Two weeks ago in NYC—at a table in Bryant Park with Kim. A black man with a stack of newspapers walks up to us, to offer us an issue of The Homeless Voice for a $2 donation.
“You a rastaman?” He asks me.
I nod. “I try not to label myself as anything, but yeah, I got love in my heart.”
“Well yeah,” he says. “That’s the most important thing. But why not wear that label proudly?
I hesitate. “I’m not trying to be something I’m not…I don’t come from that background—”
He cuts me off. “What background?”
“What background. We all come from one background. You know what that is? The Creator. We all from the Creator. These days yeah, people judge and stereotype and label, but we need to transcend that. One love, you feel me? There is no this god and this—no Islam or Christianity—there is no six purposes up there.” He points upward. “We are all one. Being a rastaman is about one world, one family, one love.”
I take a breath. “Thank you for laying it out like that. Then yes. I am proud to be a rastaman.”
He nods and touches his heart. “Blessing.”