “Remind me to get I heart NY T’s!” — “OK seriously when is this bus going to stop? I want to buy things!”

The bus eventually stopped and I got off. I ran to the nearest T-shirt stand I could see. I didn’t want to go into a souvenir shop and pay twice as much for the same items (let’s pretend), because I’m smart like that. There were so many African men selling things in the streets, and they had everything from fake (who knows?) designer bags to T-shirts to small souvenirs.

“T’s for 2.99″ caught my eye. I noticed that the stand had black and white T’s just like the ones I’ve always wanted. The African young man who worked the stand told me that the black ones go for 5$. How come?, oh it’s just that they cost more. I figured OK maybe black cloth dye is more expensive. Besides, this is an African man who came all the way from Africa to sell T-shirts off Times Square and has been through numerous hardships to realize his version of the American Dream. Who am I to argue with that logic?

I asked him where he was from. Guess. I don’t know, you tell me. West Africa, with a smile. I thought West Africa was a name of a country so I didn’t investigate further and instead followed with another sign of mental density: So you came from Africa and you live here now? Yes. It was only after I asked that question that I realized how stupid it was, but I forgave myself right then and there. Strange city, strange times — who’s keeping track?

The West African had exquisitely white teeth and his skin had a beautiful glow to it. He asked me where I came from and we talked a bit. I counted my money and handed it to him, but he wouldn’t take it. I found that strange for a moment then I realized that he was telling me to “give it to him” and looking behind me.

I looked behind me and there was a small old Chinese man, just like the ones you would see as Kung Fu masters in movies. The man’s face was deep with wrinkles, his body shrunken by age. He held a batch of dollars expertly in his hand, so I understood he was “The Stand Master.”

The old man smiled at me and I paid him. He, too, asked me where I was from, but initially thought I was Indian. When I told him I was from Jordan, I had to explain that Jordan lies in the Middle East. He was from China, yes, he told me. Then the old Chinese Stand Master lived up to my mental image of him as a legendary Kung Fu Mentor; he enlightened me with his wisdom:

“Only in New York this happens. You, me, him (points at West Africa) are in the same place. We are all together and we are all equal. Only in America.”

Yes, yes, so true — I told him. Maybe not the equal part, but the moment was so poetic so I let that slip without letting a class of American Society interfere. Wow. I was being handed my first Chinese wisdom from a real Chinese man who probably lived in Chinatown.

I was overwhelmed by the moment. Not because the Stand Master had said something I did not know. But because he acted out the role I assigned for him in my mind — A wise Chinese man teaching me something profound. I loved that encounter more than anything. I had my dose of Chinese wisdom and it was priceless. On top of that, I had my I Heart NY T’s and they cost 8$. I heart NY!

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