I was behind an older woman in line who was having trouble checking out at the card reader. On top of that, she was on her cell phone. My impatient asshole-ness kicked in immediately. Ugh. Some old lady is wasting my time because she doesn’t understand technology and can’t take the time to get off her damn phone and just focus.
Pleasant, huh?
After watching her for a few seconds, though, I realized that the woman didn’t speak English. She wasn’t distracted by being on the phone. She was on the phone because the person on the other end was trying to remotely talk her through using the credit card reader. Yikes.
Finally, the older woman motioned to the young woman behind the checkout counter, indicating that she needed her to come around and show her which buttons to push.
“What?”
The young woman acted as though paralyzed with discomfort. I’ve seen this sooo many times before—Americans as a whole (or maybe it’s all people, but I suspect it’s us isolated Americans) are extremely uncomfortable with people who have difficulty communicating. People who don’t speak English, people who speak with a heavy accent, people with some sort of disability that prevents them from speaking clearly or speaking at all—cause many Americans to freeze up and freak out.
Not me. I don’t know why. I’m not saying that to brag or act as though I’m better than other people because I most certainly am not. I have many friends who are far more charitable and kind than me. But for whatever reason, in those situations when someone is having trouble communicating, for me, it kind of turns into that scene in the Matrix when the bullets stop whizzing at Keanau Reeves and it’s as if they’re traveling in slow motion. Time slows down, my heart rate decreases and my focus dials in to the person having trouble making their intentions known. Sometimes it takes a few tries, but I don’t think I’ve ever been unsuccessful in communicating with anyone. I’m not flustered, or embarrassed or put off by it. I became so known for this willingness to work with people that in my retail jobs that when certain regulars would come in—the guy with a tracheotomy, the girl with Down syndrome, the Chinese dude who only spoke Chinese—many of my coworkers would throw up their hands in defeat. “You deal with them, Amber,” they’d say, and walk away. If I had to claim one superpower, this might be it.
“She needs help,” I said to the young woman.
“What?” she asked again, still paralyzed.
I moved over so that I was at the side of the older woman.
“Push that,” I said, indicating the correct button, knowing that though she couldn’t understand me, 99% of communication can be about gestures and tone of voice.
The machine asked if she wanted cash back. I hesitated. The old woman looked at me. “No?” she asked. “No,” I said, shaking my head. She pushed NO.
And the transaction was over. I ended up not really helping at all. But the older woman smiled a smile that was infectious. “Ohhhhh!” she said, obviously expressing gratitude. Then she grabbed me, hugged me and kissed my cheek, multiple times. She had soft skin and reminded me of my grandmother.
I grinned at her. Huge. Couldn’t help it. “Where are you from?” I asked. Instinctively I knew she’d know what I was asking.
“Brazil!” she said proudly. Then she tapped her chest and was serious. “But I American,” she emphasized. “I too old to learn English.” And I thought about the implication of what she was telling me and why. How she'd probably experienced the ugly American who was an asshole to her simply because she didn't speak English. And you know what? That asshole would never get to experience her smile or her hugs and kisses.
I was still grinning like an idiot. “That’s okay,” I said, and I patted her shoulder.
She grabbed me again, hugging me some more, smiling a smile that radiated like a thousand suns. She was thrilled because someone made a little bit of effort. Because someone paid her a teeny bit of attention and didn’t behave as though she was invisible. As she left, she waved at me. “Ciao!” she said. “Ciao!” I said back, wishing that I spoke even a smidgen of Spanish. I’ve never had the opportunity to say “Ciao” to anybody without it being a joke. It was awesome.
As I watched her flounce out of the store, happy, it occurred to me that maybe I should’ve told her my name and asked for hers. Maybe I’d missed an opportunity to make a new friend. And I wondered about her. I wondered if she has family here. I hope she has family here. Or friends. I hope she wasn’t an old lady living in the U.S. on her own, on the phone with someone in Brazil.
And I guess my point in all this is, for fuck’s sake, people, is that’s all it takes to make beautiful things happen. A little understanding. A little compassion. A little patience. A tiny bit of communication. You don’t even have to have very many words in common. Did you know that “okay” is almost universally known? Do you know how much you can accomplish with a smile, a nod and “okay?” Maybe you'll have to get a piece of paper and draw some pictures or let the other person draw some pictures to get the message across. So fucking what? The world just doesn’t have to be so complicated and ugly.
Successful communication, though? That is a beautiful thing.
