The pizza parlor was busy for a Sunday, but it’s always busy. You were peering over the counter on your tippy toes, in a discussion with the cashier about why he chose to bypass the university in favor of a community college. He was speaking to you like he would speak to any other adult, except you were 8.
Maybe 10.
A slightly older boy walked past you, and nudged you on purpose– tumbling your precarious balance for a moment. You growled at him, like an irate kitty. The older delivery man, carrying at least 7 pizza boxes, stopped to defend you.
“Leave her alone,” he growled at the boy before continuing his race out the door. As he walked past me, I saw the Spiderman bandage on his arm– and I looked back over to you to see the opened box of bandages sticking from your backpack.
Your eyes had locked on to my husband, and I recognized the glint of fascination and the focused perception.
I recognized you entirely, actually. It was as if you came straight out of the stories other people tell about my youth.
I’m pretty sure we share a personality quirk, though you seem to be two decades behind.
You don’t know this now, but you’re different. You’ll go home, and tell your family about Richard who works at the pizza places, whose entire family never made it past the tar pit that is community college. They’ll ask if you if you’re talking about “the kid with spiky hair and 17 rubber bracelets on his left arm”– and you won’t understand how they don’t know his name.
To your mind, he’s practically family.
Your sister will be mad at you, because you gave away a perfectly good Spiderman bandage to someone you didn’t know– and yet everyone will be mystified when the delivery man says hello to you by name, 5 years down the road.
It’s just that you see people– you really see them. They are as versatile and obvious in their life choices as a decorated Christmas tree. Their virtues and flaws are strewn haphazardly on their branches and they’re lit up with their passions.
People like my husband are bright enough to light a city. It’s no wonder he caught your eye. He caught mine.
Some people see you, too, but not everyone.
In fact, most people just walk right on by.
But when Richard looked at you, he saw a peer who happened to be 10 years his junior. When the delivery man looked at you, he saw a friend who happened to be shaped like a little girl. They see you, and they’ll always see you– and that is a wonderful gift.
I have to admit it was eerie watching you interact with everyone. I’ve heard stories of what my personality looked like when I was a child, but I’ve never seen anything close from an outside perspective.
I don’t know what our shared characteristic is called. We are drawn to the light, and we are drawn to the gears behind the light. Are we people-people? Or just nosy? Are we muses, or parasites?
In truth, for all I know, you were just trying out a personality today.
Little girls are made of potential and you can still live any life you want, with any personality flair you choose– but in case you’re taking votes and testimonials:
You could do worse.
The wonderful thing about mapping your world by the interesting, talented people you meet along the way is that every day is shiny and brilliant. Every day is filled with new adventures and wonders.
Good luck to you on your path, my dear, whichever you choose–
Rara
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I have an odd character trait that doesn’t translate online.
In offline world, either people will remember meeting me forever and ever, or they never recognize me no matter how many times they meet me.
I’ve tutored people for years who didn’t recognize me out of context. I helped a woman give birth and she didn’t recognize me a year later, until I reminded her.
On the other hand, the DMV clerk remembered taking my picture nearly 10 years ago– and you might remember the senator who remembered me mooning him.
I think this has to do with how I see people. The people who remember me are people who I put on my mental map. For instance, I mapped the DMV guy because 10 years ago, he said he would like nothing more than to have his job for the rest of his life. There’s a beauty in people who love their work.
My memory works in that way. I don’t remember the schools I went to, in order, to the cities I lived, in order– but I can tell you in consecutive order every person I ever met who had a passion for air conditioners.
Do you have any personality traits that don’t translate online? Have you ever met a child who reminded you of, well… you?
