The Man In The Chevrolet

The Man In The Chevrolet

Some Folks Toss Away Blessings Then Sit Around Wondering Why Life Feel Empty

Author’s Opening Note

Before yall read this reflection let me say something honest. Some lessons do not arrive wrapped pretty. They do not walk in wearing church shoes carrying a leather Bible and speaking soft like they know they holy. Nah. Some lessons pull up rattling down the street in an old Chevrolet sounding like somebody dropped a toolbox down a staircase.

And somehow them the lessons that stick with you longest.

Life funny like that. Matter fact life sarcastic too. It will place something valuable right in front of us and watch us overlook it because it got scratches on it. Humans do that all the time. We swear we waiting on blessings while ignoring the very things keeping us alive emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.

And if I am being real, people throw away things too quickly now. Relationships. Friendships. Opportunities. Furniture. Dreams. Sometimes ourselves. Especially ourselves.

I think that part bother me most.

Because some folks smile all day and still feel abandoned inside. They joke. They post pictures. They laugh loud around family. Whole time they sitting emotionally on the curb like old furniture waiting for somebody to haul them away.

And recently something simple happened that sat heavy on my spirit.

I put a queen size bed frame outside around six in the evening. Old frame. Little worn down. Couple loose pieces. In my mind it was finished. Done. Time to let it go.

Baby by two in the morning that thing was gone so completely it looked like it never existed.

And standing there staring at that empty curb I started laughing.

Because somebody saw usefulness where I saw burden.

Somebody saw possibility where I saw clutter.

And right there this reflection started forming in my chest.

Because maybe people are the same way.

Maybe some of us were never worthless.

Maybe we just ended up around people who did not know how to recognize value unless it arrived shiny and brand new.

The Man In The Chevrolet

By Kāteb Shunnar

I know a man around the neighborhood. If you from New Orleans, you know one too. Everybody do.

Nobody know where the man stay. Nobody know if he married. Nobody know if he sleep. But somehow the second something hit the curb...

there he go.

Like a spirit.

Like one of them old Louisiana stories old folks whisper about while mosquitoes chewing everybody ankles up outside.

This man got an old Chevrolet truck that sound tired. Not regular tired either. Deep tired. Like the truck got memories it still trying to recover from. You hear him before you see him.

Clank.

Rattle.

Wheeeeeze.

Sound like every bolt holding it together personally know struggle.

And somehow that truck still moving through Gentilly, Mid City, Seventh Ward, the East, all over New Orleans collecting scrap metal, washing machines, broken furniture, lawnmowers, refrigerators, anything people toss outside.

I really think that truck got spiritual gifts.

Because recently I dragged that queen size bed frame outside around six. I remember wiping sweat off my forehead thinking, "Good. Finally got this thing out the way."

Went inside.

Fixed me something small to eat.

Sat down.

Probably watched something dumb on television too. I do not even remember.

Fell asleep.

Baby when I woke up around two in the morning and looked outside...

gone.

Gone gone.

Not one screw left behind.

I stood at that window confused. Almost offended honestly. Like hold on now... yall could've at least left me one piece so I know I was not imagining furniture out here.

And immediately I thought about Chevrolet truck man.

Lord have mercy.

I am convinced somewhere hidden in New Orleans there is a secret Scrapper Headquarters with blinking lights and maps while old men yell through radios:

"WE GOT A BED FRAME IN GENTILLY! MOVE MOVE MOVE!"

Because ain't no way.

Absolutely ain't no way.

Before folks even finished arguing online and posting relationship quotes somebody already spotted value sitting on the curb.

And that stayed with me.

Because I called it junk.

Somebody else called it useful.

I saw inconvenience.

Somebody saw potential.

I saw something worn out.

Somebody saw something still carrying life in it.

That is people too if we being honest.

Folks get discarded every day over scratches.

Over mistakes.

Over rough seasons.

Over moments they did not have enough left emotionally to perform happiness for everybody else.

And people do it to themselves too.

That part there hurt me to admit.

Because sometimes the person sitting on the curb emotionally ain't there because somebody abandoned them.

Sometimes they placed themselves there.

Talking down on themselves.

Questioning their worth.

Convincing themselves they too damaged now.

Life will do that to you if you let it.

Especially after disappointment pile up.

Especially after heartbreak.

Especially after trusting people who handled your spirit carelessly.

And New Orleans taught me something important about survival.

This city know how to keep breathing while bruised.

Roads cracked up.

Buildings leaning sideways.

Folks struggling.

Yet somehow somebody still cooking gumbo nearby. Somebody still laughing loud enough to shake sadness off for a minute. Brass bands still passing through corners. Somebody auntie still sitting on the porch being nosy with complete confidence.

That is soul.

Not perfection.

Endurance.

My grandmother used to repair everything. That woman looked at broken objects like doctors look at patients. You could hand her a lamp missing pieces and she would suck her teeth like you insulted her personally.

"Boy ain't nothing wrong with this."

Next thing you know she fixing it with aluminum foil, tape, prayer, and pure determination. And somehow the thing lasted another fifteen years.

That generation different.

They did not throw things away quickly.

Now people throw away whole human beings over one disagreement then call it protecting peace.

And listen... sometimes it really is protecting peace.

Other times it is ego wearing church clothes pretending to be wisdom.

Big difference.

Paw Paw Wallace used to tell me something that made me laugh every single time.

He would say, "Boy there an ass for every saddle."

Now before somebody get holy and start tightening they church hat let me explain.

Paw Paw was saying everything got somewhere it belong.

Everything.

Some folks spend years trying to fit into spaces suffocating them. Trying to earn affection from people committed to misunderstanding them. Trying to become digestible enough for people who only comfortable around watered down versions of others.

That kind of living will wear your spirit smooth out.

Take a heron and a catfish staring at swamp water.

The heron standing there patient looking at dinner.

The catfish swimming through that same muddy water thinking life beautiful.

Same swamp.

Different eyes.

Different purpose.

Different needs.

That is humans too.

Somebody can overlook what another person would cherish deeply.

That do not erase value.

It just reveal perspective.

I remember hearing an elder say once, "A thorn and a lancet both sharp. One make you bleed. The other help you heal."

Whew.

That sat with me.

Because people can wound you and restore you using the same mouth.

Some people speak life into your spirit.

Some people leave bruises you spend years trying to pray through.

And sometimes healing begins the moment somebody finally sees value in you after years of feeling overlooked.

Sometimes we need borrowed vision till we can see ourselves clearly again.

Now let me tell yall an old Louisiana folklore I heard growing up.

There was an old man named Remy Baptiste stayed out near marsh roads outside the city. Quiet old man too. Barely talked. Folks laughed at him constantly because he collected discarded things.

Bent lanterns.

Broken clocks.

Old chairs.

Cracked mirrors.

Did not matter what it was. Remy bringing it home.

Children laughed hardest.

Kids cruel sometimes without even realizing it.

I remember hearing one old woman say, "Leave that man alone. He see life different from yall."

And sho enough... one year a terrible storm flooded everything around the marsh. Lights gone. Supplies ruined. Homes damaged.

Guess whose house everybody ended up standing outside of?

Old Remy.

Because somehow he repaired almost everything he collected.

Lanterns worked.

Stoves worked.

Furniture held together.

Tools worked.

And old storytellers say Remy looked around smiling before saying:

"Funny how fast folks rename treasure after suffering show up."

Man...

ain't that the truth.

People appreciate breath after breathing become difficult.

Health after sickness arrive.

Parents after funerals.

Companionship after loneliness move in and make itself comfortable.

Human beings beautiful creatures.

But sometimes we backwards as a crawfish driving a bicycle down Claiborne.

And hear me clearly when I say this.

Just because somebody mishandled you does not mean you worthless.

Baby if somebody drop a gold chain in muddy water by the levee that gold do not suddenly become plastic. Somebody just got to wash the mud off.

That is all.

And some of yall been standing around people who only know how to point out flaws. Folks who notice every scratch on your spirit while ignoring all the goodness keeping you together.

Move around.

Please.

Find people who nourish your spirit instead of draining it dry.

Find people who can recognize sincerity.

Gentleness.

Effort.

Find people who know how to hold your heart without squeezing too hard.

Because honestly...

maybe grace pull up looking like that old Chevrolet sometimes.

Loud.

Rusty.

Shaking a little.

Looking like it barely survived.

But still arriving right on time.

And somewhere tonight that truck probably still rattling through New Orleans streets looking for things everybody else overlooked.

Maybe mercy work like that too.

Maybe the Creator still specialize in recovering what the world abandoned.

And maybe...

just maybe...

you were never trash at all.

You were simply standing in front of people too blind to recognize treasure.

Author’s Closing Words

Family, if this reflection touched your spirit, please share my work by any positive means. Share it with somebody carrying quiet hurt. Share it with somebody questioning their worth. Share it with somebody sitting emotionally on the curb feeling forgotten.

And if these reflections nourish your heart and bring light into your life, please consider supporting the writer and blog. Your support helps me continue writing from a real place and helps keep these reflections breathing for readers and listeners everywhere.

I appreciate every share, every prayer, every encouraging word, and every bit of support yall send my way.

And remember this before you leave.

Somebody still out there searching curbs for treasure.

And somebody still needs reminding they are not trash.

With affection and gratitude,

Kāteb Shunnar

Make A Donation