in vino veritas

columbia, south carolina was a stop that had been spontaneous from its inception. from Norfolk, VA, we had no prospective site for the booth, but by the hard work and persistence of Helen, our tour coordinator, we were able to secure a spot en route to south carolina on the bus ride. Helen reached out to OneColumbia, a non-profit arts advocacy group designed to promote the touristic and historic areas of the capital, and introduced us to our contact, Lee Snellgrove, who secured us a spot in the parking lot of columbia's five points district.

the parking lot was originally a spot for an auto body and service station. the oil stains and cracked pavement were proof. It was a great spot because it was conveniently nestled at an intersection of major roads, yet inconveniently positioned to bake in the sun's path to set. living up to its monicker, "famously hot," columbia had unanimously been voted a place to collect truths at night.

night time proved the right time, and proved strong the ancient saying: in vino veritas. columbians were more apt to donate a few truths after their vocal chords had been loosened up with local brews. soon, this sleepy, summering college town enlivened at night, and i was entertained by the booth's perplexing power to passers-by on the way to bingo night at pinch.

one 20-something actually stopped before and after. a rising senior at the University of South Carolina, she and a friend were making usual stops but were sidetracked by the glowing booth. she donated multiple truths over the course of the night, and revealed that her first interaction with the booth was quick and superficial. her second visit to the booth was inspired by an incident with a man who tried to cop a feel at the bar. being feminist and impassioned by empowering my fellow females, i quickly placed myself in the direction of her shouts, and encouraged her to go into the booth again, but this time to speak truths that perhaps unite all of us females. from that encouragement she began to see the booth differently; it became now a place not just to vent but a platform to spread a message. in her inebriated state, she exited and entered the booth multiple times, with a fervor to be heard and spread awareness. upon each exit she revealed to me what she had said, speaking truths ranging from sexual harassment of females to the rational fear of donald trump being able to diminish the value of and endanger immigrant families like her own.

i appreciated her willingness and openness, albeit in a state of belligerence, but i can't lie and say i've never been there.

empowering in norfolk, va

feeling compelled to participate in norfolk's emerging art scene as much as it enthusiastically donated truths, i contributed to a growing, interactive art wall by leaving it with a truth of my own. Empowerment. the truth is everyone needs to feel empowered, as the human condition frequently leaves us with moments of uncertainty. with the passing of this tour, the meeting of new people, the introductions to my country, and the quest for truth, i am led back to the idea that my interaction with the world depends on my empowerment.

i am less motivated to positively participate without empowerment, either from within myself or grasped from other sources and fountains of inspiration. eventually, i would like to rely on myself mostly for my own empowerment; but, i also realize that as i grow, much of my empowerment comes from people: my family, closest friends, creatives, and sometimes, complete strangers. so, it is my hope that those upon passing this tag on a public wall in norfolk, virginia, people will feel in some way a sense of empowerment. and like the truth, they can interpret it in their own way.

so i started a journey with the truth...

and the first day was one hell of a challenge. to preface, i have been looking for signs from the universe to tell me that my decision to uproot my familiar, my routine, my comfort for an exciting, artistic, once-­in-­a­-lifetime (perhaps not even?) adventure that has been in constant flux since conceived was a very bad decision. i’m not one for change; as a taurus, i like a solid ground to stand on. as a millenial, i like to have a steady pay check to pay my loans. as a former high school art teacher, i like to be in control of what is going to happen next. with this project, though, all of that certainty and security has gone out the window of a 75’ tour bus. but i asked the universe to give me a sign.it came to me on newark avenue in jersey city. as i strolled through “little india” from the PATH to mana contemporary, lauryn hill’s “lost ones” echoing in my ears, i thought how much i hated indian food. the smells of curry, the goopy sauces, the over­seasoning. i detest the picture menus. the discomfort of the cuisine led me on a stream of thoughts of how much i would not like to travel to india if these were my only food options. as i crossed the intersection, i was suddenly flooded with excitement at the prospect of a plaincroissant and a cold brew from mana’s cafe.

i set down my stuff in the rented gallery space in the basement, greeted Will with the phone attached to his ear, and motioned to him i was about to get some breakfast before set up. as i reached for my wallet in my pants’ pocket, i felt its absence. confused, i looked in my backpack to see if maybe i had been smarter than i thought and left it safe inside there. no dice. now panic ensued. i rifled through the entirety of my personal belongings to see if maybe­­just maybe, it was hiding in those hard-­to-­reach places. in between a notebook? underneath my pen case? inside my toiletry bag? nope. nope. nope. maybe i left it at the front desk when i signed in. i could tell, after seeing the sheer desperation on my face, the receptionist at the front desk had almost willed the appearance of my small black pleather wallet that contained every piece of identity that i could think of.

FUCK. i lost it. it’s gone forever. and come on, it’s jersey city, it’s not like you know the guy next door nor that you could probably just find it laying on the sidewalk if it had fallen out of your dumbass pocket. great. just in time for me to go on tour. is this the sign? was the universe telling me not to go? MUM! HELP!

of course i called my mother. she is the only person who could talk me off a ledge that high. no­ it wasn’t a sign, she said. i was supposed to do this, i was supposed to learn to be HYPER aware. i was supposed to learn how to clean up this shitstorm.

in bank of america, looking like a wreck, i was in line to talk to the manager to get permission to receive a temporary card without proper identification. fuck. i don’t have an id. it’s ok i’ll figure it out. fuck. how the hell am i going to do this. and then i get a call from the receptionist at the high school i just quit.

"Sam! How’s the tour going? Are you in Jersey by any chance?”

“Uh, yes­ Jersey City, actually. Why­­ are you­­”

“Well! Am I going to make your day, or what!”

“Wha­­?" 

he told me that a Mr. Patel from Bengali Sweet House on newark ave found my wallet and probably called the school in Boston because maybe that was the only contact he could find. i shrieked over the low hum of the air conditioned white noise. I FOUND MY WALLET! I MEAN, MR. PATEL FOUND MY WALLET! i could tell the bank was happier that i left so that they could begin to clean the puddle of tears i had left for them in their waiting area. i quickly made my way to newark ave. i knew exactly where the place was. it was a block after hellbent’s mural, at the corner of tonnelle and newark, right at the site where i had my reflective, distasteful thoughts of indian cuisine.

i kissed the employee repeatedly and tried to convey the importance of this sweet (house) miracle. she put me on the phone with Mr. Patel himself. i couldn’t quite understand his words, but i could feel the empathy through the telephone lines. “Put your contact info in your wallet so people can reach you!” he said, and very fatherly, concluded, “and be safe!”

this was the sign i had been looking for. a stranger, a proprietor from a restaurant i had no desire to eat from, turned into a stand­in father, a friend, and another address in my collection to send postcards to. man i was lucky that day, and man do i need to check my shit all the time while i’m on the road. but not only did this experience teach me a lot, it also left me anew; i shed a layer of my former self, a former role, a former perspective, and i began this journey with a new set of eyes, and a firmer grasp on my participation in the environment around me.

i think i’m going to give indian food another shot.

utility, [yoo-til-i-tee], n.

1. the state or quality of being useful; usefulness:

This chemical has no utility as an agricultural fertilizer.

2.something useful; a useful thing.

3.a public service, as a telephone or electric-light system, a streetcar orrailroad line, or the like.

4.Often, utilities. a useful or advantageous factor or feature:

the relative utilities of a religious or a secular education.

5.Economics. the capacity of a commodity or a service to satisfy somehuman want.

6.the principle and end of utilitarian ethics; well-being or happiness;that which is conducive to the happiness and well-being of thegreatest number.

10. (of domestic animals) raised or kept as a potentially profitableproduct rather than for show or as pets:

utility breeds; utility livestock.

11. having or made for a number of useful or practical purposes ratherthan a single, specialized ona utility knife.

12.designed chiefly for use or service rather than beauty, high quality, orthe like:

a utility vehicle; utility furniture.