Roger That...

by Rev. Estelle Thibodeau

April 29th, 2024
For Dr. Rev. Peg Gord, always listening…

Roger That…

I shouldn’t have been there. I hadn’t slept well. I was hungry, and I was too indifferent to do anything about that rumbling beast. The day was brilliant, summertime so thick, the blazing tar on the street shimmered upwards, The heat haze, a pestilent mirage, shifted on seesaws, back and forth; and then, “poof” into the solid, cloudless beaming blue sky.

I’ve got a CB Radio. I receive communications. Always have.

Walkie talkies as kids granted us our top secret communication device, but it meant you had to separate yourself from whoever was at the receiving end and step further away. And testing the distance with a bit of reluctance, meant there was something adventurous about to happen.

I stepped as far as possible, over the edge, into the woods, down the river. Night and day. The Walkie talkie, my life line. There were a few instances that this communication device came in handy, and not because I was saved from some impending doom,.. Because when I became lost in the woods one afternoon, trapped in an alcove of terrifying spiders all around, it was my voice I used, not the walkie talkie, to scream out loud until my brother stopped what he was doing to find out what I was yelling about. And, it did come out as pure and unabandoned panic. It made sense to me then, the long black and yellow legs of what appeared to be a massive colony of spiders. They had somehow closed me off, spun their webs and trapped me. PANIC…

I WALK DOWN THE SIDEWALK TALKING TO MYSELF. I've seen folks do this, crazy haired and wild eyed. I used to keep my thoughts in my head. Now, it's like kernels stuck in there. The kernels get too hot, and POP!

My body tells me things about myself that I don't like to hear. Like hunger when I don’t feel like eating, and popcorn ceilings being the worst thing one can put above their heads..

And popcorn expanding throughout an entire house and overflowing out through the windows and the doorways of your little abode.

I had to quit eating popcorn. Not because of it popping in my head or breaking down the walls of my home. But because the kernels broke another tooth.
He popped in like popcorn. And he was the complete opposite of popcorn. Instead of white and fluffy, he was as black as any man I had ever seen, immensely tall and tree trunk thick. His eyes appeared as if they had once been brighter, now hard etched with time. The whites of his eyes weren’t white at all, but an amber hugh with tendrils of red. His accent was thick, but not one I could place. He wanted a reading from me, I was nervous and he sat across from me after extending his strong hand to me. Veins like road maps into some other place. He tells me his name is Roger.

I lay out a few cards. I feel uneasy. The nerves in my stomach are hopping around, like popcorn popping. I push it down. I hear the transmission of messages I'd been hearing all along, “Keep moving forward, Rev.” “Make the bed, Rev.” and so I had been walking that morning reluctantly and quite disheartened.

Michalel died three months ago. I carry a CB Radio. The CItizens Band Radio tuned directly into his channel.

Roger sits in front of me and listens. I speak words on automatic. I feel sick suddenly, and then that panic sets in. Heart racing, hands, lips, face, tingling in aversion to the calm, pale, outward shell I'm to maintain in front of Roger. He’s here for guidance and his imploring eyes reach into mine with questions.
This is the worst. I need to stop. I can’t go on. But I do. At the end of his reading, I sit back, relieved I didn't go into that catastrophic state I'm in when it hits me at full force. But ever present, it grips me until I blurt out to this stangeer, this Roger,. “I'm sorry, Roger, I’m having a panic attack.” I start crying. Telling this to a stranger is mortifying. I explain things to him that I cannot recall. He reaches his hand to mine, and holds my hand in his. Small white curled fingers against the curve of his ebony keys, long, solid and certain. “We are all just only human.” he says with a smile and a slight shrug. He sits for a few moments. I'm embarrassed. He pays me, thanks me, hugs me, And he leaves.

My CB Radio Crackles. And over the next few months I put it behind me, a mishap, weakness… But, Something about it sticks with me.

Roger, Or “R” is A WW11 code between pilots and ground control “to ensure efficient, reliable and interoperable communication.” ROGER… A method of receipt that you have received your message.

Several months later, it's a Sunday. My parents help me with the storage unit. Relics. Things of people that have passed. It's grueling, I’m angry. I'm constantly questioning the value of things. Going through belongings we’ve carried.

I carry that old heavy round outlandish mirror because it's the perfect thing to hang on my office wall. I’m holding it up while it's anchored in. My stepfather is putting in the anchors, my mother is businging herself sweeping the floor. A shadow in the doorway, a dark man steps through. The room feels tiny with all of us in it. We are startled.

I imagine he must be hostile, or homeless. He’s in the wrong place I'm still aggravated by the digging through the storage unit, the holding up of the heavy mirror. All the getting rid of what I will no longer need because it belonged to some other life I had, with Michael. That long ago day when Roger had come in is forgotten.

“We’re closed.” I say to the man. My parents look concerned and taken aback.

He replies, “I am Roger, I saw you last summer, don’t you remember me? I wanted to see how you are.”

My mind goes blank. My mother is staring, suspicious and wide eyed. And before I know it, I dismiss him, so quickly that for a moment, I see a look of hurt in his eyes, like the road shimmer and heat haze. Even then, I could not recall the man.

That golden, brilliant mirror hung on the wall. And it was perfect. My mother ask, “Who was that man? It seemed like you knew each other well…” I felt her scrutiny. I kept trying to place the man by all the other black men I have waved to, or said hello to, over the years, downtown, at a distance.

I cringed, because somewhere in there, i'm still ashamed. I know with certainty that there is a message that I had missed, intercepted, jumbled up in the system.

That night, fierce dreams. Signals are attacking, responding, being sent out in large masses. Roger, who is Roger? The next day, I search through the scribbles of my clients that summer until I found the notation, “Roger, beautiful black man… panic attack..” with a little heart right next to his name.
Now, in the safety of introspection, I recall the first day that Roger came in to see me. And while the inside channels were bursting like static on the radio frequencies, I had overlooked, or overridden, and without meaning to, intercepted the message.

To this realization, Roger has taught me more than just what a small act of kindness can do in a time of despair or an evident overload of frequencies. Roger, had patiently and with great tenderness spoken to me. And yes, In order for communication to be effective, one must speak clearly and concisely. You must assume that all transmissions will be intercepted by some of the civilian population; (i.e. my own harsh judgment.”) This reduces the threat of gossip, rumors and creating panic. There also must be discipline in receiving and sending messages in an orderly fashion, otherwise overlapping messages will wreak havoc. Most importantly, turn all other stations off when a message is being transmitted.

Roger is like the heat of the summer shifting upwards from the tar into the beaming blue sky. And, He is the popcorn clouds rising up from the springtime rain. If he crosses your path, tell him, I'm sorry and thank you; ROGER THAT; I'm listening loud and clear.

In Gratitude,

Reverend Estelle Thibodeau