She is ambling down the sidewalk-her baby legs reminding me of one of those dogs that can either be walked or placed comfortably in a purse. Her leggings are cranberry colored, and the puffer jacket that makes her diminutive frame look only slightly bigger than a minute, is something akin to fuchsia, but it works. On her, it just feels happy. A canvas splashed with bright paint, created with love and intention. Even from this distance, I can see her pigtailed braids brush her shoulders as she glances up at the man holding her hand. Her hair is dark and thick, and the braids remind me of the dense chocolate pastries I used to buy from a street vendor before my early classes in college.
I remember the sweet dough getting caught between my teeth and not caring. And I washed it down coffee encased in Styrofoam, too light and also, too sweet.
Now, I edge my car up, careful to keep space between me and the Honda just in front of me, but I feel compelled to soak up more of what she’s sending into the universe.
Joy.
I don’t know her, but this little person is just emanating happiness.
The star framed sunglasses resting on her rounded face, the colorful striped umbrella swinging in her free hand, and yes, her amble.
Joy.
I’m almost parallel to them now, and I can see a smile crease the man’s face. He’s handsome in a way that’s rather striking. Strong jaw, thick, bushy eyebrows, and a hairline that’s decidedly staying put. His cardigan fits snugly on broad shoulders, and the olive-colored trousers he is wearing hug long, lean legs. Not skinny. Fit. They look fit. He looks fit. And also, joyful.
This little one standing beside him seems to be the source of his joy, and it’s no wonder. I can feel it, feet away, with metal and glass between us.
I think of her baby hand resting in his larger one. Wrapped. Safe.
She isn’t though. She isn’t safe. Not really. Not in this world. Not in a world that hates skin that isn’t white and girls who aren’t submissive.
And she isn’t submissive. I can tell.
I can tell that her parents, or her guardians, and definitely her teachers, call her a handful.
I can tell that the people who love her most in this world describe her as someone who “beats to her own drummer.”
I can tell that she has opinions and thoughts and shares them freely.
She is gesturing now, head tilted back and umbrella-laden arm swinging wildly.
The man is laughing, but signals to her to be mindful of her space.
And I want to roll down my window now. I want to park my car in this lane, this active lane of traffic, and cross the street. I want to tell her to be mindful, but only where she is concerned, and the people she loves. I want to tell her that the world is vast, and people are complicated, and she should work to remain colorful.
She should always gesticulate wildly and wear clashing colors and throw on star-shaped sunglasses on a gloomy, gray, rainy day.
I want to tell her that there are so many ways in which the world will try and make her smaller, once she grows bigger, and even, before. I want to tell her, without scaring her, that there are women who believe that she does not need protection, not now, not in a few years, and perhaps, not even in a decade. I want to remind her that there are people who will take advantage and seek to harm and the best thing she can do for herself is remain vigilant and brave, but also, hopeful.
It feels necessary to share that for the longest time, I lost my hope. I was harmed and caused myself harm, and in that process, I started to feel like the world was a fairly bleak place. I started to feel like there were no good humans anywhere, and everyone should be questioned and nothing was worth celebrating.
There came a time when I didn’t really believe in love and I had trouble liking, and I wasn’t sure of the purpose of anything. And I’m fairly petite myself, but still, I would kneel on the cold, wet, uneven sidewalk, so I could look directly at her beautiful, baby face. I would make sure that she could see my eyes imploring her, while I told her plainly to her face that I’m still not sure of much, but I know one thing for sure.
The world is beautiful. People are complicated. There are more good humans than bad. Women are worthy. There are many paths to choose and none are wrong. Some will be more difficult, and she will likely shed some tears, but in the end, she will figure it out. And I will finish with that. I will finish my soap box rant to this baby girl, by reaching out and gently resting my hand on the puffed nylon of her jacket and telling her that if she hasn’t figured it out yet, it’s not the end, so she should keep going.
The man bends down now and lifts my little friend off the ground, her rainboot clad feet dangling in the air. I feel like I can hear her giggle traveling through the thick, moisture-filled air and my closed car windows. I know that it’s light and bell-like, and mostly, contagious. She wraps her arms around the man’s neck, and I can see his arms tighten around her midsection.
As he slides her back down to the earth, I’m conscious of a car honking behind me. Startled by the noise, the man and child look in my direction. I know I should move but I can’t. I won’t. Suddenly, she smiles and starts frantically waving her hand. I can see her gapped, toothy grin, and the delicate dimples that puncture her cheeks. The man smiles too, and lifts his hand in the air.
I wave too. At first, calmly, and then, with gumption. I wave as if this wave is the thing that will convey my message, and change everything.
And then, I drive.
x
L.
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