Blessing Beyond Boarders, Revised Version

Blessing Beyond Borders1


By Jordon Shinn, Freshman News/Ed. Major, Oklahoma State University2

(Based on a true story)3

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On Wednesday, October 3, 2007, I attended the International Expo, held on the Library Lawn from 11:00am-2:00pm. In-between classes with less than 10 minutes to spare, my visit was supposed to be hit-and-run. Yet, as they often come, I was unaware of the blessing about to unfold…5

Wandering in curiosity from the normal flow of traffic on the campus walk and onto the lawn to mingle amongst the many cultural tables and vendors: the Chinese; the Japanese; the Indian, each selling their own assortment of various dazzling and exotic ethnic merchandise (pseudo-fine wall décor of vivid imitation silk and handmade souvenirs strung with small plastic beads and gold-tinted cheap but shiny metal trinkets—all of which I have no use), hunger struck. And I was flat out of cash. 6

Fortunately for me, there was a large white tent set up by the walk with a register to swipe student ID’s in exchange for so many tickets, each worth a dollar. So I decided to hit-up my meal plan. But the question at hand was how many tickets to get, which depended on what I wanted to eat, which depended on what was available, which wasn’t much.7

Unfortunately for me, it was late in the day, as I had just gotten out of my almost-hour-long 12:30pm class (do the math). Being the tail-end of the Expo, most of the food had already been sold and eaten. The clubs were packing up; my options getting thin. The few tables that still had food (and that I wanted to eat, mind you) were the Indian table, which only had $1 cups of cantaloupe juice left (I’ve never liked cantaloupe) and McAlester’s, who was selling three-course meals for $6.00. Now this upset me, because of course McAlester’s is going to have food when the small student-clubs, using member-dues and crock-pots to cook their food, run out. “Besides,” I reasoned, continuing the tangent in my head, “McAlester’s is a restaurant here in town, so why are they at the International Expo anyway?”--some people will do anything to make a buck. I frowned.8

Anyhow, I was hungry and unsure of how many tickets to buy as I made my way to the tent, groping into my back pocket for my wallet (which was wedged by both the grasp of my skinny-jeans to my butt and the awkwardness of my jagged keys wedged between my wallet and my skinny-jeans (and no, I don’t have a big butt!)) But as I handed my I.D. to the Indian guy working the register, I was struck upside the head by a blow of sudden kindness--just then, a girl walked up holding three $1 tickets. Seeing that I was about to purchase some of my own, she handed me hers! “It’s my blessing to you,” she said. Evidently, she had bought too many and so was going to exchange them. “Wow,” I thought, “I’m all about trying to save a buck, and here, this girl just hands me three!” 9

Thanking the stranger with a grateful hug for such a random-act-of-kindness (I always hug girls, of course), I took back my card, stormed over to the Indian table and asked for some cantaloupe juice: “non-alcoholic cocktail,” the kind Indian girl nearest me explained. “Heck,” I thought aloud, “I’ll try anything once, and if it’s good: twice.” But the clock was ticking, and I was still hungry. Actually, the Library bells (speakers, really) had just rung for 1:30pm; I was late for class. “But I can stomach the consequences,” I thought, gazing about, “if I can only stomach some food.”10

Standing there at the Indian table, I looked across to my right. Ironically, the next table over was McAlester’s, full of good-smelling grub: gravy-smothered brisket; chunky mashed potatoes; buttery rolls, but I held-fast, turning away. The Indian table, on the other hand, had already started shutting down, having run out of food—for speculations previously mentioned (that is, except for a few small crock-pots half-full of plain white rice I spied sitting on the ground next to a trashcan behind the table, alongside the rest of the group’s merchandise which was being busily packed away—all while my juice was being poured).11

My gaze shifted back to the girl. “I’ll take…some rice, too,” I half asked to a perplexed face, speaking the materializing though in my mind, as she handed me a cup full of clear-orange drink, in which suspended carrot-like shavings of cantaloupe. Shaking her head in confusion, she told me that they were out of the main-dish; that in her country, rice is only a staple crop they don’t eat plain. “Well,” I coyly replied, handing her a dollar-ticket for the cocktail, “this is America, and I’m hungry.”12

Reluctantly, another Indian girl behind the table listening in on the conversation, began stuffing the rice (probably destined for the nearby trash can), into a Styro-foam container. “Here, take this…for free,” she said with pity, handing me the container. “No, ma’am!” I replied, grabbing it from her hands and exchanging it with “my” two remaining tickets. In one of those awkward-moments-of-silence when there are no words to say, their faces told me they didn’t understand such kindness. But I did. Besides, it was spend-now-or-spend-never.13

Holding my somewhat-eclectic and wholly experimental meal with both hands, I scurried in my blue-foam flip flops, perfect for the not-quite-fall weather, off the lawn and back onto the walk, where the traffic had thinned. Excited as always for another lesson on “Math Functions and Change”, I slipped into room 118 of the nearby Classroom building, taking my usual seat at the front desk of the first row, just inside the door—strategically chosen. After all, I never know when a blessing will hit me, and when I can pass it on—this time, “beyond borders.”14

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