WHAT NUMBER ARE YOU?

By Mrs.D.

I was walking along a stretch of road on the beautiful intercoastal, enjoying a slowly falling sunset. A beautiful strip of blue water stretched in front of my eyes, sparkling with dancing sunbeams. Slowly rolling waves playfully slapped the sandy shore, quietly playing a soothing melody. The last sunbeams blinded my eyes, and squinting, I looked at the wonderful view around me. My thoughts were so far away from the busy day, which had been filled with the Internet and bad news on TV.

“Smile!” the young man said, as he watched me walking toward the traffic light. I looked away from the water and glanced at him. Smiling, the young man stood on the other side of the street, holding a handwritten sign in his hands. I slowed my walking pace and took a closer look at his sign: “Help us to take back America!” I raised my eyebrows in surprise and watched the young man. He was waiting for me to cross the road, and when the traffic light changed, he left his spot and started maneuvering between the cars. His friends were busy too, approaching cars that stopped at the traffic light.

I took a quick look at the young protesters, full of energy and health. They were well dressed and did not seem to be hungry or unhappy. The evening was warm and beautiful, and I wondered what these young people were protesting. Some protesters stood on the side of the road holding their homemade signs, while others were talking to total strangers. I read their signs on the fence: “We are the 99%!”

“Fight the 1% fat cats! Give America back to us!” I did not understand what they wanted. What kind of America would they like to take back? America belonged to all of us: to happily screaming children playing in the nearby park, to people hurrying home after work, to the homeless man sitting on the bench. I did not notice any sad faces in the crowd. People enjoyed themselves in restaurants, peacefully dining on the terrace. Cheerful musicians played pleasant tunes in the park, and the homeless man ate his pizza on a bench, enjoying the free entertainment. He wasn’t interested in the young protesters talking to the drivers. He was homeless, but he wasn’t protesting.

As I watched people gathering for a glass of wine, I wondered what these young protesters wanted from life. Most of them had grown up sheltered by the previous generation. They had lived a better life and had it much easier than the generations before them.

“Save our America! Join us to fight the fat cats! Be one of us!” I read the many signs on the fence. I watched the young man with his handwritten sign, not saying anything about what he wanted personally. Confused, I was ready to cross the street, but he stopped me. What America is this young man protesting? I wondered as I looked into his face.

“Smile!” The young protester flashed a big grin. A bright sparkle appeared in his eyes. I smiled. I had something to smile about; my dreams had come true. I lived in America, his beautiful country.

“Join the 99%!” He lifted his sign to my face, but I did not see exactly what percent he was. I wondered why he didn’t write what number he was on his sign. He was in his late twenties, or possibly early thirties, clean shaven and well spoken. I was sure America needed his help, but certainly not on the street as a protester. He did not look like a lost soul, drowning in darkness. Reading the posters hanging on the side of the road, I wondered what made him so desperate and angry.

“What number are you?” I asked him straight out.

“We are the 99%! Help us to fight the 1%!” The young protester avoided my question and flashed two signs in front of my face.

Unfair battle, I thought instantly. 99% against 1%. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I asked myself. As we talked, a dog walker passed by with a bunch of excited dogs, fighting for his attention. They growled at each other, and the dog walker had a hard time controlling them on their long leashes. Annoyed, he stopped by the fence and the curious pooches stared at the signs. Puzzled, they probably wondered which category they belonged to. A snobby German shepherd was interested in the 1%. A few yapping Chihuahuas and two mellow Shih Tzu leaned toward the 99%. A polite longhaired collie could not decide which sign was better and pulled the dog walker from one sign to another.

Just like people, I thought. I did not know which number I was either. I never liked measuring myself by numbers.

“You must be the 99%” the young man said as he looked at my simple clothing. I was sure that I wasn’t either number he showed me. I took a deep breath and looked at the beautiful view.

“It is a dazzling sunset,” he said. I nodded, but my attention was drawn to the dogs fighting over the signs. Confused, they ran barking from one sign to the other. Now the Chihuahuas decided they wanted to be number 1, but the German shepherd wasn’t happy about it and pushed the little barking rats back where they belonged, to number 99. The two Shih Tzu didn’t care; by their nature they were loving dogs, and it didn’t make any difference to them which number they were. They knew, once they got back home, they would get a treat anyway.

Watching the fighting dogs, I was confused myself. If I had to choose between the two signs, I did not know what I would do. I looked at the German shepherd. The big dog barked, protecting his sign with the 1%. The mellow collie decided not to get involved and stood in the middle.

“Calm down, old fellow!” I glanced at the barking dog. I didn’t need to get in a fight over a stupid percentage. I knew who I was. I was sure I was not 99%, but neither was I 1%. Maybe I was somewhere in the middle, or maybe a hair higher. The man tried to read my face.

“Why should I be labeled by a number?” I asked the young man.

“I am with the 99%!” the man said firmly. I looked at the protective Chihuahuas, showing their sharp little teeth. They liked their 99% number.

“So what is your number?” the young man asked playfully. I stared at the barking dogs fighting over the numbers. The dogs tangled their leashes around the dog watcher’s legs and he had a hard time controlling them.

“Are you with us?” the young protester asked impatiently. He looked at my cheap sneakers and ten-dollar shirt. I uncomfortably pulled down my sweaty walking shirt and stepped to the side, worried about my smelly sneakers. He took out a printed sign and handed me the number 99%. I turned it upside down.

“It will make you number 66.” The man laughed. I agreed. I was somewhere close to that number; maybe a tiny bit lower.

“Why are you number 99?” I asked the young man. “Why do you choose this particular number?”

“Haven’t you heard about us?” the man asked, surprised. “We are all over the country! We are on every corner protesting Wall Street! We are the new 99% moment! Sounds cool, doesn’t it?”

He sounded excited. The number 99 was not my favorite number; it was not an even number. I like balance in everything. I glanced at the calmly splashing waves, slowly rocking the enormous expensive yachts docked by the shore. I wished I could step foot on one of them, but I was not upset; it was not one of my childhood dreams.

“Nice yachts!” The young man said, openly admiring the toys of rich men. I agreed. “They are the 1%” the man said.

“Nice toys!” I said. “They come with a price, a lot of sweat and hard work. Many people aren’t ready to pay that price,” I said, looking at the white floating mansions.

“I would pay the price if I had the chance, but the fat cats stole my life.” The young man burned with fury.

“You want to be 1%?” I asked, stunned. “So, what are you doing on this side of the road?” The protester was visibly upset.

“I am an intelligent man. I have two degrees and I used to own two businesses,” he said angrily. “But I lost everything. The fat cats took away my American dream.”

The man’s face flashed red with anger. He was getting annoyed with the strange foreign woman. “I think you are on the wrong side of road,” he said angrily.

“The expensive yacht will not fall in your lap if you walk with your sign on this side,” I said quietly. “Everyone wants to be number 1, but not everyone has the guts to do what it takes.”

“You are a foreigner; you know nothing about America,” the man said bitterly. “You should be with us!” He looked at my worn sneakers. “You are definitely number 99.”

“Somewhere in the middle,” I said calmly. “How did you reach the end of your rope?” I asked curiously. The young man was offended.

“I worked hard,” he defended himself. I looked in his eyes, full of desperation. I knew his pain; I had been in his position many times. I arrived in the U.S. with just a few hundred dollars in my pocket.

“You lost your business, that’s a fact, but you have your education and a wonderful country standing behind you. America will help you, but you must help yourself first. Use your head and the knowledge you have.”

“I’ve lost hope. I worked hard.” The man smiled shyly.

“Not hard enough. You let go too soon,” I said. “I held on to my business with my teeth for years. It wasn’t easy, but I refused to be another statistic. You are right. I am a foreigner, but I know what numbers mean. One crazy shepherd runs a flock of sheep to the slaughterhouse. Wake up! Use your two degrees. You studied hard to be on the wrong side of the road, holding up a hopeless sign. Work harder and do what it takes. Don’t expect to get rich fast. It won’t happen quickly. I made it, and you can make it too. Be 1%! Prove to yourself and to the world that you deserve to be number ONE. Keep a balance in nature!” The young man did not say anything.

“Look at those dogs!” I pointed to the fighting dogs. The dogs were barking; they had a hard time figuring percentages. The German shepherd pushed the Chihuahuas away from the 1% sign and they barked back with their high-pitched voices. The undecided collie went out of control and cried loudly; she’d had enough of making decisions. The two Shih Tzu were scared and hid under the bushes. I laughed; it reminded me of the White House: everyone screaming, but no one listening. Suddenly, a playful squirrel jumped from the tree and distracted the barking dogs. Scared, she ran to another tree, but the dogs didn’t see her and started barking at the wrong tree. We laughed.

“The dogs are barking up the wrong tree,” the man said agreeably.

“Like the White House…” I commented.

“Nobody listens,” he concluded. The dog watcher reached for the treats and the dogs got quiet, happily wagging their tails.

“Walk on the right side of street,” I said. “The dogs don’t care. I am not a number either.”

I walked away from the protester. Walking home, I thought how fortunate I was to escape a harsh life in my old country, where I was just another number. How wonderful it is to breathe free and walk down the streets safely, and have a peaceful conversation with a smart young man. How grateful I am to live in beautiful America. I saw the dogs who did not agree with each other, but they did not bite the hand that fed them. Unlike the young man, I did not want to be 1%, but I refused to be 99% either. 

 

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