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.
What connections you were able to make through your parents’ charge accounts. What’s even more remarkable is how many adults could see that you needed …something… and were willing to just give you a little time.
Indeed. One imagines young ones in similar circumstances but without a charge card would not be so fortunate.
I hate this comment. I’m getting old, too, and I hate this comment. It’s many things but most of all mean. Fortunate is not how a sane person would describe this childhood.
A charge account is not the same as a charge card. She makes that clear in the opening sentence. Your vulgarity is showing: both in your failure to understanding what is clearly stated, and in your choice to turn someone else’s story into a tool for your own virtue signaling.
Posts like this (when they come to my inbox) are what make me stop what I’m doing to read. This is the storytelling that I love from you. (I hate your lived reality, but I don’t have a TARDIS so I can’t change your past)
We’re about the same age so I understand feeling old. But we aren’t old; not really. Keep telling stories. They keep us alive. Tell enough stories and you never really age … or die.
This story is so sad.
I think I’m a little bit older than you, but I also grew up as a “latchkey kid” in the 70’s (and from a “broken home,” to boot), when both were seen as grave social problems. My brother and I were the only such kids on our block. I say “latchkey,” but the truth is we left our doors unlocked in the 70s. I didn’t have a house key until the 80s.
We always had geraniums. My mother planted a lot of things when she was home.
Thank you for sharing that. I think that’s really a big part of my story as well — how few kids were in that position at the time. I was born in 1966, so I was in the 70s as well. I think maybe by the 80s there were a few more accoutrements in place for working moms. And, we left our door open too. There is no way my parents would have risked dealing with a kid being locked out.
Penelope
I’m glad people took care of you and were kind to you. ( I shudder to think of what might have happened to you.) The hours after school until suppertime can seem endless to a child. I’ve grown up hearing that “kindness is never wasted” and I hope I can pass it along as well.
Please keep telling these stories, no matter how much time we have left. Each one makes my own childhood come into focus just a little bit more.
Thank you for saying that, Louise. It menas a lot to me.
I was watching a movie, Mermaids with Cher as a single mother, set in the mid sixties. When the camera showed the daughter walking along the sidewalk crying I immediately knew why: Without a father, I guessed the girl liked JFK and sure enough, he had been killed.
As an adult, I stay away from social circles who use sarcasm, because I refuse to protect myself with a time-delay, to check for. lies, when people speak. To me a time-delay is like making puns: it means I’m not in the moment and present for emotions.
I too believed there was a good world. Somewhere. As an adult, I don’t do caution with strangers but instead talk as easily as someone meeting a stranger in a fairytale. Because I want to believe.
So touched by the content and by the style. Very fascinating story. Only today on Wikipedia I discovered that you come from a Jewish family. That’s why you talk about Catholic neighbours. I am an Italian woman born in Feb. 1967 and grown up in the ‘70 and (horrible) ‘80. We are getting old but we are not old. I have a lot things to understand about me, my childhood, my mum before I get old. And many books to read. Thanks
I, too,
have grown up with
so many mamas
to give love
in scattered parts
to make up
for what one mama
could not give
alone.
This is lovely. Thank you.
We are the same age, I went to OPRF and am familiar with a childhood of violence, brokenness and pain. The picture of you is absolutely precious. Procreation doesn’t qualify people to know how to love. Thankfully, we can all learn despite horrific circumstances as you have. Having read your blog for years, I can tell you that I definitely don’t see the world and life the way you do, but I sincerely respect you. What a beautiful little girl who grew up and will never stop trying to find a way forward. While I know you are Jewish, I don’t know if you believe that you are wonderfully created in the image of God, as we all are in a mysterious way. May His grace grant you healing and Divine peace.
Thank you for such a nice comment. I like that you described me as “will never stop trying to find a way forward.” I want to have that description of myself. It doesn’t mean I have to have found heroic redemption — I need to keep trying.
I mentor a woman with 4 little ones. She was having mental health issues after the third was born, and I had to pick up the 3 year old and 1.5 year old and bring them with me to my office. My longtime coworker sat the 1.5 year old on his lap and played cat videos on a loop for her. He left our office, and honestly it was a great exit. The kids still ask for him every single day for three years.