People I remember

Once or twice a week, a blurb about a person I won't forget is the plan. Person might be from the past, present, imagination, good or malevolent, impactful or not. All you have to do is read and enjoy.

[peoplemoments]

The Racist Pig.

The summer I was sixteen, I got a job at a department store in the men’s department. I kept that job for four years, but by the spring following my start there, I got myself into a pickle, one that almost cost me my job. 

And what was that pickle I got myself into, you ask? Well, I called a racist a racist.

Now, I don’t remember the racist’s name, but I remember he was tall, blond and had a gut that jutted out severely over his belt buckle. He worked in Loss Prevention, aka security, and as a member of that department, he had a better eye on the store’s happenings than those of us out on the floor did.

Although I concede security people see things sales people out on the floor do not, I couldn’t help but notice that each time I would get a phone call from this security guy in particular, to keep a close eye on a particular customer or some other security issue, the subjects of his concern were often if not always Black or Latino, so I suppose you could say that the day I got myself into a pickle, a pattern had emerged for me about this guy, one I could not keep quiet about.

It all started when I got a call from security during my evening shift, and was told to check the fitting room after a Latino man had used it, one who had run it by me that he was going to use the fitting room. Rolling my eyes, I hung up and did as I was told, finding the only pair of jeans the man had taken in with him hanging on one of the hooks in the fitting room he used.

Rolling my eyes again, I called the guy from security back and told him what I’d found and hung up before he was even done talking. A few minutes later, I saw the security guy walking toward me, but I kept myself busy with a rack I was straightening. As he got closer, he asked me where the Latino man had gone.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Shit,” he said and took out his walkie-talkie. He then asked the other security guy to look for the subject with the security cameras.

When he was done, I said: “You know, you’re a real racist pig.”

“What?” he said.

“You heard me,” I said. “You’re assuming that guy stole something because he’s not white.”

“No, I’m not. He was doing this the whole time,” he said fervently and demonstrated by pulling on the hem of his shirt the way someone does while simply straightening their clothes.

“Whatever. You’re a racist,” I said and went back to straightening my department.

“I can’t believe you’re calling me that. I’m gonna complain about you,” he said and stormed off.

He did complain about me and I got “suspended” by the store manager. Luckily, my department manager supported me and participated in talks with the store manager to convince her to allow me back at work. Looking back now, I still don’t regret my assessment of that Racist Pig, my words, though I do regret continuing to work in a store managed by a woman who all but made me apologize for calling out a racist. 

[peoplemoments]

Shefali.

Spending the first 10 years of my life in the United Arab Emirates, I grew up around kids with nannies, or rather live-in domestic servants who took care of them.

Shefali was one such individual.

She was an Indian woman with a shrilly nasal voice and a well-oiled perfectly arranged bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a sari and glasses. Gold bangles adorned her arms and jingled as she threw her sari over her shoulder, constantly.

She looked like an Indian librarian and behaved like one, always glaring at me whenever I went over for a play date with my friend. I was a barely-aware child, but knew she didn’t like me. I later confirmed that I was right, that the only person she approved of was my friend, going so far as to refuse to do the laundry of her older sister.

I remember once I saw a shoebox belonging to Shefali lying around with cassette tapes of Indian music inside.

The only thing I know of Shefali this many decades later is that her employment with my friend’s family ended years after the last time I saw her. She seems to have disappeared. I’m sure that scolding voice would give her away...if I was looking for her.

[peoplemoments]

The Girl Who Loved The Cure.

The summer before seventh grade, Iraq invaded Kuwait, kicking off the First Gulf War, aka Operation Desert Storm. By back-to-school time, classmates with military family members being deployed saw my face as that of the enemy. Recess was when I got taunted and ganged up on, even pushed and pinned down on the snowy ground.

Needless to say, from my experiences, kids are ruthlessly cruel.

Also in seventh grade, I had a music class. One of the assignments for this class was to bring in a favorite song to play on the stereo. I don’t remember what song I brought in, but I do remember that someone brought in The Cure’s “Killing An Arab,” the band’s first and most controversial single.

I remember that I could only cry in response that day in class, how everyone was looking at me as if I was crying for no reason. What I didn’t remember until just a few weeks ago was exactly who it was that chose that as their favorite song that day. It was The Girl Who Loved The Cure. She had curly chin-length hair and wore crazy tights. Everyone knew her one and only true love was The Cure’s Robert Smith. I found out it was her because she reached out to me on Facebook to apologize. She said she grew up in a racist household, her motivation more sinister than I had imagined at the time. She said when she saw me cry that day it made a huge impact on her.

I told her I forgave her, sent her on her way.

Then I got to thinking about how she used to look at me in seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth grades. How she never spoke to me and just looked at me like I was a curiosity she didn’t find particularly pleasant.

They say you should forgive people for you, not for them. I did that, but I don’t feel peace. I never thought the bullies of yesteryear were mean to me out of unfettered, undiscriminating racism - I thought they were mean to me because their loved ones were being sent far away and they were lashing out from the pain. They hurt me, but I took comfort in the idea that they were in pain, too.

Then I got to thinking about how long The Girl Who Loved The Cure waited since that day in music class to grow a conscience. I thought about how she’d treated my DMs as a confessional, and me, her victim, like a priest, ready and willing to absolve her of her sin.

I forgave the woman who was the Girl Who Loved The Cure, nothing I can do about it now. I guess it’s a good thing I’m not a priest.

[peoplemoments]

Restart

So, at just one year shy of a decade since the last post, I’ve decided to restart this blog. I’ve obviously done a lot of things since then, met and come across a lot of people, and now that we’re all in isolation, I feel it’s a great time to revisit the people in my mind. Note that I originally treated this as a daily thing, but this time around I’ll keep it a bit more doable with posts once or twice a week. Stay tuned for new people!

[peoplemoments]

The Art Teacher

I've never been good at art. I appreciate it, but I cannot produce it. When I do, it's purely accidental, a miracle.

Well, that wasn't what my art teacher in seventh grade thought. She thought I was creative, a true artist. If you ask me, she was on something.

Really, all I did was draw a stork that actually looked like a stork.

I can even describe how I drew the thing: I drew an almond shape, stuck the number 4 under it, added what look like claws on the ends of the shape of the four, added a long, skinny neck with a tiny circle with a dot for an eye and a beak. Voila. That was my stork...oh, and I also drew a little wing in the middle of the almond shape that was supposed to be the body of the stork.

Well, that was enough for this teacher, who showered me with compliments that even to my 12-year-old mind were a little on the crazy side.

She was one of those real hippies, you know? The kind who wear billowy tops that float behind her when she walked. She had salt and pepper hair that was straight as a pin with bangs across her forehead. Big, weird jewelry was her staple and I don't think I ever saw her smile. She always seemed to be somewhere else, looking off into the distance as she mumbled the day's assignment.

Everybody thought she lived in her little supply closet, though I don't know why. She seemed to hate her job, and wasn't too good at it. I mean, who the hell would think I was a true artist other than someone who's been to Woodstock and never quite left?

That was my art teacher.

[peoplemoments]

The First Guy I Insulted

Well, this is a little funny. I laugh every time I think about it, and I'm giggling as I write my recollection of the first guy I ever insulted.

The story is this...I was in the seventh grade. That was a long time ago, back when payphones still existed, and back when I had to be picked up from school on occasion.

On this particular occasion, school was let out early for something or other, more than likely snowy weather. I had to call my mom or dad to come and get me, and I was worried that I would be the last one left at school after everyone deserted it for the day.

I stood behind a tall eighth grader, who was taking too long on the phone. I remember he had really dark hair that was in bad need of a trim. He finally hung up, then picked up the phone again and inserted another quarter (Yeah, this was a really long time ago) to make another phone call. Well, I'd had enough, so I sidled up to him and touched him on the shoulder with my index finger.

"I need to use the phone," I said, my head totally thrown back so I could look him in the face. I wanted to ask him how the weather was up there, but I wasn't in a playful mood, obviously.

"Get lost," he said and turned back to dial the number.

I don't know what came over me, but I said the first thing that came to mind: "F*** you!"

The minute I said the words, I regretted saying them. They were so random, so overly dramatic that I shrank back a little, shifting my weight from one foot to another. I'd never uttered such words before, and I don't even remember where I'd heard them, but it was like they were sitting there, waiting to be used. 

I finally figured it was best to get the hell out of this guy's way, and acted all huffy and puffy as I walked off.

He, on the other hand, was so taken aback by the fact that I was a dwarf-like seventh-grader with a potty mouth, and I suppose a gentleman in the end, he could only respond with: "What?"

I don't remember how I made it home that day, but all I remember is the first guy I ever insulted, who let me go home in one piece.

[peoplemoments]

The Second Anorexic

I was at the mall when I saw her, the second anorexic I've come across.

I was having coffee, having a rest from shopping when I spotted her walking.

She had short hair and a stick figure. It was like watching a skeleton with skin, walking and walking. She was only walking and treating the mall as an indoor track.

She walked and walked.

Each time I saw her walk by, she would disturb me more and more, because the more I looked at her, the more she looked like a walking skeleton with skin and swinging sticks for arms. She walked a little hunched over, her spine curved and weak.

The more I saw her pass by where I was sitting, the more I got a look inside her head and I could've sworn that her illness itself was calling out for an intervention.

[peoplemoments]

The Hungry Woman

I visited Chicago for a few days a few summers ago. I was there with my sister and a friend.

Chicago is a wonderful city, but like any city as big and lively, it has its dark side.

Never was that dark side more apparent than when I was having coffee in the heart of the city with my sister and friend, and a woman walked in, looking determined.

She was old, with short-cropped hair, a tank top and skirt and slippers. She walked with her shoulders scrunched up, like she was tense, afraid of taking up too much space in the world.

She carried a purse, but from the moment she walked in she was making the rounds to each table, whispering something I couldn't hear.

She finally made it to our table.

"Will you give me some money so I can get something to eat?" she asked with wide eyes and no introductions.

The friend we were with lived in Chicago, so she was used to such things, I supposed. She dismissed the woman by simply saying no.

The woman moved to the next table, without being fazed by the rejection and dismissal. She was like a robot, determined. It wasn't long before an employee of the coffee shop went to her and asked her to leave. In that time, I kept my eye on the hungry woman and wanted desperately to help her. She was old enough to be my mother. I wondered if she was a mother. 

She left the cafe quietly and we soon did the same. I saw her walking in her hunched way, moving away from us.

Between the three of us, we only had $8 in cash. I gathered the $8 into a neat bunch and ran after the woman. I caught her just as she was about to get lost in a sea of people. I tapped her on the shoulder and she turned around.

"Here you go," I said, putting the measly amount into her hand, feeling embarrassed and horrible that I didn't have more to give her.

She looked down at the money and without counting it, looked back up with a look of sincere relief on her face, like she'd just been dealt a miracle. "Thank you so much," she said in her tired voice. She looked like she was about to cry.

I was about to cry.

I put my hand on her shoulder and told her to take care. As I walked away, I felt good, but powerless in the face of hunger.

[peoplemoments]

The First Loyal.

Before the age of 10, I wasn't really bullied, except for one incident.

The incident took place in the fifth grade, during that time between the end of recess and the start of the next period. The blackboard was covered in drawings and writings that were not done by a teacher, so, to pass the time I picked up the eraser and began to erase what I figured wouldn't be up there much longer anyway.

Halfway through, Linda and Linda, the two most popular girls in the class came up to me and began to push me back and forth, one stood to the left and one stood to the right, shoving me so hard, that I had to bend over and hold onto the chair I was standing on to reach all the way up the board.

"Why are you erasing what we put on there?" they each asked. "Who do you think you are doing that?"

I didn't say anything, I was just concerned with not falling off the chair. As their insults got more heated, I heard a familiar voice say: "Stop that!"

Linda and Linda looked toward the voice and saw someone I didn't think was that close of a friend to me, and was friends with Linda and Linda more than she was friends with me.

"Stop that," she said again and walked to the blackboard where we all stood frozen in shock. "Leave her alone, or I'll tell the teacher," she said and helped me get down from the chair.

I will never forget the first time someone acted like a loyal friend. I will never forget my first loyal friend, Razan.

[peoplemoments]

Offline for a few days...

I will be offline a few days. I will remember more people as I meet new ones. Thank you and I hope all have a great weekend.

[peoplemoments]

The Accidental Mentor.

I went to school to become a journalist, but it was an accident. I was entering my second year in college and someone suggested taking an introduction to reporting class. 

The first day of class, I was intimidated and scared. The professor was a very heavy, obese man with white hair, and acne-scarred face. He wore polyester slacks with suspenders and short-sleeve button-up shirts, plaid and checkered.

He would put his hand on his stomach when he was sitting and talk about what he wanted us to do.

"I want you to rip the scabs off the festering sores of society," he would say.

I was shy and not the ideal journalist type. I'm still not. But my first journalism professor didn't care. He wanted me to write well.

The first story I wrote that met his standards was used as an example for the rest of the class--he did that when anyone did well in his class, everyone got a turn.

He told me I should be a reporter for the school paper, and I stammered. "I don't think I'd be any good at it," I said with genuine fear. "I'm really shy."

"You really don't have to be crass and mean to get the scoop," he said simply, then he patted me on the back as he walked me out of the class and said: "Go get 'em, Lois." 

I stopped and turned to look at him. "Lois?" I asked.

"Lois Lane," he said and headed in the direction of his office.

That same day I went to the newspaper office and began my career as someone who is shy, but knows when a society has festering sores.

Thank you, Jay.

[peoplemoments]

The Anorexic.

At Banana Republic I stood in line to pay for a skirt. When I wait in line, I people watch. I didn't have to look far that day for someone to catch my eye, and not in a good way.

In front of me was a woman who had to be anorexic. No one could be as thin or have bones protruding like that and feel normal enough to dress trendily and go to the mall to buy more trendy clothes other than a severely anorexic, mentally ill individual. 

This woman was sick, not just in body, but also in mind, I knew it.

Her hair was like straw, straight and yellow, bluntly cut. She wore boots that looked slouchy, though I think any boots would've looked slouchy on the sticks she stood on. Her skin looked sallow and sick. There was not an ounce of fat or health to be seen anywhere on her body, and certainly there was none in her mind as she took long at the register to argue about the validity of a coupon, when she really should've argued with the illness in her mind and saved her life instead of let herself wither away the way she had.

Clearly, this woman had done this to herself, just skin and bones, and loving it. She even wore a big cocktail ring that accentuated her skeletal hand.

After I'd had enough of looking at the skeleton in front of me, I looked down at my size 10 skirt and was thankful for my size and my health. I was most thankful for my sanity.

[peoplemoments]

The Prom's #1 Mom

When I was sixteen years old I got a job and kept it for four years. I did a lot of growing up in that time, but nothing like the growing up that the girl whose name escapes me did.

She was sixteen, and already mother to an infant. This girl wore a "#1 Mom" ring and pigtails. As I spent a few shifts with her, she struck me as the kind of person who didn't take much seriously, didn't understand the magnitude of her bad choice.

She went to prom one Saturday, and when she came into work on Sunday I asked her how it went, because, you know, prom was something I still thought was significant and important back then.

"It was fun," she said and fiddled with her ring. "But at about 9:30 my mom called and said that little Christina was sick, so I had to leave early."

She didn't seem to think it was all that sad, but I did.

She told me the story once of how she got pregnant at fifteen; it was her first time with a boy. She just rolled with that punch, I guess.

Despite all that stuff that I thought was like several nails in a coffin, this girl was a smiley girl, not too concerned with anything beyond her reach. I suppose that was good, considering what life had dealt her, but I had to wonder if things were out of her reach only because she had a baby to think about. Or maybe, just maybe, she really was a "#1 Mom," and that ring she wore was like the Godfather's ring.

[peoplemoments]

The Volunteer Greek Dancer.

A guy at the Greek festival went up on the stage where the real dancers were to perform in a short while.

He danced like all Greeks, with his arms outstretched, as though he was about to hug someone, taking dancing steps toward them. He jumped up and touched his feet, displaying those acrobatic skills all Greek men want to perform when they dance. He squatted down and slapped the floor with his palm, the back of his hand.

Someone threw a dollar onto the stage.

He had dark hair and light skin. His hair was floppy, but in a young way. He was kind of handsome. Maybe drunk.

He wore a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the tail out over his jeans. He wore black shoes, much like the ones some of the real dancers wore with their white tights.

His cheeks turned red. A perfect red circle on each cheek, but he kept dancing.

Kids went up on the stage and danced, too, but no adults.

The band was still playing when he got off the stage. He left the dollar on the floor of the stage behind.

[peoplemoments]

The Researcher of Headhunters.

In high school, in some class I don't recall, a guest speaker came.

The guest speaker was an old man, the kind who wore polyester slacks and shirts with a waistband. I think I might even remember a silver watch with turquoise stones on his gray-haired wrist.

The guest speaker had slides, film reels, and a box of stuff.

The slides were pictures from his time spent researching tribes living in the jungles of Southeast Asia. This research took place in the 60s. He was a young man in those pictures, wearing sophisticated naturalist khakis and aviator sunglasses that went so well with his well-groomed beard and full head of cropped black hair. He had olive skin back then.

It was hard to believe the man covered with liver spots standing at the podium was the same one in the pictures.

The subjects in the film reels seemed happy to share their everyday lives with this man from another world. They smiled and looked eager to show the person behind the camera every little detail of their lives. The women were topless, the men equally naked.

They smiled as they handled the heads of their enemies on film, too. 

You see, these were headhunting tribes, the kind that would cut off the heads of their enemies and treat the severed heads in such a way that they shrink and become small enough to hang like alms. They were supposed to instill fear into the hearts of future enemies.

The guest speaker reached into the box he'd brought with him one last time and brought out one such head.

"It was a gift," he said. "It's a very high honor to receive such a gift."

I guess there's a fine line between an enemy and a friend, and this man was able to find that line, and cross it.

[peoplemoments]

Not a person, per se, but a person’s car. A person with an interesting job title.

[peoplemoments]

The English Teacher.

I was always good at English. It was my strongest subject.

My reward for this was being put into an honors class my sophomore year in high school, where I met Mrs. Ritchie.

Mrs. Ritchie had short blonde hair and a smile that scrunched up her face delightfully. Mrs. Ritchie looked like Bette Midler, and to my adolescent mind, she even sounded like her. She even had a promotional poster hanging in her classroom of Bette Midler that just said "READ".

Mrs. Ritchie made Macbeth a read I couldn't put down, the name Chillingsworth unforgettably symbolic, and reading Edgar Allan Poe in the dark cozy.

Mrs. Ritchie was the teacher I invited to my French class luncheon. I cooked French food for this woman, I loved her so much.

She told stories that had nothing to do with the syllabus, but felt like priceless lessons we couldn't get anywhere else.

"I have so many stories," she began one morning, "that I am always writing down and preparing for the book I'm going to write about my life."

Then she told us one such story.

"I had an uncle, his name was Uni Almo."

I laughed out loud, as did the whole class, but she continued, cutting through the laughter.

"When Uncle Uni Almo was a kid, he was out chopping wood, when he cut off his thumb by accident. He completely severed the top part of his thumb, and he ran to his mom, who did the first thing that came to mind-- she took the severed piece of the thumb, stuck it back on with ointment and wrapped it up. It worked, because Uncle Uni had a full thumb, except his mom had put it on backwards. I will always remember how it felt to hold Uncle Uni's hand, because I could feel his thumbnail on the inside of my hand."

Mrs. Ritchie told stories to kids who she knew had potential to be storytellers. Mrs. Ritchie told stories that had nothing to do with the syllabus, but had everything to do with the root of writing, feeling.