Good Morning, America

Good morning, America.

Good morning to the restaurant manager that sat next to me on the 6 am bus to Covina. Your eyes were still blurry, face puffy from the sleep. "What time the restaurant open?" I asked. "9 am," you said, "But I have to be there early to check if the restaurant is clean and ready, and balancing the book."

Good morning to sleepy passengers with all your possessions in the train and on the bus. The cold foggy morning offered the blissful protection against the impending heat of the day, and the subsequent beating on your pride from the judgemental eyes of passing strangers.

Good morning to the lady who sells tamales. You sat there under the tree, knitting something with a pink yarn, and casually advertise your fare: "Tamales, tamales! Champurrado!" It's a cheap, affordable breakfast to many, a warm reprise from the chilly Pomona morning.

Good morning to the senior who sat next to me on the bus. You had to leave at 4.30 to get to your job by 8.30 or earlier and won't be back home until after 8 pm. All for a job who won't even provide coffee for the office, let alone other amenities.

Good morning to the 70-year-old man who kindly greeted everyone at the stop with "Bless you, brother!" You asked me is it hard to operate that whatchamacallit smartphone, as you spent the last 10 years in prison and was way behind in technology.

Good morning, America. Good morning, I say, to these people with toils and hardship ahead of them. Neck deep in life's challenges, there's simply no time of dreaming. So much for the American Dream. So much for the feeling you got it good. So much for feeling, period. You just have to keep on swimming.

Yet you smiled. You chatted happily with me. You are alive. Your eyes full of gratitude that you make it to another day, or full of determination that you will make it another day. Some of you are the walking dead, though. For that, I wept for you. 

Good morning, America. I love you.