Sarah

When I was in middle school, around the age of twelve or thirteen, I was the class reject. My father did not have all the money in the word, being a single father of three kids... two girls and a boy (myself, the only boy of two female siblings) I had a challenging time sharing the bathrooms in the morning. I often was forced to stand outside holding my bladder, before I was soon to inadvertently wet myself there in the cold hallway on chilly autumn mornings. We got along about as well as expected at this age, bitching and moaning as young adults tend to do while dad was off working one of his three jobs to provide for us. My mother, had been mostly estranged by this point after their divorce, delving into alcoholism... depression, there was always some new boyfriend that she had around that didn’t seem to fit her life... at least not to any of us kids that is, for they fit her life almost perfectly it seemed... for reasons beyond our adolescent minds that we weren't quite ready to talk about in open conversation. I found myself excluding myself often, playing video games, fiddling around with a guitar with big ambitions and an overactive imagination... it was the crippling ADHD that had forced me there behind closed doors often, distracted within a world there of my choosing... reading 'It' by Stephen King or playing The Legend of Zelda on Nintendo 64. You know, the good old days.  

I did my best to do well in school, tried hard to understand the world around me as I didn’t quite fit in with everyone else. I made friends easily but had always been considered the outcast by most. We came from the poorer part of town in central Oklahoma, my dad working diligently to provide for us was a task yet more daunting to me as I grow older, and by the time that I was old enough to get a job... my lackluster ambitions had fully blossomed into obsessions... spending most of my time there secluded in distant worlds of strange alien planets and fantasy driven landscapes, where I could almost find... common ground. As a result, I made friends where I could find them, the rejects... the oddballs and the class clowns or goofs... the other kids like me, either of low income or somehow... the others that had bucked back against a system there... a system that had extended out with open arms the world that we were given, one of which we were forced then to accept. I remember thinking how unfair it had been at times, but my dad would always keep us smiling, because that was his very nature. To make the best of a difficult day no matter what... because nothing else was more important than family and the smiles upon our faces.

My older sister thrived in this, she was highly motivated, 4.0 GPA in high school, top of her class, and an amazing singing voice to boot. She was quite capable of charming the pants off of anyone that she wanted, and often did. Not suggesting that my sister was 'easy,' only stating that she had the ability to charm pants off... if she so wished. My younger sister had always been dubbed ‘her twin,’ because they had done everything together, and even being five years apart they had looked remarkably similar. Not me, though, I had looked like a huskier version of my father, only slightly taller and with far better hair (sorry dad, and I suppose I owe a thank you to my mother's genetics after all). As a result of this upbringing, I was often alone.

Most days were hectic at home, and this spilled over into my ways of thinking. The hyperactivity came and went as if I always had been jazzed on thirteen cups of coffee, at school I was the kid that either didn’t get social norms and functions or the ‘rites of passage,’ my father had called them. You know, going to prom or getting a driver’s license at sixteen instead of nineteen... but in some of my ways of thinking, these ‘rites of passage,’ had been distractions by social constructs and my rebellious and brooding teenage mind hadn’t cared much for fitting in. I wish that I had done things differently in those days, though I don’t regret the way that I turned out... well, I don’t regret all the things from back then. I’m mostly proud of my perspective, granted there were certain things that I wish that I'd done differently but that’s for another lifetime I suppose, or perhaps another story. We only get this one chance to embrace this gift called life, and I know, I’m going to enjoy the hell out of mine.  

I had followed in my sister's footsteps in school, not all of her steps, but some of them. I joined choir, and I could sing pretty well. Growing up with a songwriter for a father was something else all its own, and I prided myself on my words and my musical ability regardless of the shyness that I often felt or displayed. Choir was one of the things looking back that I wish that I’d stayed with for longer, because I enjoyed it quite a bit. This was also one of those things growing up that I hadn’t fully come to terms with, knowing that I was there to create a place in this world for myself and not trudge endlessly the path that had already been laid out before me like my younger sister had. My older sister did an excellent job though, showing a remarkable list of achievements to venture down if I only would choose to do so, my older sister was more of a mother than my actual mother if that helps you understand exactly the type of person she is. And still to this day, often the disappointments that come along with life like, oh say... an interest in writing... where now I pour my imagination into words... creating strange new distant worlds and obtuse landscapes... where she could easily criticize and scrutinize everything that I’ll ever write because my older sister loves to read. I’ll both love and hate her for that in the end. Fine Amy, you can be my best critic, just keep the gloves above the waist, shall we?  

One day, in middle school... I think it was closer to the eighth grade, there was a new student in class. Her name was Sarah, I’m omitting her last name from the record in case she ever ‘read’ this story or any of my stories for that matter that I might write someday. I said the word 'read' in quotations, because Sarah, was blind. She had been born without eyes, and a cleft pallet along her upper lip. But Sarah had been remarkable in other ways, though if you looked passed the eyes that seemed to constantly stare absently, to those bright blue painted glass marbles that had been there instead, Sarah had been quite attractive at that age. She had a personal guide that would help her to and from classes early on, often sitting with her and helping her get settled in... but the odd thing about Sarah, was that no matter her inability to see the world as everyone else did, while everyone around her was busy trying to fit in and be socially accepted... Sarah simply, was extraordinarily talented.  

She had found her way along, using her cane to guide her from class to class as the bells had rung, and the other kids had often made faces at her as they shuffled out of her way while she clacked the long dowel held gently in her hands upon the ground to find her steps there in her dark world. But on most days, as one class had let out, and another was soon to begin, we walked the halls there and Sarah would be there... amidst an ocean of other children, with a violin in her hands, playing amazing pieces of music there as we all would occasionally stop and stare... often with accompaniment... some tape recording of other music that she would duet with as she held her violin, and not just that, Sarah could sing as well. She was amazingly gifted for someone with her hindrances, and even those of us that had been wiser from our parents raising us on the more appreciative side of the timeline, we would watch her there, shaking our heads at her ability to effortlessly play Beethoven or sing Patsy Cline’s “Blue,” in perfect soprano. I mean it, Sarah could really sing. She had a soft voice that seemed to float there amidst an endlessness of those walking past her, that was just... beautiful.  

One day, our choir class was letting up a little, giving us a a brief moment of respite... a short time to relax before the next bell, and she had been sitting there, alone. The other girls had clumped together in their respective circles behind her, gossiping as per the usual in those days, and Sarah had been there by herself, her hands folded neatly into her lap, listening, her glass eyes occasionally blinking then mostly out of instinct or habit as they absently stared down at the floor. And I went to her, not wanting her to feel alone, but back in those days I had understood exactly what it had meant to be alone and would have welcomed someone friendly to sit beside. I walked up to her and introduced myself.  

“Hi Sarah,” I said. Her head tilting up at me.

“Hello,” she said with a thin smile, blinking in a mild mechanical nature, glancing in my general direction. She had a speech impediment as well, like a mouth full of too much saliva, though it wasn’t a lisp... almost a nasally production of her words.  

“I’m Daniel,” I said.  

“Oh,” she replied. “I know who you are, I recognize your voice.”  

She knew me, which was strange to me a little as I looked down at her. How she had known who I was, was something beyond my understanding, as I hadn’t the simplest concept of what her ears had been able to pick up in crowded rooms. I suppose then, quite a great deal.  

“Is it okay if I sit with you a while?” I asked, and her face relaxed. She smiled again.

"Okay," she said politely.

As I sat beside her, our conversation going about as expected, the occasional ‘What did you do over the weekend?’  

“Oh, hung around the house,” she’d say or, “I had a piano lesson on Sunday.” I forgot to mention, Sarah was also gifted at the piano as well. She really was a wonder to a lot of us there, but seldom did she get the recognition that she deserved. With the other children making their snide remarks... shamefully, me included at that age, she didn’t deserve the way that she had been treated by so many others among her, even as gifted as she was.

Occasionally sitting there, the conversation would dry up, as I couldn’t think of other things to talk about... being a poor conversationalist back then, and she would reach over slowly with apprehension with her hand, and put a hand on my arm. It wasn’t a notion of attraction, or that we had been ‘sweet on one another,’ it was more of a way to confirm whether I had been sitting there beside her... or not, as she had no earthly way of knowing if I had left. I didn’t mind it, I accepted it. "I'm still here," I would say. Often, there were times that it was just like that, amongst a group of young adults that had drawn together in clusters, and she and I... the run-down outcast that I was, and a more or less 'well off' blind girl sitting by ourselves in casual conversation as if we had been long time acquaintances. We honestly didn’t have much in common beside our time together in choir class or the ability to play stringed instruments. My dad is an amazing guitar player, not much anymore due to a stroke and old age, but I learned a lot of what I know from him, and my dad hadn’t been a classically trained musician... he was completely self-taught at the age of five, but he knew more about guitar playing than I’ll ever know. I suppose I’m catching up to him in my older years yet, even at forty now, a kid can dream right?

I don’t know much about what happened to Sarah. I don’t know what became of her after high school, as she had been at the same school that I had attended then too, playing her violin in crowded halls for pubescent and prepubescent classmates, wild hormones and constant gossip. But there she would always be, singing along to ‘Crazy’ by Patsy Cline on an audio recording without words. Probably the reason why that song has been stuck in my head throughout the years... it’s also one of my favorite songs to sing for no reason at all, as I think in my alto or tenor vocal range, that I can sing it quite well. Just a song with a special place in my heart and for the life of me I don’t quite understand why. Maybe writing this, I think I understand a little as to why I do.

There are lessons to be learned here, as my dad always said: ‘Treat others, as you want to be treated.’ I might have never truly fit in in high school, though I did my best to make my impressions on those that had been there. There are people that remember me from those days, and sadly... I don’t. I can’t recall the names of the bullies and all the popular kids, but like images burned into film rolls, I never forget a familiar face... whether that person that the face belongs to, is good or bad. I suppose, another lesson learned from this is to be kind to others, you never know quite what other people have lived through, or what struggles that they have. We have small glimpses into other people’s lives around us, but seldom know what each and every one of us has on their plate... blind or not.  

The only people that really knew about our short-lived friendship in middle school, were the other kids in that choir class, and our teachers that might have seen my honest and good intentions. She had been protected by much of the teaching staff at both schools for some of the unfair treatment that she had received over the years. But walking to and from class, I would say a short ‘Hello’ to her in passing. Recognizing my voice, she would only smile and say the same in kind... and that had been the end of it. There was never any more to say, and never at any given time had we been in public interacting with one another.  

Never did I mention it to my family. Sure, I was an odd duck in my household, but befriending the local blind girl wasn’t exactly helping my case, it wasn’t something that I would drum up in casual conversation. Looking back, I don’t know why I had never mentioned it. Most likely, because there was always something more within my mind back then, rattling around... paranoia, anxiety or depression to name a few. I did talk about her to my dad, telling him how amazing she was... "That your new girlfriend?" he had asked then, sitting in the old blue work van while he drove, with a little chuckle and light hazing. Even back then, I don't think I could convey what it was that I had been thinking, an anomaly to most that she had been able to do the things that she did, and always with a smile on her face, no matter who had said what as she walked by.

And yes, before I had ever talked to her... of course I had joined in. I remember saying mean things about her, as the others had done, but that was before I had met her... and spoken with her firsthand. After sharing choir class with her, and the frequent talks that we had, I had often defended her if the occasion called for it, feeling guilt for my own choice words.

Knowing someone like her from my childhood I can honestly say that I'm better for having her memory in my mind. It's humbling... to appreciate the world that we were given regardless of our station in life. People like her are gentle reminders that we are not the sum of all of our parts. My dad always had another saying, ‘Actions speak louder than words.' I think it’s time that we start doing better for one another and saying less about what it is that we’re doing as if we are measuring our own good will, instead of measuring the capacity of what our hearts are capable of.