We could have made the drive with our eyes closed, and Nell nearly did. It was her first day as a driver allowed to drive minors, and we were celebrating at our favorite cafe. She picked us up right at the front steps of the school and her shiny vintage Mercedes whooshed us directly there. The windows were down, and the cool mountain air breezed through. We laughed, wiggled in her chairs and sang pop songs at the top of our lungs– the native cry of teenage girls in the wild.
The boys were meeting us there.
We zipped into a parking spot and lingered in that area while we waited. My friend– the much older Michael– drove up steadily in his fancy beige Volvo. His little sister, now in his custody after the death of their parents was in the backseat. The other guys were filling in the blank spaces of the car.
“Ahhhh! It’s little Iz. He brought Iz!!” I shouted gleefully. The other girls clapped and hooted as we moved towards his car with ooh’s and ahh’s. I reached Michael’s front window just as he finished parking, and I made the head gesture.
The gesture that meant, “How are you? How’s Iz? Is she speaking again yet? How was work?”
We’d known each other for over a decade. He blinked a few times, and shook his head. Work was good, he was fine, but no– Iz was still on a one-word-a-day diet.
I opened the back of the car and unbuckled her. She chucked herself into my arms and I hugged her, spinning her around in the parking lot as I dropped a hundred loud smacking kisses on her face and head. I could see the dark spots under her eyes that indicated she was still having nightmares.
By then, everyone had said their hello’s, and we marched in our cafe.
We took a seat by the front, bantered with our waiter for awhile, and then Nell noticed something.
“Hey guys, you see that group in the back? They’ve been staring at us evilly since we came in.”
Now Nell was notoriously paranoid, so I almost didn’t take note at all, except Michael nodded immediately. Michael wasn’t generally worried about the opinions of others, so he must have perceived their anger as a threat. We quieted down and noticed that yes– we appeared to be the topic of conversation and it was obvious they weren’t too happy we were there.
Susy shrunk into her seat. “It’s because I’m covering now.” she said with certainty. “They probably don’t want to eat with a Muslim.”
Nick poked her cheek. “Don’t be silly, Sus. It’s because they can’t handle the glory of my gayness.” He stood up by our table and did a cowboy dance. We laughed until I pulled him back down to our booth.
Everyone had a better reason. It was Nell’s hair, for sure. The fiery torch was often a topic that bullies gravitated towards. It was Dean’s piercings and tattoo’s. Surely, they thought he was a thug. It was Lyssa’s disability.
I soothed and tried to turn the topic to french fries, but my ever-practical Michael whispered to me, “Maybe they’re concerned about Iz. Maybe they think we aren’t taking care of her.”
This possibility lit the fire of my temper. Michael was as good a parent as mine or his, and Iz was my first godchild. No one had any idea what he went through to keep her safe and with him. Wealth hadn’t made it easier , just harder– and he sacrificed quite a lot for love of his sister.
“I’ll figure this out.” I said, sliding out of the booth and walking to the other party just as they started preparing to leave.
They watched as I approached and I asked, “Excuse me, but we couldn’t help but notice we were bothering you. Do you mind telling us why?” I had my story rehearsed. Whatever type of bigots these people were, they were going to hear a mighty rawr.
The woman, a young lady in her twenties, looked me straight in the eye and said, “You almost killed us.”
“Say whaaaat?” I said, channeling one of Nick’s favorite expressions, and peering back at my table to make sure they were listening. They were.
Her friend put his hand on her shoulder, but she continued. “Yeah, you shot into the street like a rocket, almost slamming our car. Then you almost ran us over when you took up two spaces with the car. Did you even notice you took up three spaces with your damn parking lot party? You haven’t stopped shouting since you got in, when my friend here is clearly in pain.”
I looked over at her friend– really looked– for the first time. He was wincing in the light and his face was bandaged.
“We’re celebrating his first day out of the hospital and you guys took over this restaurant like it was yours. Not to mention he was put in the hospital by a reckless driver. He’s going to have nightmares because of you.”
I had no idea what to say. We had spent at least 20 minutes considering every possibility, and landed on 15 different types of bigotry, but hadn’t even thought of our own behavior as a catalyst for their reaction.
There was tension on everyone’s face and for the first time in my conflict-resolving life, I had no idea what to say.
Then Iz took care of it for me. She had scampered over from the booth and reached out for my hand. I reflexively picked her up and she looked the stranger in the eye.
Clear as day, as if she hadn’t been nearly silent for months, she said, “We’re sorry. Don’t be sad or scared. Everyone makes mistakes, right?”
The man with the bandages let out a chuckle, and then the rest of us started laughing. I added my apology to Iz’s, and so did everyone else. Michael picked up their tab, though they assured him he didn’t have to, and then we returned to our booth as they left with a smile and a wave.
I was stuck in one of my pontificating modes, considering how we wear our labels like armor instead of a sash– a source of protection rather than pride. We stand ready for attack, all the time, and those same labels become swords. These are the labels that are forced on us– the ones that are easy for other people to see. Short, red-headed, gay, brown, Muslim, disabled, single father. Sometimes the labels suffocate us to the point that we lose perspective. Yet, they are not the labels we see when we look in the mirror, or the labels our loved ones see. No, the ones who take the time to really look see the labels we wear with pride: survivor, singer, lover, peace-maker, geek, genius. Sometimes those two types of labels are one and the same, but wearing the obvious ones with pride takes a good deal of strength. A strength that no one except someone who wears the same label can understand.
Sus interrupted.
“That’s not true, though. None of us wear the same label, but we understand what kind it strength it takes to choose a label that fits you, and to embrace or reject the label that someone has put on you. There aren’t levels of hard. Hard is just hard.”
Iz nodded and I took the chance that she might say something else. “Do you agree, Iz, honey? Hard is hard?” I asked carefully.
She nodded. “That’s why I said something, so he wouldn’t have nightmares. I bet he has different nightmares, but nightmares is nightmares.”
Michael kissed the top of her head, murmuring, “You did good, love.” and the owner came out with a tray of our Shirley Temples, on the house.
“For doing good,” he explained with a wink to Iz.
We clinked our glasses together and toasted.
To doing good.
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This story is one of the basis points for my invention of “International Label Day” as a holiday. It’s just around the corner, and if you haven’t set me your picture and link yet– you still have a couple days to email me ([email protected]). Check out last year’s celebration here: http://wp.me/p2E0Bd-Nf
On a related note, I stumbled across this TedX video that makes the “Hard is just hard” point gloriously. If you have time to listen to it, it’s a good reminder to be gentle with people. We all have our struggles: Coming Out Of Your Closet – by Ash Beckham
In the meantime: Cheers! To doing good!
