Where you would least expect it…
Almost a month ago, Alicia and I received some sad news. This isn’t necessarily uncommon; we have been receiving a certain type of sad news on almost a monthly basis for going on a year now, so hearing the sad news is not what made the event extraordinary. Rather- it is where we were when we heard it, how I reacted, and what chain of events followed.
Gearing up for the news we decided to be decadent in the best comforting food sort of way and so we headed out to Waffle House- no judgment dear readers, sometimes you have to go where it feels right and cozy, arteries be damned! As there are no Waffle Houses near us we went up to one in the burbs. It was an odd time of day, therefore we had the place mostly to ourselves. We ordered and waited and then the phone rang announcing the delivery of said sad news. Usually, I roll with the punches and take things in stride. This time, I cried.
I am not a pretty sight when I cry. I turn red, I shake, my nose runs, my eyes swell and puff, I try to hide it but I cannot. For the most part I can be quiet, but everything else gives it away in spades. Alicia does not like to see me cry and does everything she can to comfort me, yet once I start I cannot be calmed for quite some time.
Our food is delivered, and the waitress asks if I am okay. I cannot speak when I cry for if I do I sound bitingly angry. Because of this, Alicia answers for me. The waitress sizes up Alicia and will not accept any answer from her, and so she asks me again- her eyes piercing into mine with a glow that I have shared before in my time. It is a look that communicates more than the words that have been spoken, it says, “If you are in danger or harm, I am here to help.”
I assure her as best I can that I am indeed okay. Yet, my crying continues and another worker comes over to ask if I am okay. Then another and another. Each time, Alicia’s words are not accepted, only mine. Each time the unspoken is shared through a look of protection. This look is mare than a pact, it is a call to action, a summoning of a comrade for the good fight. The fight that will save your life.
Alicia and I finish our meal, slightly bewildered. I have stopped crying and seem to be able to speak without choking or yelling. We pay and head out to the car. The eyes of every staff member upon us every single inch we cross. The look is present and stays with me long after we pull away.
Enough time has passed that I can write about this day. This isn’t to say I have just remembered it, for nothing could be further from the truth. That day has been with me physically and in my mind everyday since. I simply wasn’t sure how to put it into words until now. You see, if one didn’t know Alicia they might misjudge her as someone who could do harm, someone who could inflict pain. She is fiercely protective and if someone hurt someone she loved, she would (and does) rise to the occasion. However, she is not violent and would not ever hurt nor oppress me. I know this. Anyone who knows her knows this. The staff of Waffle House does not know this. The staff of Waffle House, in the very least on the aforementioned day, is compromised of people that no one likes to talk about. People who have been hurt, people who have been saved, either by themselves or by another unsuspecting good Samaritan. People who recognize and know how to give that look.
The earth is crowded with these silent heroes, heroes who were once victims and are now doing whatever they can to survive. It is the person next to you on the bus, the person behind you in line, the person who held the door for you and perhaps looked after you a little longer than you noticed. You see, once one has shifted from victim or oppressed to survivor, they are in an automatic club that knows not of its membership for there are no words to fit the pledge, no words that could adequately express every individual journey. Besides, this club doesn’t need words, it thrives on action. It is ‘Pay It Forward’ for the under dog who may not ever see justice, but will see to it that everyone has the chance to try for it.
I recognized that look only because I am a member of this club. I made the shift with help from others and help from myself, help that came from the most unexpected places- like a long distance phone call, or a cop who looked a little longer than needed to make sure. Help that was loud and help that was silent and help that was as simple as a squeeze of the hand. Now, as a survivor I pay my grateful dues in being watchful for who might need that look. I pay my dues by helping to push the car that ran out of gas, by navigating a wheelchair turn, by opening a door and all the while looking out for the subtle and not so subtle signs of distress.
The staff of the Waffle House that day are my kin. We may not have the same appearance or the same ideology, but we know what it means to look out for people, to not take the big voice as word but to seek out the little voice who may be screaming for help. They didn’t recognize me as one of them that day as I was not on duty. Some times we get lucky and find a protector who allows us a day off when we need to be vulnerable and find a way to bring ourselves back without worrying about being on the look out for others.
How wonderful to know the chain is in effect. How sad to know the links are still building and so many have woes and tragedies that are shaping their lives. Yet, I am on the watch and the look is in place to speak all those words we all understand, “I am here. I will help.” Thank you staff of Waffle House and thank you my love for allowing me the space and the silence and the comfort to embrace it all.