Library

 

Sophistication isn’t what you wear or who you know, or pushing people down to get you where you want to go, but they wouldn’t teach you that in prep school, so it’s up to me, and no amount of vintage dresses gives you dignity.

-Taylor Swift (Better Than Revenge -2010)

 

         I needed to leave. To get out of that house. Just for a little while.

            I needed to go to a place where no one would know who I was, no one would know. Ever since that happened, I’d get a little check-up every five minutes.

            “Honey, are you all right?”

            “You didn’t deserve that.”

            They didn’t understand. So I left the place where (with love, but still) I was bombarded with questions and reassuring comments that just sent me into flashbacks of fresh blood and deep cuts.

            So I walked to the library. When I reached the building, I sat near a tree on a square of grass. I was alone, with the exception of some eager, retired old people daring to be the first ones in the doors at one o’clock sharp. Earphones narrating Taylor Swift heartbreak and hopeful soundtracks, I reached for my math binder and reluctantly started my weekend homework. No use contaminating my precious library time by factoring exponents or solving mixture problems. My hands clenched into fists once more as I cringed at an especially difficult graph.

            That day was a chilly one. The near-imperceptible drizzle, the thrashing wind, and overcast gloom made the sun-spoiled Southern Californians complain, but I loved looking up to the sky and watching the cold tears rush to the concrete, and then just splatter. I was lucky, though, my two sweaters, fur-lined overcoat, and boots kept me warm. My matching hat protected my head with a sort of dignity, or at least that’s what it looked like, if you were the average passing pedestrian.

            It was only after I had started my math and it was only when the crackling leaves under his feet cringed that I saw him. Though his eyes were turned down, his stature was tall, and he carried a quiet dignity, a real dignity, that was unrecognizable to those whose biggest concerns are the letters in the corners of returned tests. Or to those who sit around a wood table every night at seven o’clock, under a roof, no matter what size, with a loving family. To those who complain every morning when they must wake up at 5:30 AM because they have to go to private school. To those with fur-lined jackets. To people like me.

            With determination in his stride, as though one more step will deliver him to his destination, he walks across the grass square. His method of concealing his face with an old, silenced hat, and then with his eyes down and his mouth closed tightly made me realize that he might have been embarrassed, but the dignity in his strides never faded. Though one could look into his eyes and see a sense of the possibility of fear, his shoulders were held high, if silently, and his poise was never absent. He took a seat beside a tree, almost like my own, and did not allow his eyes to leave the ground.

            He must have been only fifty or so, but his features- his unshaven face, his matted hair, his uncared-for teeth- suggested that he was much older. And though he wasn’t thin, this man’s gaunt face made him appear to be hungry. He could be perceived as strong from a distance, because of all of the bags he carried with him, but, again, I his round eyes somehow grew weaker with every stride of dignity. But through the pitying, stares, the condescending looks, all the different reactions, he walks on.

            The most obvious indicators of his outer identity brought pity, or aversion, to the hearts of many of those who saw him, but I sensed a growing feeling of shame in him, just because everyone, including me, noticed him; his outer appearance, even if only his outer appearance, was out of the ordinary. Quilts engulfed his entire being; they were colorful, similar to the kind that is kept in a family for decades because they were knitted and sewn by long-gone grandmothers. They looked decades old, too, with their frayed edges and faded hues. Trash bags surrounded him, probably full of more quilts or sweaters, or maybe pictures or paper with words, whether they be his own of those of someone else.

The saddest part? No one else was there. No one was there to share the quilts with him, and the frayed edges would be left on the damp grass to become soaked. No one would be there to listen to his life story of loss or the failure of eternal love or tragedy, or the tale of how he was reduced to his surrounding trash bags and quilts and sitting on a tree for a home. There was no one to listen when he explained his pictures of the good old days of roofs and macaroni and family.

            So, because no one, including myself, was willing to listen, he talked to himself. I was out of earshot, but I speculated he was describing something old. Something that was once fleeting and now is gone. Something priceless and impermanent. Maybe it was a feeling or a person or a time, but by now all he has left of it are imprints in himself in the form of spoken words that he can only regurgitate to himself.

            Which made him even less approachable. Disgusted, passing pedestrians directed their eyes to the ground and shuffled away. But not me. I was a safe distance away, and though I still regarded his muttering strange, I was fascinated, because I didn’t immediately assume that he was mentally challenged or just plain crazy from the cold nights alone. He just had no one to talk to, so he talked to himself.

 One of the unfortunate aspects of my person is that though I’m understanding, I’m scared. I’m fourteen, and he’s… well… a large man. I was always taught from a young age to avoid any interaction- eye contact, waving, friendships, conversation- with them, because I’m a girl, and that makes me more vulnerable to stuff like that. The word was so intimidating to my parents that they never chose to actually use it. After Chelsea King, though, I figured out the four letters that explained to me why I couldn’t walk home from the library alone at night.

            I caught myself. I was shying away because I was judging someone’s exterior. This isn’t right, I know. But that was a part of me that’s been programmed into my brain ever since I was old enough to follow rules. I so desperately wanted to change, because I could think for myself. Not to be careless, but to be compassionate. He could see me, and he has feelings, and if I walked away, he’ d feel like a monster. Being fourteen meant walking the tightrope of feeling ready to be an adult while still being viewed as a child. I was too young to have the security to say hello, to ask him how he was, to help as much as I could. Even though I wanted to fall forward and be an adult, that’s not how he might view me. So I stood back, walked the line, and tried to find a compromise within myself.

            Again, I looked at him. His eyes stared at the ground every time someone walked by with eyes of pity or eyes of condescension. I so badly wanted to let him know that I understood, that he had a friend in the world. That I pitied him, that I felt sympathy, that I knew he was sitting alone all day and all night. He became aware of my stare, and returned it.  I forced my eyes to stare at the ground. While my pupils were soaking in the mixture of grass and dampening soil, I realized that I was staring at the soil just like he was.

It was at that moment that, for the first time, I hated. I truly, honestly, felt pure hate. Before, I had felt remorse and regret, anger at others for petty things or mean words, but that time it was hatred. Probably because what I hated was circumstances, and that’s something I can’t fix or control. I hated, for the first time, the privilege I had. I hated the way I was upset about grades and broken hearts, when he had to sit on the wet grass with his spirit depleted ten times more than mine. I had family to mend me and my problems, but he lost everything. I hated how much I neglected what I had, and how I focused on everything wrong when most everything was right, and he had to deal with wet grass and condescending stares. I hated my perfect boots and fur-lined jacket when all he had to hold were wet quilts. But what I hated most was the chance that I might once again let this pass, let his feeling of realization, even hate, pass, because I can go back to my little almost-perfect life, while he has to stay here.

            He looks at me again and I feel ten times worse. Maybe I was being judged for judging him. It was a back-and-forth tennis match of attempted understanding. Frightened, I turn away. My fright, though, is still a learned trait. I’ve been taught to be scared. One day, I’ll dilute and break down that fear in myself with compassion. But for today, I am not proud of who I am. For today, I don’t defy. I don’t disobey my mom, who isn’t even here. One day, though, I’ll grow up all the way and walk over, maybe, and ask him if he can tell me his story.

            I check my clock. Twelve fifty-nine.

            So, with that beyond-guilty, atrocious feeling inside of me, I gave him the best effort that I could do for that day: a smile. It was sort of sympathetic and understanding, but also short-lived. This smile was slightly awkward, too. It was like I didn’t know what to say, so that was all I could muster. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to say- I did- but I was despising my wall of fear, and another wall of embarrassment, and another of shame, that engulfed me, and I had yet to break down.

            That’s all. I quickly smiled. I wished I had said something. But I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgotten anything, because I now know what it feels like. Shame, because of all I have that I know I don’t deserve. Embarrassment, because of the still-present fear that will one day dissolve, just not today. Relief, because of the hope and compassion starting to cultivate in my heart that will knock down my fear.  

            One o’clock.

            The doors swing open, and people start to file in.

            I gather up my backpack and stand.  He looks over one more time.

            Again, I muster a smile. And even though I felt for him, even though I knew that this man wasn’t crazy, just alone, and even though that I wished better for him…           

 

            I walked away.

 

Reviews

[xoxconsuelo]

Wow. In two words: simply amazing. I could actualy see myself there, sitting and fighting my inner battle. I don't think I could have given him a smile, I never brought myself to do that (eventhough I wanted to when passing someone on the street), the vulnerable girl in me is just too frightened:D
I really liked it ... and I would love if it were made into a longer story, add a little twist, meet the old man or something :)
One little thing I didn't quite like, I think the girl is too young, but maybe that's just from the perspective I am getting too old so I like older characters...
Great story and I will definitely like to read more from you!

[Court Douglas]

Thank you so much! I am so flattered that someone likes my work. I live in a small town, so I still see that man a lot. Though I see that the girl might have been put in adult scenario, this piece was a work of creative nonfiction; I can't change the age because I lived it! :) Thanks!

[xoxconsuelo]

Well very mature train of thought for a fourteen year old:) Keep up the good work!

[CreativeCookie]

This is great, you could see this happening somewhere for real. The inner struggle, the should I, should I not? The feelings that course through you, the shame that you can't bring yourself to do anything. Many can relate, and that's great. Let me tell you, this is what I believe to be true writing. Keep it up!
Love,
CreativeCookie

[Court Douglas]

Thank you! I have another part of it on my profile if you'd like to read it! :)