How Your Innocence Can Become Your Armor When You're Willing to Give People a Chance

Here’s the 50% off special to become a paid sponsor—thanks so much!Javier told me about the time he identified the man who had shot him. He stood behind a two way mirror at the police station in a room made from cinder blocks, pointed, and said, “That’s him.”The other suspects were led away. The shooter was placed in handcuffs. Javier fixed me with an intense look, “I made the police open the door and let me in.”I didn’t answer.Javier looked past me, the muscles of his face tightened, and I could tell he was thinking of the shooter. “I looked him right in the eye, and pointed.”He showed me. He stabbed the air sharply with his finger like he wanted to hurt it. It was intimidating.“Why did you do that?”“Because I wanted him to know that it was me. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t afraid.”Meeting JaviHis name was Javier, but we called him Javi. In Spanish, a “J” is pronounced like an “H,” so you say “Ha-vi.”I met him in a suburb of Lima called Puente Piedra. My girlfriend and I were taking a walk through the dusty streets. In the evening, many people served food out of their garages. They propped up the door, set up their grills, arranged a few plastic chairs, and hailed any passers-by.“Want some quesadillas?”I could tell that Javi spoke English from the way he looked at me. When you live abroad for long enough, you develop a spider sense for that sort of thing. You also learn it’s better not to show your hand too early. I ordered the quesadillas in Spanish and ate them. They were good.Javi kept sizing me up, eventually he said, in Spanish, “You look like Tom Brady, do you know who that is?”That made me laugh because I don’t look like Tom Brady, but I acknowledged that I knew who he was. Javi smiled and we switched to English.Expatriates in Lima, PeruJavi said he was a Mexican American from Chicago. He became part of my group. I used to organize gatherings for the expats because they were all too cool to admit they were lonely and needed to speak English once or twice a week.Everybody thought I was a country rube. They were right. I’m a farm kid from northern Wisconsin. But again, I’d learned not to show my hand. If they wanted to dismiss me as being naive and absurdly innocent, then that was fine. I organized card games and that became a source of reliable income for me.Again and again they sat down at the table, took one look at me, and smirked. By the end of the night, they were walking away shaking their heads and cursing my “dumb luck.” They always came back for the next game. You can rely on people never to recognize they aren’t as sophisticated as they believe.Only Javi quit playing cards. His eyes narrowed when he recognized what was going on, but he couldn’t help but smile in admiration. “I see what you’re doing,” he said, but he knew enough not to spoil it for me.I wasn’t cheating. I just knew math.The man who saw all the anglesMy magic trick in Lima was to be the glue that held groups together. I sanded off the edges so that conflicting personalities could share a common space. I didn’t select anyone. I operated on the belief that everybody was welcome.It’s just easier if you make that your fundamental rule. Everyone is welcome. No exceptions.Easier, but maybe not sustainable.These days I find life to be more complicated, but back then I was young and naive and more innocent than I was willing to believe.Looking back on it now, I suspect Javi knew.Javi had a different way of looking at things. The others were all bravado and bluster. Only Javi knew what it felt like to be shot, and to have picked his shooter out of a lineup.Often, he didn’t say much at our gatherings, but his eyes darted about and I could tell he was recording. He gathered up information and filed it neatly away.An intersection of differing livesOne day I met Javi while wearing a pair of khaki cargo pants. Javi took one look and laughed, “You’re wearing white boy pants.”I did my innocent rube routine, “I like them because they have a lot of pockets.”He just shook his head, “Nobody ever puts anything of value in those pockets.”I realized then that he saw me as one of those languid frat boys who lounges around in a tank top, sunglasses, and a backwards facing baseball cap. He must have thought I had some insight into the mystery of that kind of life. In truth, it seemed a mystery to me too.But Javi watched from a further observation point. At that distance, what seemed a chasm of separation to me appeared as little more than a ditch one could easily hop over.I saw myself a little differently after that.All business, all the timeI also observed Javi. I discovered the restaurant he put up in the evening was only the last of his side hustles. He sold his quesadillas for around two dollars each. Though his business was popular, how much could he really make? Did he endure all that labor and time to gain a measly 10 bucks? $20?In Lima, you travel by bus and it’s absurdly inexpensive. Even today, you can get across town for 50 cents. Still, Javi saw the chance for another discount and he took it. The buses had a special rate for students, but you had to show your student ID.Javi used to flash his U.S. driver’s license. That brought the price down from 50 cents to 35.“Most of the time they take it,” he said, laughing. “They’re busy driving the bus. What do they care? Only one time did I have a guy take my license and go, ‘What is this?’” Javi flashed his teeth and giggled as he told this story. It all seemed to be part of a huge and delightful game.That seemed like too much work for 15 cents, but every penny mattered to Javi. Or maybe it wasn’t about the money. Maybe it was about the simple thrill of getting away with something.I know that thrill.Back in ChicagoEventually, as all my friends did, Javi moved back to Chicago. I used to come back from Peru and do a loop around the country to visit my family and the people I’d known in other lives.I went to Javi’s neighborhood. He showed me the street where he’d been shot. We played football. I sat down to a game of cards with his friends and beat them too. Javi didn’t play, but I saw he won a side bet. I think he’d put money on me. He had a delighted look on his face, like he’d just scored 15 cents off a bus driver in Lima. The game continues. A win is a win.In Chicago, Javi was known as the “discount goods” guy. He walked around with a huge bag like Santa Claus and would pull out item after item. “It’s all five bucks,” he’d say. I remember lifting one of his products. It was a clock radio with a CD player that seemed to be worth more than five bucks.“Where’d you get this?”Javi just smiled. “I’m that discount goods guy,” he repeated.I assumed that he had a wholesale supplier. After all there were outlet stores with amazing prices. He was like an outlet store without the overhead. That makes sense, right?I assumed the best about people. That was my magic.Every now and then I hear from JaviIt’s been 15 years since I was a reckless traveler. I don’t take the chances now that I used to take. I haven’t been hauled off a tour bus at gunpoint in a long time. I’ve never been shot.I have a wife now. I have kids now. I have a dog. The days of risk taking are over. I don’t hang out with too many people anymore.Every New Year’s Day I get a message from Javi, “Hey brother, how’s it going?” We chat for a moment. He’s doing well. He’s married, perhaps his life is a little easier. I hope so.I see guys like Javi from time to time. They’re invisible to other “white boys,” but they work hard, and they’re loyal, and they’re very good men when you get to know them. These are the kind souls who recognize my wife is from abroad. They’re the bartenders who send free kiddie cocktails to my children, or they’re the airport shuttle drivers who treat us with special deference because they know the struggle of immigrants.I catch their eyes and see them silently observing, just like Javi did, and I recognize how similar we are despite the distance that appears to be between us.I still believe that everyone must be welcome, at least until they exclude themselves by their own action. It turns out, that belief is a sacred thing for people who can see past the scams because they have looked evil in the eye.A willingness to give people a fair shake is rare. When you honestly believe it in your heart, you are protected.You all make this newsletter happen! Thanks for your sponsorship! 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