A version of this column originally appeared in the Salinas Californian newspaper in 2001.
In looking at each other we can build community or boundaries
I am convinced, that as subtle as they may seem, the looks we exchange everyday in Salinas contain an awesome power. With a look alone we can acknowledge or avoid our differences. We can build either a wall or the beginning of community.
I’ll begin by describing my sister because for most people she is hard not to look at. In 1974, when my sister Sally was six-years-old, she underwent surgery to remove a tumor that had wrapped around the top of her spinal column and fingered its way into her brain. The operation saved Sally’s life, but along with robbing her of speech, stunting her growth and limiting her mobility, it left her looking peculiar.
Now 33, Sally is small and bent with oddly twisted feet and hands that are swollen like an old woman. But her skin is virtually poreless, and wispy strands of hair cover her head in patches like a baby. This visual contradiction, encompassing both extreme age and extreme youth, makes it impossible for most people to guess Sally’s age. And, unless you know her as I do, her dark saucer eyes may seem vacant to you and the slow, clumsy way that she moves may lead you to believe that there is less of her behind those eyes than there is. If you are like anyone else––that is naturally curious about things and people that are unfamiliar to you––and you see my sister, at say, the mall one day, you will wonder who she is and what happened to her.
As adults, we have learned to cultivate the disinterested glance, gathering as much information as we can about the people who interest us with quick sideways glimpses. But for children, it is almost impossible not to stare openly at Sally, and the politeness their parents have tried to instill is quickly overcome by brute curiosity.
I have been out shopping with Sally and witnessed an argument between two siblings stop mid-sentence as they lose their sense of speech to stare at my sister. I have watched a young boy run behind his mother’s legs to hide from Sally and a young girl drop her mother’s hand to get a better look. Children will stop walking when my sister passes by. They lose the direction of their parent’s voices. They want to––need to––take my sister in. They display the looks we adults would give, if we could and still think of ourselves as good people. And though, they don’t stare as openly at Sally as children do, adults do employ a more subtle version of what I call “the look” when she passes by.
There are differences in intent behind our looking. There are looks that seem to erase Sally by only acknowledging her oddity and her misfortune. These seem to say, “Oh, what a strange girl. Oh, but how lucky I am! She’s not me.” This is a look that stops a conversation before it has begun. But there are also looks that recognize Sally’s peculiarity and go on to recognize her humanity. Sometimes a child will be staring at my sister with such wonder, and then Sally’s gaze brushes up against theirs. In just a flash, a child will see her.
When the reality of my sister’s condition is met with sincere curiosity, an admission of a difference and acknowledgement of something recognizable and human, it opens up space for a moment. It makes room in the world for Sally, despite her wandering eyes and slow gait. Though not entirely alike, there are similarities behind the looks that Sally gets and the looks we give each other here in Salinas based on differences in race, ethnicity and culture.
In our small segregated city, the boundaries that mark these separate experiences are easily established through geography. We have grown to expect and accept that Mexican and Latino immigrants will live in East Salinas, white growers in the hills surrounding Toro Park and a mix of working class homeowners in North Salinas. But the differences between the various groups that fill out the corners of our city are often maintained by the glances we exchange.
I am not one who believes that the concept, which some call color blindness, is a worthy or desirable goal in this time or place. It seems that such concepts are built on the false premise that our different experiences of the world have no significance, and that isn’t true. (The extra security that organizers are forced to pay at the Rodeo grounds when planning events that attract Mexican families are one recent testament to that.)
But there are looks that seem to enforce our differences––that remind us of the boundaries which separate us––and looks that acknowledge and make room for them. A city that allows and encourages the second kind of looking is a city that becomes a more interesting and dynamic place for all its citizens.
Living with Sally has taught me that.