Blindspot

I struck up a conversation with a teenager, which in under ten minutes, uncovered one of my social blind-spot. One we all succumb to when we assume.

Our conversation started lightly:

How is your summer so far? I asked.
Ok. How is yours? he responded.

Since I have been in the habit of not depending on the rehearsed and usual response of saying “good” or “ok,” I began with the reason I was actually at the nail salon. My summer was going great until I was a little too aggressive with myself and broke a nail – It has been throbbing and bleeding all morning, I said.
My words entered a place of compassion within the teen and slowly, he also unveiled in our conversation. I learned:
He is nervous about starting high school in the fall.
He is visiting from Georgia with his mother and sisters. When I asked about his dad and why he didn’t make the trip with them, the teen’s reaction at first was physical. He clenched his hands in a tight ball, unfolded them, then rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. He was nervous and trembling, but he managed to tell me his father died two years ago.
We shared a space of solidarity.
I told him my father died nineteen years ago, and that some days, life will be ok, while other days it will be extremely difficult to cope with the magnitude of our loss. He nodded in affirmation and just as I was thanking him for opening up, and sharing such vulnerable details with me, a little girl, about eight years old, ran over to sit in the chair between us.
She swang her little head over to look at her brother, then as sweetly as she could, she looked at me and said, “I see you’ve met my sister.”

I was taken aback.
I gasped internally at my own shame of assuming the teen’s posture, the short pompadour haircut, and the clothing befitting only of a young boy. The teen clammed up again and clasped her hands into a ball, this time twisting them until her hands reddened to match her face. She bowed her head and stared at the ground.

Just then, T, my manicurist called my name. He was ready to fix my broken nail and I was leaving a young lady to stew in the complexities of her sexuality.

The young girl’s question remained unanswered in the space between us, so, I responded to the little wanderer.
As a matter of fact, I have met your sister.
And to the teen, I said:
Thanks for keeping me company and talking with me awhile. The teen lifted her head, raised her eyes up towards me, and as politely as she had been the entire time, said, it was nice to meet you. Thanks for talking to me too.

I smiled at her and walked over to sit in T’s salon chair, where I am sandwiched by two women on either side of me. As I explained the lack of gentleness towards myself and the reason for my broken nail, the lady on my right chimed in solidarity. I am not gentle with myself either, she says.
What is your excuse? I asked.
And her story unfolded.
I haven’t done my nails in a long time because I run a beef farm…
In Georgia…
By myself…
…My husband died two years ago
… It’s just me and the three girls we adopted together – all under fifteen years old.
I am baffled by her strength and smitten by her sweet Southern accent – so I asked only probing questions. She is in the middle of explaining why she does not have a website for the amount of meat she produces on her farm when a little girl – the same little girl who outed her sister just a minutes before – sat beside my salon-neighbor, tilted her head and said:

I see you’ve met my mother.

My nail looks fixed. It is no longer bleeding, but it is still throbbing beneath the new coat of acrylic – but only I can feel the unseen pain. I walk over to mother and daughters who had just reunited and was showing each other, and the teen, their cute manicures. We exchanged numbers, I bid them farewell, and as I leave them still sitting and laughing, I can’t help but think: these four ladies once loved and was loved by a man, who was ripped away from them by a blind spot that happened, maybe on a regular Wednesday morning. They were broken by death. Yet here they are… living in the complexities our human existence – taking tiny steps towards healing.

Kadine Christie

July 24, 2018