On Walking with Strangers
Reflections on Resilience and Repeated Conversations
"The most basic of all human needs is the need to understand and be understood. The best way to understand people is to listen to them."
– Ralph G. Nichols
I have a friend named Jean-Luc.1 I don't know his last name, and he doesn't know my name at all, but I know we're good friends.
How am I sure of that, you ask? Because nearly every time I go for a walk in my quiet, small downtown suburb, I see Jean-Luc. He'll wave and approach with a half-cocked smile, his wrinkled polo shirt tucked into his signature fleece pajamas – a different pattern for every occasion, from plaid to penguins to holiday-themed designs.
Jean-Luc and I will exchange a brief greeting that usually goes something like this:
[Jean-Luc waves] Me: "Hey Jean-Luc, how are you?"
Jean-Luc, replying: "You know my name?"
You see, Jean-Luc has what he calls a "memory problem”...but the truth I've learned getting to know him over the past couple of years is more complex than that.
—
Jean-Luc's story is one of resilience and mystery. Born in what became North Korea, he grew up navigating different worlds. "I had two addresses: South Korean, and North Korean," he'd say, enumerating them on index and middle finger. He didn't speak much about his life when he was young, other than sometimes mentioning memories of his 'daddy,' who apparently smoked a lot. Jean-Luc would wrinkle his nose at the mere thought, his distaste evident whenever we'd pass through a second-hand tobacco haze on the sidewalk.
And as he grew older, Jean-Luc's world continued to expand. His passion for languages and culture took him around the globe – he became a polyglot, speaking Japanese fluently during his travels to Japan and learning French to indulge his love for the classics. His work eventually brought him to Europe, where he would often recount for me the fond memories he created there with colleagues.
It was only much later in life that Jean-Luc experienced a serious neurological event that required emergent, invasive brain surgery. Doctors told him that he would never walk again. Thankfully that particular prognosis was not one he was willing to accept (he ended up walking several miles away from the hospital one day several months into rehab because, in his words, “I wanted to go back home!!”). But there was another consequence of the surgery that he had no apparent means of willing his way through: anterograde amnesia.
Now, I’m not going to pretend I knew that term off the top of my head - I definitely Googled it - but here’s an easier way to understand what it means. Think Drew Barrymore’s character, Lucy, in the Rom-Com with Adam Sandler, 50 First Dates (2004). For those unacquainted, it’s a classic. In the movie, an art teacher named Lucy Whitmore meets a former (womanizing) Marine, who falls in love with her and begins his quest to win her over. Unbeknownst to him, she has amnesia, and forgets him when she falls asleep each night; undeterred, he resolves to win her over again each new day (I won’t spoil the ending entirely, but no, she does not miraculously get her memory back or anything like that). It’s heartwarming and unique and certainly worth watching.
Now, Jean-Luc spends most of his days inside a religious-affiliated assisted-living complex, reading Bible verses. But when he ventures out for his walks, he comes alive. He'll recognize me, even if he can't conjure my name, and ask me where I’m going, and if he could join me for a stroll.
As we walk, Jean-Luc will share the same stories from his past I've heard probably ten, fifteen, twenty times before, but for him, each time is a fresh journey back to a vivid place. I listen, eager to hear more about his extraordinary life. Sometimes, I get lucky, and an occasional new detail bubbles out, filling a new connection. These rare moments feel extra special because with Jean-Luc, where everything he says and remembers is often the same, novelty is precious. It's made me realize how much we take for granted the ability to think diverse, unique thoughts, and to express them freely.
Growing up, I witnessed too many of my cherished relatives succumb to old age, mental illness, and disease. Those experiences taught me early that life is hard, but sometimes we find people who make it easier simply by being themselves. Jean-Luc is one of those people. His presence in my life is a gentle reminder of the beauty in human resilience and the power of connection, even in the face of profound challenges.
Our friendship is an unlikely one, but it's a testament to the depth of human connection that can form in the most unexpected places. In a world that often feels like its moving too fast, taking the time to listen to someone's story – even if it's one you've heard before – can be a radical act of compassion.
Jean-Luc may not remember my name, but he knows he can find comfort in our walks and conversations. Our friendship is a constant reminder to cherish the simple yet meaningful moments that give life its richness.
So, to anyone reading this, I encourage you to be open to unexpected connections.
Embrace the Jean-Lucs in your life. Listen to their stories, and let yourself be changed by them.
not his real name, obviously.