The Gift of Seeing and Being Seen

There are so many points in my life when I have felt seen in the very best sense of the word. Strangely though, it was never because of a dramatic gesture on anyone’s part. Although I can recall many moments of being seen during my lifetime, none of those gestures had a bigger impact on my life than those that I experienced during my childhood. Some instances were recognized immediately. Others took years of reflection before I was able to see how they had shaped the person I would eventually become.

The very first was Mary Watson, a woman I called Grandma Mary even though she was not my biological grandmother. My mother’s first husband was killed in a farm accident at the age of 26 and Grandma Mary was my older sister’s grandmother. She was a part of my life from birth, but I was 13 before I realized that we were not blood relatives. She, along with my older sister’s aunts, treated all of my siblings with true kindness and generosity. Despite my Grandma Mary’s limited financial resources, she gave all of her grandchildren and us 5 add-ons a Christmas gift every year - a dozen pencils with our names printed on them in metallic gold lettering. On each of our birthdays, she would come over with a beautiful homemade cake and a Tupperware container filled with pineapple and lemon-filled pastries that were unmatched in taste and presentation - then as well as now. Her devotion to us, especially on our birthdays, was an affirming treasure that had nothing to do with obligation and everything to do genuine tenderness.

My 4th grade teacher, Sister Loretta Rose, came into my life after a year of being seen in the very worst ways. The strict German nun who had taught 3rd grade was cheerless and proficient in the art of humiliation. Conversations about behaviors and better choices were not something that happened in the 60s, and Sister Antillia dealt with attention seekers at the blackboard, long division being her preferred weapon. Sister Loretta Rose was the antidote to the poison meted out by Sister Antillia. She looked past my attention-seeking shenanigans and saw a gangly, awkward kid who just wanted to fit in and be liked. Her intelligent, bespeckled eyes and gentle voice were a godsend. She restored my faith in who I was, and more importantly, who I had the potential to become.

Elsie Moeggenberg was my best friend’s mother. I only spent the night at their house a handful of times before their family moved to the other side of the country between 7th and 8th grades, but when I did, she packed a lunch for me that made me feel as if I’d won the lottery. My mother hated making our lunches and it showed. There are ways to say ‘I hate this job’ without using any words. Cold clumps of butter and thick slices of Velveeta on white bread. One small apple. Two overbaked cookies with a maximum of two fake chocolate chips per cookie. The only variation was peanut butter in place of the Velveeta. Day after day. Week after week. Year after year. Mrs. Moeggenberg, however, stuffed my plaid vinyl lunch pail full of every goody imaginable. When you’re ten years old, finding a Little Debbie Swiss Cake Roll, a bag filled to bursting with Cheetos, and a full-sized Slo-Poke sucker in your lunch pail, all on the same day, is not something that you forget. Ever.

Mrs. Borland was my 9th grade drama teacher. I still have the one act play that I wrote in her class, her remarks and the A at the top of the paper a shimmering memory from my high school years. Well done. Fast paced, interesting, good tension and suspense!  My original outline had earned a C+ and a suggestion to choose a different idea for my play. It also earned an “I told you it was a stupid idea” from the girl who sat next to me. Now they call my style of writing ‘discovery writing’. Despite her misgivings, Mrs. Borland allowed me the latitude to see it through. It was the first time I remember trusting myself to know where I was going even if my route for getting there was different from what was expected.

Mrs. Carr was my 10th grade English teacher. She wore bold red lipstick, and her mascara was everywhere but on her eyelashes. When she spoke, her raspy voice filled the air around her, pulling our attention away from the overpowering cologne that she wore to hide the smell of cigarettes. She was like no one else I had ever met and a stark contrast to the identically clothed, Ivory soap-scented nuns from the Catholic elementary school I’d attended through the 6th grade. Upon meeting her for the first time, Mrs. Carr told me in all seriousness that she knew we would get along famously. She used so many words that year that I had never heard before, and she opened up my world to all the possibilities that exist because of language and its power to turn the mundane into something unforgettable.

Mr. Albrecht was my high school choir teacher, and the four years I spent in his choir room kept me from hating those four years. Outside of his classroom I was mostly invisible, but standing on those choir risers I was invincible. He indulged my creative energy like no one else ever had, allowing me to sing a song I’d written, solo, at our school’s spring concert. As a freshman, it was a rare honor. The song was mediocre at best. I suppose the rhymes were decent and the melody passable. What I remember with such clarity is his face, beaming from the shadows off stage as the spotlight came up and the person accompanying me played those first notes. He saw me, and all that I was capable of.

Many decades removed from those years, I can see all the times when gestures both big and small played a part in my ability to not only survive, but thrive. In the moment as well as in the long term. It’s made me aware of my own capacity to bring that same kind of light and positivity to others who are in the early years of their journey and just starting to figure out who they are and what they are meant to bring to the world.

Recently while working on a crafting project that made good use of a tattered dictionary from 1910, I happened on an idea for a bookmark. This particular dictionary also included biblical names, and I spotted the name of a friend among them. I looked through the dictionary for words that described them and their best traits. As I cut out the tiny words and glued them to the paper, I felt like it was one of the best crafting ideas I’d had in a long time.

For weeks I held on to the finished bookmark, despite seeing them frequently. The crafting high I’d felt while I was constructing the bookmark had since worn off and my excitement at having come up with some fantastic, original idea had fizzled. It was a small gift that I’d hoped they would find meaningful, but maybe they wouldn’t. Would they think it was juvenile? Amateurish? Somehow I had managed to attach my own sense of self-worth to a bookmark.

Finally, after deciding that the bookmark had spent enough time in my purse, I handed it to them during a lull at the busy coffee shop where they work. Their response was heartfelt, letting me know that this bookmark was definitely more than something to keep their place in whatever they were currently reading. They looked at the words that I had chosen for the bookmark, eyes shining with relatable sentiment. One simple sentence, spoken in gratitude, will stay with me always.

“I have never felt more seen.”