I always wondered about what happened to her. Part of me wondered if I’d simply made her up, a kind, soft-spoken figment of my imagination. This wouldn’t have been out of the realm of possibility, considering how intensely I wanted someone like that in my life; how desperately I bled for kindness. I was eight years old when I knew her. At that time in my life, I was old enough to know that my situation at home made me feel sick with fear, but I didn’t understand nor could I articulate what was happening and that I needed help. The mysteries of pain were very real to me, but I did not yet have the vocabulary of suffering to understand my own experience. I just knew that each day my heart ached with loneliness and emptiness that only family could have filled, and I spent each day wondering around amongst my giggling peers wondering what I had done that had rendered me so unloveable.
Me, my third grade year.
In my memory, she was at first just a regular grown up: slightly older than my mother but not as old as my grandmother, soft wisps of blonde hair and pretty blue eyes. Her voice was steady, docile. In my mind, over the years that passed since I knew her, I could remember her smile.
We as human beings recently lost Maya Angelou, one of the greatest minds of our time. One quote of hers that resonates with me applies herein:
“People will forget what you said.
People will forget what you did,
but they will never forget how you made them feel.”
I remember lining up to walk outside for recess one day, she was presiding over the line of bouncing kids who couldn’t wait to run. I hung back, my throat tight with apprehension. I was curious about why she was different than the other adults I knew. Why was she nice? For some reason, and I can’t say whether it was childhood curiosity or just a desire to make certain she was a real person and not some imaginary friend I’d created for myself, I looked up at her as the other kids headed for the sunlight and asked her what her first name was. In that moment, even all these years later, I remember how I felt when she looked down at me, sweetly perplexed, and smiled. “Cynthia.” she said, and that was the first time I remember someone looking at me without throwing daggers. My body relaxed and I exhaled. She didn’t scowl, she didn’t reach down and grab me sharply, she didn’t admonish me or lock me away. She only had kindness for me. She was, perhaps, the first person that gave me that gift. It changed my life forever.
I wondered about her as the years passed. I grew up, fled the abuse of my younger days first physically and then struggled to escape it in my mind for even longer. Somehow, how she had treated me stayed with me forever. It served as a reminder that I was deserving of the kindness and gentleness of others. Over the years, there were others like her. I remained silently thankful to her and wondered if I’d ever get the chance to tell her. I began publishing essays that garnered attention, responses like “this is fodder for a memoir.” I’d wanted to write one, but wasn’t sure I had enough perspective. I was still growing, after all, how much could I really understand?
Still, I started to look back at my life, flipping the pages backwards, all the way back to the prologue of my life – what happened before I was born – trying to understand where I fit into the picture. I thought of her and wondered -where is she now? I asked around and it took a few weeks but finally, someone said that they thought she lived with her husband (who had been our elementary school principal!) in a coastal town not too far from where I now, as a grown woman, called my home. I did what any young, computer savvy person would do and I put her name and the town into Google. I remember being afraid that I would find an obituary. What if I had missed my chance? What if the 10+ years that had passed was too long? But there, right in black and white was an address. I figured it was worth sending a letter- surely it had to be her, right? It was worth a shot.
Within a week, there was a letter in my PO BOX with the same address on the return label. She had gotten my letter! She was most certainly still alive. She and her husband invited me to visit them. I stood in the post office and cried quietly as I gently folded up the letter and placed it carefully in my purse. I was so thankful.
A few weeks passed and a wet spring began to turn into a slightly chilly summer. I got in my car and started the hour or so drive away from where I called home to the community they had settled into in the years that had gone by since I saw her last. I had changed so much since then. I was surprised to know that she even recalled me. While she had made such an incredible difference to me, I figured that I had been just another kid as far as she’d been concerned.
How many children had come in and out of her life in her career? What had stood out to her about me that she had been able to remember me, even after a decade had gone by? Had I somehow, in a small way, impacted her too? I was bursting with questions.
Had she known what I was going through? Did she see how much I hurt? Was her kindness just her way or did she see my great need of it and meet that need in a way that changed my brain and made me believe that yes, I deserved kindness! Did she know how it had changed me and kept me safe for years after?
I immediately recognized her husband – it’s funny how people can, even after years have passed and our little child eyes have turned upward to adult concerns, still make us feel like we are just little kids. When I saw her, it was a different kind of recognition. Yes, she looked much the same, though shorter than in my memory (full grown at 5’6’’, I had no doubt changed even more in the decade had gone by) but what struck me was how I felt: so at peace with myself.
Her embrace was welcoming and I quickly realized that as she had held a place in my heart over the years, I had somehow made a lasting impression on her as well. She expressed that, yes, she had realized that there were problems at home and that I was trying to cope. But like many adults in her situation, she didn’t really know what, if anything, she could do to lessen the burden.
“You were a shy, unhappy little girl. I just wanted to take you home with me. I remember saying to you, ‘If you need to talk, or tell me things, you can.’ But I never knew how bad it was.”
Hearing her words, I couldn’t help but have a moment of overwhelming sadness for my younger self. If only she’d known how much I wanted that, for someone to help me. At that age, though, I just wasn’t able to articulate that gnawing, aching need. Clearly, though, it bloomed from me in a way that people older and wiser could comprehend.
Oh, what I would give to go back and run into her open arms without fear! But what she gave me through that kindness was the most important gift a child in my situation could receive: I felt that I was deserving of love and gentleness, that I did not deserve the mistreatment I suffered. That I was loveable and a good girl, in spite of what my history might imply. As I grew up I carried that message with me, clung to it as the storm whipped up all around me. From time to time, when I felt so weary that I didn’t think I could withstand another blow, I would remember that once, long ago, someone was kind to me. Surely, then, someone else would be too.
Cynthia and her husband, Doug. They’re still married after all these years. When I asked them about the key to a happy marriage, Doug told me to “marry my best friend” and make sure to laugh often. He said they’ve spent more time in the car cracking each other up with silly jokes than anything else.
After a lovely visit, I drove back toward my home, my heart feeling healed a bit. There’s something very special about recognizing the people in your life who altered your path in some meaningful way, and surely, to be on the receiving end of that gratitude must be equally as meaningful. I hope that someday I can make that kind of difference to someone: what Cindy taught me in the end, and that I now take with me as a grown woman, is that you never know how far your kindness might carry someone.
