The Pub

Having Coffee With Hana

Brittany Bronson

Hana and I met for coffee our senior year once a week at Bellatazza.  The small tables, the 30-day biodegradable cups, and the barista with dreadlocks went well with Hana’s long, red hair, flowing skirts, and the tattoo on her wrist.  I always arrived before she did, ordered my 12 ounce non-fat vanilla latté, and grabbed “The Source,” a free newspaper chalk full of political commentary.  I pretended to read editorials on the Iraq war, while sneaking occasional glances at Andrew, the other barista, a former model who went naked for a scene in the “Rocky Horror Picture Show.” Hana eventually arrived in her white Honda, the back of which was covered in bumper stickers with slogans like, “One love, Bob Marley,” and “Fuck Bush.”  She offered an apology for being late every time, but it was never necessary; I could look at Andrew all day.

“Oh God, that man is hot,” Hana said.

I sighed, “Yeah.”

~ ~ ~ ~

I always wondered how Hana and I became friends, the girl who went to see Andrew naked on opening night and the girl who blushed whenever he smiled at her. I think we were just amazed by each other.  I was struck by her inability to judge anyone, and I think she was drawn to my willingness to listen to anyone.  Hana broke my stereotypes of Democrats. I broke her stereotypes of Christians. And every Wednesday we met together to make sure they kept breaking down.

There were moments of discomfort.  When Hana talked about smoking weed, I pretended to know what a bong, a bowl, and a hit was.  I invited her to church a few times, but every time I mentioned God it was like talking about a friend of mine she met once but did not really remember. But Hana wanted to be a musician and I wanted to be a writer, so we held tightly to our dreams and our coffee cups on Wednesday mornings throughout first and second semester, as we talked about art, life, college, and Andrew.

The first thing Hana and I ever shared was our love for jazz.  We were members of our high school jazz choir and our friendship began over the background noise of augmented fifths and sevenths.  Since that time, I have come to accept that I am better suited as a consumer, rather than a producer, of jazz, but Hana—Hana had a gift.

Listening to Hana sing was something I did frequently.  Our choir stood in an arc when we performed, and a cute boy who was my best friend and her crush, stood in between us.  I heard her powerful soprano voice almost every day. For two years I had the honor of singing harmonies thirds and fifths below it.  Hana recorded two songs for her Berklee College of Music audition, and I put them on my iPod.   I still listen to them sometimes, and it feels like we’re together again, when I sing the harmonies alone in my car to the soundtrack of her voice.

Hana and I dreamed up our lives together over coffee.  Hana imagined singing in Jazz clubs,  while I would read my prose in cafés.  I looked forward to those Wednesday mornings because my dreams felt safest there, spoken over soft cups that disappeared in thirty days.  Over the small surface of those tables, there was no room for criticism; we reveled in the safety of it together.

~ ~ ~ ~

Hana had a Jesus bobble-head on her dashboard.  He had large cartoon eyes that looked upwards with a big smile that showed his white, plastic veneers.  He held his hands out to his sides, bobbling back and forth to Bob Dylan.

We took her car to lunch one school day when I first saw it. “Look,” I smiled slightly, and gestured towards the dashboard, “It’s Jesus.”

Hana let out a laugh, and then stopped herself, concerned that she had offended me.  “Yeah, it is,” she said.

I examined the Jesus  closely.  I had never pictured Jesus smiling that big. He looked like he just played a joke on someone.   Maybe he just told Peter to go catch a fish, open its mouth, and take the cash inside and pay his taxes with it.  Maybe he was standing around with the other disciples saying, “Just imagine the look on Peter’s face when he finds that drachma!”

I reached my finger towards Jesus and flicked his head with my finger.  He moved rapidly from side to side, hitting his hands on the dashboard.  “I bet he really gets going on speed bumps,” I said.

Hana exploded into laughter and I joined her.  Our laughter filled the small space of the Honda, echoed off the dashboard; for the few seconds the laughter surrounded us, Jesus danced to it.

~ ~ ~ ~

Hana’s parents divorced when she was four.  Her mother, Denise, was a chemist, and Denise’s boyfriend lived with them throughout Hana’s life.  Her father, Bob Sant, was a local artist who pioneered the art scene in our city, an ex-Mormon who left the church during his teenage years.  My junior year, Bob chaperoned one of our choir trips. I rode from Portland, Oregon, to San Francisco in the passenger seat of his Land Rover.  We all thought he looked like Conan O’Brien.   All the Mormon kids rode in the other car, so for nine hours he told us stories about growing up in the Mormon Church, and ended each one with, “It was really trippy.”  I always wondered what it would be like to have Bob Sant for a dad; two years later, when I visited Hana one summer night, Bob offered to roll me a joint, and I stopped wondering.  I declined, and crossed my arms tighter across my chest.  Bob shrugged his shoulders,   taking a hit on Hana’s bong.

Hana and I talked about her parents’ divorce one time.  Hana told me that her parents are still friends, they get along well, and although she and her brother jumped from house to house most of her life, she was never angry.  She said she understood it was the best thing for them; they were unhappy together, and more than anything, she wanted her parents to be happy.

I sat quietly across from her.  I wanted to say the right thing.  “Well, are you okay about it?”

Hana gave her usual response and laughed.  “Brittany, you know my dad.  Could you be married to him?”

I smiled slightly.

“He’s a great dad, but he’s a shitty husband.”

~ ~ ~ ~

My mother died when I was four.  One morning I shared with Hana how much I am looking forward to being reunited with my mother in heaven, when time,  death,  memory, and all the things that have separated us will have no more power.  Hana cried when I told her this even though she truly does not believe it will ever happen.   She wanted to say the right thing, but she could not, so she wiped her tears with her napkin and said nothing.

~ ~ ~ ~

One Wednesday morning in March, Hana arrived later than normal, with a large white envelope in her hand.  “I got into Berklee,” she told me.

My mouth dropped. “Congratulations,” I told her, and I bought her coffee to celebrate.

“How amazing would that be?” she said to me later on that morning.

“What?” I asked.

“If you ended up in Chicago and I went to Boston.”

I breathed deeply, “That would be amazing.”

I will remember that moment forever, when we felt our dreams at the edges of our fingertips.  They were tangible then, not yet pushed out to the fringes and clouded over by the voice of practicality.  We planned to meet in Philly because it was between Chicago and Boston and neither of us had ever been there.  We re-read Hana’s acceptance letter several times that morning, and when Andrew walked by to wipe down tables, we seductively put our hair behind our ears and laughed at nothing.

~ ~ ~ ~

Hana eventually came to Bible Study with me one Thursday night, simply because I was speaking.   With weeks of practice listening to me in a coffee shop, I guess she thought she could do it at a church.  After I spoke, Hana and I sat on a curb outside for an hour and cried together.

“I want to believe it,” she whispered through her tears. “But I’m sorry.  I just don’t think I’ll ever be able to.”

I rested my hand on her arm and nodded.  “That’s okay.”

We never talked about God again.

~ ~ ~ ~

Hana is a semester away from graduating with a double major in Sociology and Women’s Studies.  She still has long, red hair, but never went to Berklee;  she now only sings in the shower and the car.  She lost her dream of becoming a musician, but picked up a new one along the way: she wants to open a home that offers support to women seeking refuge from abusive relationships.  We only go to Bellatazza one or two times a year now;  each time we are a bit more distant, have less to talk about, and share less in common.  It is no one’s fault, and there is no bitterness; there is just time,  space,  distance, and all the things that gradually grow roots between people.

Hana was the kind of friend who was hard to have, but that I wish I had more of.  The kind of friend I could never change, but deep down, never wanted to.  I have plenty of friends who remind me of my salvation, but I need more who remind me of my humanity.  Having coffee with Hana was having coffee with doubt,  fear,  anger,  insecurity, and the flesh I am constantly trying to rid myself of, but need in order to experience grace.  We never shared faith, but we shared our humanity, and it is my knowledge of my humanity that draws me to God more than anything else.

Loving Hana was the closest I think I have ever come to loving someone as  Jesus loved.  I knew she would never change, so I loved her just to love her, like Jesus loved those He knew would reject him, disown Him, dip their bread in the wine and betray Him. I picture Him on her dashboard sometimes, the hope of my life, dancing and smiling in a car covered in swear words.  I do not know if He is desecrated there, riding through Hana’s life as a car decoration.  But it is there on her dashboard, underneath a Buddha air-freshener: that He is Himself.  Hana is someone Jesus may never rescue, may never change.  She may not become a Christian, she may never read a Bible, she will likely continue to gaze over him as she journeys this life.

But He never leaves her.  With arms open, He stands,  He bobbles, and He loves because He is God, and God is Love, and He is incapable of anything else.