I wish it was something to be proud of; I dulled her shine so well. This glowing, beaming woman emanating joy; she was gorgeous. She was the joy we’re all seeking.
Dark, corkscrew curls framed her face, pushed back in a semblance of taming them with a three-finger-width cranberry cloth band. Her deep brown eyes were welcoming, matching her wide smile which flashed between animated explanations.
She has a family and social life of her own but she was volunteering her time here at the library tonight to share information about her father’s culture. Beautiful, spicy Mexico.
She helped my children sort through which of the Mexican candies scattered on the right side of her table wouldn’t be too spicy for them to enjoy. She shared a laugh with my husband over his silly banter and then the conversation turned to our children and their fascinating mixed colors and features.
I should have left them to it. If I could go back and change the next moments I would.
The conversation became between the three of us. We might have mentioned their green and hazel eyes even though his are only brown and mine only blue. She explained that her husband is darker than she is, her skin a lightest shade of brown. Her father’s lineage shows much more clearly in her thick bunches of almost black curls. They had also been excited to see how their children would turn out.
Maybe we seemed to be a safe space, connecting there over her delicious tres leches flan and picante candy our children were still perusing. Maybe my husband’s easy, friendly mannerisms had disarmed her. I’m glad we did feel safe and yet regret how I stumbled so deeply from there.
There wasn’t anyone waiting behind us, so as we lingered, enjoying her food and company, she pulled out her phone and scrolled to the sweetest photo of her, her husband and their son, held up lovingly between them, clearly dressed up and taken for a family photo shoot. She and her fellow dark-haired husband were cuddling their adorable, extremely blond, very pale, twenty-month old boy in the shot.
We met her at a volunteer Christmas Around the World library event in Tupelo, Mississippi. She laughingly explained that ladies stop her all the time out in public exclaiming over her son’s blond hair and asking where he gets it from.
My husband stepped out of the conversation to help one of our younger children open their candy selection. She flowed right into an explanation that her son actually has albinism; that the doctors noticed it right away. She hadn’t believed them at first; how could they be so sure? His eyes are a light blue, not red. He’s pale, but not as pure white as one would picture for someone with the condition.
She’s waiting to find out if he will lose his vision young. They’re starting vision therapy and assistance, working closely with his doctors every step of the way to understand his particular version of albinism. She had learned, and I learned from her in that moment, that there are multiple versions possible.
We could have ended it there, said our thank yous and moved on to learn about Cuba or one of the other countries. We hadn’t visited every display table yet.
I think I was trying to sympathize and encourage her. I think I was trying to point out that there’s hope for him to still have the future she may be starting to imagine differently. I told her how I used to play basketball against a team that had a girl with albinism on it; that her eyes moved rapidly side to side constantly and she had glasses but she was able to play. She acknowledged that yes, her son’s don’t do that now but they watch for changes because they could.
I think I tried to relate to her about our children not looking like us in public spaces while young, and how other adults react to that. Maybe I was trying to re-direct the discussion from her son’s condition to acknowledge his place as a son and child beyond the worries and changes his condition may hold for their future.
I’m trying to understand myself.
I laughed and told her a story I’ve told many times, but faltered uncomfortably over the details this recounting, as I heard what the words sounded like coming from my mouth.
“When my oldest was born she had jet-black hair sticking out in all directions and didn’t look like me at all. I was in the grocery check-out once when she almost threw herself into the arms of the man behind us. He was very friendly but was stereotypical Mexican, y’know? White tank top, gold chain, gold tooth…”
I suddenly stumbled over my words, standing in front of this engaging, beautiful, American-Mexican woman volunteering her time during an already busy season of year, to share her father’s beloved Mexican heritage.
“I don’t know if she thought for some reason it was daddy?”
I attempted to salvage my story. I was uncomfortable; I wanted to stop. But I was too far in to not complete the tale.
“Basically, she wanted him, not me. He was nice and held her while I finished my transaction, but I was nervous the entire time, glancing over. When I went to take her, she cried and screamed the whole way out of the store. She made it look like I was stealing his baby.”
I was grateful to be done. Her face looked slightly panicked. She might have felt sick. She clearly needed to get away from me before I shared more “encouraging” moments.
“Excuse me,” she muttered, her smile now small, tight and forced. She stepped quickly from behind the table and walked vaguely out into the room, seeking an imaginary errand to escape.
I was that person tonight. I hurt her. I dashed this dazzling, effervescent woman to the ground. She needed to escape me to breath. I was another crass, oblivious woman to add to her growing list of experiences since she had had her son.
Devastation and shame at the effect of my words welled up within me. She needed to get away. My only success was that I let her have her escape.
I wanted to chase her down, apologize, say:
“You’re so brave. I can see the immense love you have for your son in your joyful smile as you share his photo. He’s blessed to have you as a mother. That must have been heartbreaking to hear the news from the doctors while you were still celebrating his birth. Your heart must have clenched in fear for what those words could mean for your son. But I see you fighting through. I see you loving him fiercely. I see you being strong, becoming informed, learning how to best help him. I see your gorgeous family in that one photo I’ve seen. Your loving husband embracing his role as a father. Both of you covering your son with your love. You’ve got this. This isn’t the road you imagined or would ever have chosen, yet you will make it through with flying colors. Can I hug you? Can I lessen your pain? Can I tell you that you are wonderful? That the first impression you give is light and joy? Mama, you’re doing this so well. I’m proud of you. I pray that God will bless you and give you peace, comfort and hope. Thank you for sharing your time and heritage with us.”
I wish I could have told her those words. But we were strangers at a public event. She had no reason to engage with me again. She didn’t owe me the opportunity to mend my damage. Instead I left the event shortly after, still sickened by my effect. I sincerely hope she’s forgotten me and my misguided, stumbling words that night.
I will never forget her though. Her and the dazzling light I extinguished.
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