Tiny kindnesses can save a childhood

Before there were charge cards, before there were dual-career families, there was second-grade me, shopping after school. “Charge it, please,” I’d say, like a suburban Eloise.

I shopped because there was nothing to do at home after school except fighting with my brother. And every time one of us got hurt, we’d get in trouble for calling our parents at work. The fighting got worse as we got older, and we began to understand: not even blood would get their attention. So we ignored each other, which felt worse than fighting, so I didn’t go home after school.

The Jeweler

It didn’t take me long to buy one of everything at the local clothing shop. First of all, there was no fast fashion. New clothes came in August for school and in May for summer. Also, I shopped in the boys section, where pants were stacked by size and color like invitations to play kickball at recess.

The salesperson finally suggested that I might like the girls section. That really opened up possibilities — not for clothes, but the girls section had jewelry. I liked buying matching rings to give to my best friend, who had a best friend who was not me. I spent a lot of time at the jewelry counter, memorizing birthstones, or trying on ten different bracelets.

One day, there was a stack of training bras on the jewelry counter.

The lady at the counter asked,  “Would you like one in your size?”

I said, “Okay.” And: “Charge it, please.”

She smiled and said, “Yes, I know.”

The Optometrist

I lost my glasses twice a month because I had a charge at the glasses store, and it was sort of on the way home from school, and the glasses store guy was never busy.

“You lost your glasses again?!?” he’d say.

And I’d say, “Yeah. I did.” I said it like I thought a kid would say it if their mom was going to be angry.

He would give me a snack while I tried on glasses. But at some point he said, “Why don’t you just try on glasses today and see if your lost pair turns up tomorrow?”

After that, I just went for the after school snack.

He would say, “How was your day at school?”

I gave one-word answers, but I handed those words to him like they were a loaded treasure map. I said whatever I could—just to keep him talking. I didn’t know what else to say.

I can still hear his voice, reaching for questions, while he polished glasses as if Vesuvius erupted that morning.

The Hairdresser

As I got older, I spent more time with the guy who cut my hair. No kids went to the salon between my school and house—it was too expensive. At the end of each haircut, I’d go to the front desk and say, “Charge it, please.”

The woman would say, “Would you like to leave a tip?”

The right answer seemed to be yes. Why else would she ask? So I always gave her the same number as the price of the haircut. It was the last number I’d heard, and I couldn’t think of a better one.

One time, the guy said, “This is too big a tip. You should keep this money.”

I told him the money didn’t matter.

I got haircuts so often that sometimes he’d say, “There’s nothing to cut!” Other times: “This one’s on me.” But every time, he told me stories about life with his girlfriend’s kids. And I thought that if I sat there long enough, I might become one of those kids too.

The Block Parent

We lived in a Catholic neighborhood, and the only kids on our block who went to public school were me, my brother, and the three Quaker boys. I tried to tag along after school, but as far as I could tell, the only thing they did was run around the neighborhood with a magnifying glass, setting things on fire.

So I started walking home alone. Most days, I took the long route, stopping in stores along the way. But sometimes, before I could decide on a good route, the bullies would find me. Andrew was the ringleader. One day, I ran through people’s backyards to escape. But I tripped—and he caught up. I sat on the ground with my legs pressed tightly together, bracing for a fight.

He stood over me, looking down. Then he walked away.

But I still felt terrified and didn’t know what to do. So I knocked on the door of a block parent. Block parents had signs in their windows.

She invited me in and asked if I was okay.  I said boys were chasing me.

“Where are they?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

She said she’d call my mom. I said, “My mom won’t come.”

She gave me hot chocolate and sat down with me in her kitchen while I drank it as slowly as possible.

The writer

I’m getting old. And I’m not sure what is most important to tell you. I feel like there is not going to be enough time. But enough time for what?

I want to make sure I spend my time seeing more of what’s true. And telling you about it. There are things we’ve known forever, but we don’t KNOW. Like how I always knew the kids around me were Catholic, but I didn’t understand what that meant. I remember the neighbor had geraniums in summer, and we didn’t. So I assumed it was a Catholic thing. Like Easter in spring. Or Christmas in winter.

I didn’t remember that until I started writing this. I like seeing the geraniums from another angle now.

And there’s something else I know—something that’s floated in my mind for so long, but never quite landed. So many people were kind to me. So many people saw that I needed help, and they did something out of the ordinary. My memories are of loneliness and fear. But people saw me. And those people are the ones who make me think that the world is good.