What's in a name?

Saturday night, Jenny, Aaron, Ann and I headed downtown to our favorite dessert place located in the heart of Memphis’s arts district. The area is primarily filled with old warehouses and stores that house art galleries and recently converted condos. (To my prospective Memphis visitors: This is where Martin Luther King was killed, now home to the National Civil Rights Museum, and also where a number of scenes from the movie, Walk the Line, were filmed.)

The cheesecake place is in an area that is beginning to be gentrified. There are galleries and restaurants immediately around it, but a couple of blocks away, there are a number of abandoned buildings and vacant, overgrown lots. There is also a mix of people who frequent the area from the protesters who sit outside the civil rights museum to the owners of the extremely expensive condos to men who are homeless. We encountered a few of these folks while we were downtown Saturday night, the most important of whom we encountered after filling our stomachs with all of the cheesecake we could handle.

When we walked to our car to drive home, we discovered that one of Jenny’s tires was flat. Like so flat that car wasn’t rolling anywhere. We all noted our annoyance with the timing of the flat tire, and Aaron got to work locating the spare. Almost immediately a man who looked to be homeless appeared on the scene and started telling Aaron what to do. He immersed himself in the business of changing the tire, and I became irritated and frustrated that this man wouldn’t leave us alone. Aaron could change the tire (and we’d do whatever he needed), and if he couldn’t, we’d call AAA. I assumed the man was probably a little crazy because I couldn’t imagine anyone just walking up to strangers and without asking, beginning to assist them in changing a tire. And, with that assumption, I was sure the sooner we ran him off, the better.

It wasn’t long before we all realized that we needed the man’s help. None of us had any idea what to do. We didn’t even know how to unlock the spare tire. As I realized how much we needed the man’s assistance, my heart toward the man began to soften. I was no longer irritated, my pride began to deflate, and I was beginning to be appreciative of him. As my heart began to change, I realized I didn’t know his name. He had been helping us for about 20 minutes and had already flexed some serious muscle trying to get the jack to work on the car…and I didn’t know his name.

JJ “Neckbone” Jackson.

It was amazing how knowing JJ’s name opened the door to learning more about who he is--where he typically sleeps, when he returned to Memphis, where he plays the piano, and of course, why people call him Neckbone.

I was completely humbled by JJ on Saturday night. He served us without reservation. He served me, the arrogant white girl with the cell phone and blackberry, a full stomach, and an attitude that conveyed that I didn’t want to take the time to encounter the people who crossed paths with me. I saw myself so clearly that night. I saw the walls I immediately establish when I encounter strangers. I saw how compassion, the compassion JJ poured out on us, caused the walls to crumble. I saw that those walls keep me from seeing people, from knowing their names, and from receiving the gifts they have to offer me.