Last week in Berlin, I found myself waiting at a bus stop in the late afternoon. According to the schedule, the bus was due to arrive shortly, but 15 minutes passed and no bus appeared. I went over to look at the printed schedule and saw a handwritten note stuck to it in faded ink. I could make out my bus number and a very long word in German that I couldn’t even begin to pronounce, let alone translate. I considered asking someone if they could decipher it, but instead I just stood there trying to decide what to do next.
As I was thinking about taking an Uber or walking to the next stop, a young man approached me and said in English, “I’ve been waiting for the 200 for half an hour. Can you read that sign?” In an instant, the two of us, who didn’t know each other, connected over our common problem. He opened Google and asked me to read the letters out loud as he typed them. We got the translation: the stop had been moved to another street. We decided to walk there together and ended up having an interesting conversation about stories, global events, and being foreigners in the city.
None of those conversations would have happened if he hadn’t reached out to me. It made me think about why I hadn’t asked for help. It was such a simple, mundane situation. However, I’m not the best at asking for help when I need it. And I don’t think I’m alone in this. The bus stop example is a minuscule one, but many of us find it difficult to reach out to others when we’re facing challenges. Why is that the case, and what do we lose when we don’t ask for help?
I am very moved by Tracey Emin’s painting from 2007, “Trying to find you 1.” The outline of a woman’s naked body is painted in red. She is kneeling on all fours, with her elbows and forearms on the ground and her head resting on her arms. There is a certain heaviness in her posture, as if she can barely stand upright. There is a desperation in this body and a sense of supplication.
The canvas is divided horizontally. The top is cream-colored, but the bottom, where the figure’s head rests, is painted olive green. It’s as if she’s submerged in mud, weighed down by whatever she’s enduring emotionally and physically. I’m also struck by the fact that she’s alone in this apparent moment of despair. And yet, the title is “trying to find you.” Many of us don’t reach out to others in times when we’re feeling emotional distress. An element of shame kicks in, making us believe that admitting our pain would reveal something deeply wrong with us. If we believe that lie, then it leads to another mistaken belief: that our emotional and mental pain makes us somehow less worthy.
I know this stance. I’ve had moments in the past that have brought me down this way — moments when I desperately wanted to be able to reach out to someone, but it seemed like an awfully hard thing to do, until it became unbearable to endure the experience alone. When we can’t ask for help, I think we increase our own suffering. In a way, we’re also denying the reality of what it means to be human — that challenges, feelings of being overwhelmed and in pain, are part of life. No one can escape these experiences, and we all need people in our lives to help us get through those moments.
There is something intriguing I am referring to the painting “Un coup de main” (“The Helping Hand”) from 1881 by the French artist Émile Renouf. An elderly man and a child, presumably a grandfather and his granddaughter, are rowing a fishing boat on a calm blue-grey sea. Fog and mist hang in the air. The man, with his hands gripping the oar, does all the work; the child’s hands simply rest on the wooden handle.
The grandfather sits back as he rows, comfortable and familiar with what he does. The fishing boat and the sea are his terrain. He looks at the little girl with slightly worried eyes and a small smile. She is sitting very straight, with her lips tightly closed and a distant, somewhat frightened look.
There are many ways our childhood and upbringing can affect how we feel about asking for help. I like to imagine that even though the little girl in the painting looks terrified, she is also beginning to learn a valuable lesson. Her grandfather, the adult who knows all about how to steer a boat and how to be at sea, is asking her for help. She doesn’t really need it, but he is showing her that she has the ability to contribute and that many things are accomplished more effectively when people help each other.
Many people are taught that independence is something to strive for. To a certain extent, it is. Much can be achieved if one takes responsibility for one’s own life and learns to cope with the challenges that arise. But I wonder if we sometimes take it too far and forget the value and necessity of interdependence. Leaning on one another and seeking help are not signs of incompetence or weakness. In fact, they can be signs of wisdom, compassion, humility, and foresight.
I think of those rare occasions when a runner falls during a race and another competitor stops to help. It’s always very moving to see because, for a moment, we see the possibility of a world where we move forward by helping each other, rather than one where everyone is on their own. None of us can go back in time and change our childhood, but we can stop and consider how those childhood experiences might influence our ability to ask for help or offer it.
In Pablo Picasso’s 1902 work “The Crouching Beggar,” A woman kneels on the ground, resting her body on her heels. Her eyes are closed and she is hunched over herself. She is not begging, although it is clear that she is in misery and needs help. The blue skirt that covers her legs and the white scarf that surrounds her face are reminiscent of the Virgin Mary.
I like that there is a sense of the sacred in this painting of someone in need of help. Offering help when we notice others in distress and allowing ourselves to receive it generously from others feel like sacred moments in our everyday lives. When we can help others through a truly genuine sense of generosity and understanding of shared humanity, we also receive something in return. We step away, even if momentarily, from the center of our lives.
As I look at this painting and imagine this woman on the side of a road, I wonder how often any of us might have the answer to someone else’s desperate prayers. Whenever we help one another, we open a portal to bring small miracles and signs of wonder to others. Our actions become the pillars of our faith in humanity. And that’s where any god worth his salt often shows up, in the flesh and blood of our hurting lives.
Join Enuma Okoro and more at the FT Weekend Festival on Saturday 7th September
Enuma Okoro will be speaking at 12pm on ‘Portrait of a Black Woman: A Changing Gaze Through the Centuries’ as part of the FT Weekend, which hosts a full day of talks, tastings, signings and experiences across 10 stages at Kenwood House Gardens in London. Join us there or watch the film online with a digital pass.
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