Smile
I spent many of my formative years in small towns, being raised by small-town women who’d led small-town lives. It was then I learned the small-town custom of smiling at pretty much everyone.
In a small town, you smile at people because you know them, and if you don’t know them, they must be guests in town which makes you their host, so smiling is your job. And people usually smile back, even if the weather sucks or they’re late for work or they’re just travelers stopping over in your podunk small town.
Now I live in a big city and few people smile back. In fact, you are much more likely to be viewed with suspicion than goodwill. I don’t know you - why are you smiling? What are you selling? What do you want? Only the nuts or the needy smile at strangers.
But old habits die hard and even though I know I run the risk of having security called on me, I still tend to smile at people. And once in a blue moon, I smile and they smile back and for a brief shining moment, we see a glint of recognition in each other’s eyes. We share a secret, we belong to the same tribe. Greetings, fellow smiler. Keep calm and carry on.
The other day I was exiting a Starbucks, my usual soy latte in hand, when my glance fell on a baby stroller on the sidewalk. In it was slumped a tow-headed kid, sitting perfectly still, staring off into space. He looked almost too old for a stroller, and certainly too young for the lifelessness in his eyes.
Standing nearby was a man I assumed to be the boy’s father. He was young, skinny and unkempt, with a two-day blond stubble on his chin and a faint, scraggly mustache. He looked at me, looking at the boy.
I smiled.
“Hey lady,” he muttered, rolling the stroller toward me now. “Do you have any money..somethingsomething…get something to eat?” His voice was so low I could barely understand him.
I spoke reflexively: “I’m sorry.” I smiled again, dropped my eyes, and began walking.
He followed.
“I’m just trying to….” he continued muttering. The stroller wheels squeaked as they rolled over the pavement behind me.
I walked faster.
His voice grew hard. “Oh well. I guess I’ll just go steal something then.” The squeaking faded slowly away.
I thought of all my unreturned smiles.
Later I tried to assure myself that the man and the boy with the haunted eyes had somewhere to go. There are many shelters in my area, and there’s the YMCA. I imagined them there, where smiles come with a meal and a bed, and everyone is part of the same tribe.
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Filed under Act Uppity, Human Rights |2 Responses to “Smile”
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I am a smiler too. I’ve lived in places where smiling is nearly required and others where it’s a sign of weakness. I choose to continue regardless of the assumption.
But as a smiler, I find that other’s sometimes take that as an invitation. That’s when an awkward brush-off comes in to play and causes a lot of guilt in the process.
On a related note, at first I thought this post was going to discuss small town smilers who turn around and talk about you. Back-stabbing smilers, if you will.
Amaya - backstabbing smilers - I’ve met my share. I did consider adding a section in this post about them, although I thought of them at the time as “superficial smilers.” The ones who smile because its expected, but it means nothing to them. They could be mean behind your back (ouch! that’s sharp!), or totally indifferent to you. Perhaps a post for another day…