A Lottery of Sorts

Posted On November 5, 2022

The two minute walk from my job site office to my construction site is along a leafy well known downtown street in the East Bay. Restaurants and bookstores line the road on each side. A popular university is nearby. My walk is like crossing through another dimension where in the span of moments I encounter the entire social economic spectrum of our country. Street people. Drug addicts. High school students. Graduate students. Immigrants. Blue collar workers. Foreign students. Millionaires. Babies. Young adults. Retired seniors. Every one on this street is either in a hurry or in no hurry at all.

I make the walk through this diverse socio-economic worm hole multiple times a day.

With each walk I take away something entirely different. At times I’m enthralled by this time in history which I was given to be born. Others, I’m filled with sadness, sometimes disgust, sometimes curiosity. However I feel after my walk through the busy downtown street, I’m amazed at the range of emotions this walk seems to evoke as I dodge crack smoke and bus exhaust, take in the smells of simmering Mexican food and the sound of traffic and conversations in Mandarin. I realize that I could have been anyone of these people that I meet, simply by chance of birth. That everyone on this short span of street has made decisions in their lives to put them on this short block of road that leads to both success and failure.

This city I’m in draws people from all over. It always has. This place is a magnet for those pursuing success or freedom. Some of these people wear sweaters with their alma mater from places like Harvard and Yale. This is just a stopover in their life, a necessary check off before they head to some coast to continue their career or get another degree.

Others are teenagers split into two camps: on one side they are homeless by choice, healthy, and in large groups carrying guitars and singing songs on the corners. On the other side, they are college freshmen ready to pursue their education after working hard and having done everything right to get accepted into this university nearby.

I see those addicted to drugs. Huddled in corners. Invisible to those passing by. There are some who speak to themselves. Some who are hungry and angry. Some who didn’t deserve the suffering they’re now enduring…and those who deserve every minute of it. I wonder who their mothers are. How they grew up. What they wanted to be when they were starry eyed children. And then inevitably I wonder what went wrong. When did partying and having fun become one drink too many? What decisions led to this life on the street?

Then there are the immigrants or expats. I see them most in the morning. The maids and janitors that are finishing up their nightly service cleaning the offices that line the street. I see chefs taking inventory from food delivery trucks and service staff hosing off the dirty sidewalks in front of their restaurants. There are the construction workers who laugh and talk in Spanish carrying their lunch in one hand and hard hat in the other.

It’s these people, these immigrants, who I have a true connection to. As I’m a descendant of Mexican immigrants. I’m very proud of them, to see them working hard. I know one day they will have kids who will be just like me–Americanized. Lucky. Grateful that they took such risk for delayed prosperity. These immigrants continue on doing what they must for a chance at success for their off spring and themselves, despite the headwinds they face and the blatant racism that seems so normalized now in certain parts of this country and media.

I wonder what it’s like to move to a new country, not knowing the language, not knowing many people. Adapting to new customs. Bringing your way of life into this melting pot. That’s what this country is made of after all. A conglomerate of descendants of people seeking a better life.

With all my baseless assumptions and judging of strangers, I have to ask myself:

How do others view me when they see me walking down this road each day?

I have a feeling that because I’m dressed like a construction worker, that at a glance, I’m lumped into the immigrant/blue collar worker category. I look like any other Mexican in a hard hat and vest with work boots. Nobody realizes that I’m the guy in charge of one of those big construction projects taking place on this same road they are walking on.

Realizing this makes me question all of the assumptions I make of all the people I see on this street. I know nothing about them. That guy in the Harvard sweater and backpack with nice shoes might not have ever stepped foot on the campus of Harvard. That teenager sitting on the ground covered in filth with her guitar and pit bull might not be homeless. That “immigrant” brown skinned chef might have been born here in this country just like me and maybe doesn’t even speak Spanish. Maybe that’s not even the chef, maybe he’s the business owner?

Either way, this walk through the kaleidoscope of humanity that I make each day reminds me of how lucky I am. It reminds me of the greatness of this region where I was born and live in. There’s so much opportunity here. So much diversity. And the weather is great. As I work my way through the “middle” of the accumulation phase of FIRE, this daily walk of mine reminds me of how fortunate I am to live in a place that gives me an opportunity to even attempt early retirement.

There are not many places in the world where a construction worker with no college education, whose skin color is different that those who run the country in business and government, can be as successful as I am. I don’t take anything I have for granted, though it’s quite easy to do.

This walk keeps me humble.

I could easily be any one of these people I encounter daily on this grimy street. I recognize that luck, chance, and chaos has played a larger role in my life than I like to believe. I’ve already won the game. Even if I never FIRE. Even if I work till I’m 80 or die tomorrow. I’ve won the lottery of birth and life. And for those strangers on the street who I meet with the glance and small talk of the eyes, I am that person I appear to be—whatever that means to whoever wonders.