I was walking back to work after a lunch meeting when I noticed someone who appeared to be visually impaired near the doors to my building at the University of Utah. I had seen him when I was circling the lot for a parking spot, but I hadn’t given him much thought.
The moment my high heels hit the concrete leading to the door, he spoke in a voice quiet enough to make me realize he wasn’t able to accurately estimate my distance.
“Excuse me,” he said, “how do I get to the Union?”
The directions even for a seeing person aren’t all that simple on this campus with buildings, highly trafficked bike paths, decorative foliage and meandering walkways, so I decided to guide him through my building where he’d face fewer obstacles.
As we walked toward the doors, he seemed to follow the sound of my voice. Our sides brushed each other briefly, so I gently adjusted to provide some space, realizing he couldn’t see my shape even when I was close to him.
But he drew near me again as if I had a gravitational pull, and when he found my side the second time, I realized it was purposeful. His elbow was sticking out begging to be linked, so I asked him if I could take his arm.
He said yes and immediately turned up his hand to me.
I held it.
And we walked.
As we entered the building, he had a moment of trepidation after hearing me thoughtlessly punch the automatic door opener, then he tucked his walking stick under his arm.
I was clearly in control. And me taking the lead in our impromptu duet seemed to grant him some ease.
“Is this building old?” he asked and smiled kindly. “It smells old.”
I’ll admit that I was a bit uncomfortable being in such close contact with a man I didn’t know. But that question and that smile disarmed me.
I told him he was right and then I described the building. I told him it was designed in the Brutalist architecture style, so there’s lots of raw concrete, wood and brick. He could smell the concrete.
His shoes scuffed the ground as we started up a shallow ramp, and it occurred to me that maybe some warnings about our path might be helpful. So, amid chit-chat about his study-abroad program, his home back in Egypt and his plans to pursue a graduate degree in linguistics, I peppered in some quick updates about stairs and turns.
Still holding hands, we made it to the other side the building. This was where I intended to send him on his way, but I was apprehensive to let go. I hoped he wouldn’t be offended by what was maybe more help than he needed or wanted, but I offered to walk him a bit further.
I blamed an unpredictably landscaped path, but truth be told, I had just become invested in our little journey. That, and his presence — his earnest, unsuspecting presence — was a surprising and welcomed addition to my day.
For some reason, I had woken up on the cynical side of the bed that morning, and I wasn’t feeling all that impressed by humanity. This man, this total stranger who so genuinely trusted me, shook me out of that funk and filled me with overwhelming gratitude.
I’ve considered my self-sufficiency a privilege. I can do what I want, go where I want, without having to lean on anyone. But on this day, I became almost painfully aware how that autonomy can atrophy our innate impulses to connect, to be comfortable with spontaneous teamwork or to extend ourselves.
As I pointed his arm at the remaining way to the Union, he thanked me, but I think it was I who was helped that day.
Marina Gomberg’s lifestyle columns appear on sltrib.com. She is a communications professional and lives in Salt Lake City with her wife, Elenor Gomberg, and their son, Harvey. You can reach Marina at mgomberg@sltrib.com.
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