Thanksgiving story

I was reminded this morning on the Metro why I am thankful this Thanksgiving day.

My boyfriend and I are going to our respective workplaces this morning when a head-scarfed woman asks where is St. Lazare in a heavy accent. My significant other did not understand her, but since all of my friends in this country are non-native Americans, my ears are well-tuned for this sort of application. I translate for him, as it's his neighborhood. He tells her that it's in the direction we are going.

We all three pile into the last car as the buzzer chimes for the doors to close, with me slightly worried that we'll be chopped in two, or at least temporarily lodged in a precarious position. Not this morning it turned out, and we share our peaceful morning moment holding hands and tête a tête . We arrive at St. Lazare and the woman searches our faces plaintively, and asks "St Lazare?". "Oui, descende ici." my love responds, though the sign to the right clearly indicates the stop. I question. Why would she ask for the stop? Why did she need someone to tell her which direction to take? Realization dawns as the feeling of receiving bad news.

"Oh god, she can't read. She can't read".
"She can... what?"
I enunciate more clearly this time in English, "She can not read".
"Ah yes, and she has something on her face".
It is true, she is sporting what looks like a shiner.

And I am immediately chastened. My throat tightens. How lucky I am to be a woman born into a Western culture where I am valued enough to be taught to read and my upbringing would never allow me to tolerate being beaten. I take a few slow breaths and thank whatever god of this universe has blessed me.