Looks

Her name was Michelle and I thought I hated her. She was perfect. Too perfect, in my opinion. She had thick, black hair that swept her shoulders. She had dark, warm eyes that seemed to say a million beautiful things at once. She had a nose so unique, you’d never forget her face. She was short, no more than five feet, four inches. She was petite, breakable even. She was beautiful. She was perfect. And I thought I hated her. 

There were many times I’d catch Michelle staring at me. Mind you, I’m the only black kid in class. There were white faces all around me, and growing up surrounded by white faces, I was used to the stares. I was used to the whispers. I was used to the speculation that I was somehow less than the other kids in class. So when I’d catch Michelle staring at me, only to quickly look away, I thought she was just like the rest of them. Because of this, I thought I hated her. 

She sat behind me in English class. She’d turn a page and I’d roll my eyes. These desks are too close together, I’d think. Just a few more inches between us and I wouldn’t be irritated by her willingness to learn. When she was called on to speak, her words would crash against my back and find their way into my ears, where they would stay for the rest of the day. Then the teacher would say something funny and Michelle would laugh. It was a soft laugh. A smooth one. And it irritated me because I thought I hated her. 

We were paired together once. The assignment was to propose an argument about the death penalty. Are you in favor of the death penalty, or are you against it? Tell me why, the teacher said. I turned my desk around to make the discussion easier, and I was suddenly face to face with her perfection. Her beauty. Her unique nose and her dark eyes. I thought I hated her. 

Hey, she said. 

Hey, I said back.

It was awkward. She didn’t know what to say after that and neither did I. Even though the teacher had given us the prompt, we were speechless. Does she not have an opinion? Or does she not want to work with me? I was so used to not fitting within the margins of a predominantly white school that I believed I already had the answers to these questions. She was just like everyone else, and I thought I was right to hate her. 

We discussed the death penalty. We both came from conservative families but it was clear we had bleeding hearts, like most young and inexperienced liberals. Neither one of us agreed with the death penalty. I’ll never forget what Michelle said. She said, It’s hypocritical to kill someone who killed someone to prove that killing people is wrong. Twenty years later, I remember those words. My opinion of the death penalty has changed a bit, but I’ll never not think of Michelle when the topic of capital punishment comes up. I’ll never not remember what she said. I don’t know why it’s stayed with me, or why I remember it so clearly, but I do, and I’ll never forget.

We were only paired together the once, but Michelle never stopped staring at me. I’d catch her staring at me, and she’d immediately look away. Soon, I found myself looking for her stares and, when I couldn’t see her eyes, I’d stare at her. I’d wonder what she was writing, what she was saying, what she was thinking. There were a few times she caught me staring at her, and I’d look away immediately. God, I hate her! I’d think. Why does she keep staring at me? I’d ask myself. The better question (and I know after all these years that it was the right question) was, why do I keep looking for her? 

I sometimes wonder where she is now. Did she stay in California? Did she leave that quiet town and explore the world? I bet she looks the same. Or rather, I bet she’s aged well. More than anything, I wonder if she married a man. I did. I wasn’t supposed to, and it definitely didn’t last (…duh), but I did. 

I never wonder, though, why she stared at me. After years of serious contemplation, I know why she did. I didn’t notice at the time, but her stares were different. They weren’t stares, they were looks. She was looking at me. She was seeing me. She was seeing herself in me. We were the same, different as we were. We were hiding in plain sight, but she could see me. Michelle could only afford me the looks. Anything more than a look was a sin. A moral crime. A sexual deviance. A look is an innocent thing. A look is a harmless thing. A look won’t take away your college tuition. A look won’t get you kicked out of your house at the tender age of seventeen.

I cry as I write this. I grieve for my younger self, who was denied acceptance before the words were even out of my mouth. I cry for the time I’ve lost, or rather, the time I’ve wasted pretending to be something I’m not. I cry for the part of me that is still reluctant to embrace authenticity and truth. I’m not hiding anymore, but I live quietly. I don’t live out loud. I don't know how.

Now, whenever a lover asks me to reflect on my first love, I tell her all about all the reasons I hated Michelle. I talk about her perfection. Her beauty. Her many looks. And my lovers always understand, because they, too, hated someone for looking at them too long and too often. Many of us do. 

I didn’t hate Michelle at all. It was easy to confuse love for hate because the passion that fuels these emotions is so similar. I loved Michelle. I still love her. For giving me her looks, and for seeing me, I love her. I will forever cherish the way she looked at me, and the millions of beautiful things her eyes said.