Mike Murray essay -- Mother's Little Helper

20 September 2009

Mother’s Little Helper

-- by Mike Murray

More powerful than any speech given by a politician was the little girl’s face. She stood patiently ahead of me in the checkout line – behind her mother, carefully placing items from their shopping cart onto the conveyor belt.

Now and then, she sneaked a glance in my direction. Although the child never turned to directly face me, she nonetheless looked me over – closely studying everything about me. She was, as so many children are, a sponge of curiosity. Her alert young mind soaked up all the data that her senses could gather.

We made eye contact several times – once when I offered a generic “gezundheit” after she sneezed. Because I have been hyper-conditioned to sidestep offense, I have developed the habit of avoiding the traditional “God bless you” in such situations (lest someone be annoyed at the quasi-religious reference). Since the girl was confused at my initial offering, however, I followed-up with a “bless you.” This she understood, but scarcely acknowledged. A barely perceptible bob of her head served as a thank-you nod.

Only a few moments earlier, a little girl with brilliant blonde hair had stood up in her cart in the adjoining aisle, and had engaged me in conversation. “Hi,” she enthusiastically blurted out. And then she launched into a whirlwind of kid chatter, the kind that we adults find so amusing.

The slightly older child in front of me was just as compelling, but in a very different way. For all her apparent curiosity about me, she spoke not a word. While the younger child in the other aisle was bubbly, this one was reserved. Not hostile or unfriendly. But clearly restrained. And also, it seemed to me, somewhat guarded.

Perhaps she was simply introverted, and so not given to outward displays. Maybe she was properly observing parental instruction regarding conversation with strangers. Whatever her reason, shyness did not seem to be a factor. Because there was a calmness, a serenity about her. She seemed older than her years.

Although effusively friendly and cute as a button, the blonde child from the other aisle had yet to achieve the level of maturity of the one in front of me. In fact, it seemed more than mere maturity. It appeared a kind of soberness, an awareness of life’s realities (its good ones and, more especially, its bad) of which most kids are largely ignorant.

As different as the two children were in demeanor, they also contrasted starkly in outward appearance. The younger girl had yellow locks, blue eyes, and golden tones. The one in my aisle sported black braids, brown eyes, and mocha skin. They were equally cute, but in distinctly different ways.

In addition to their dissimilar looks and personalities, the children differed in one more way: the older one had reached the stage where she had become something of an assistant to her mother while shopping. (The younger one’s “job” was to happily occupy herself – or to at least be patient while mom took care of business.)

And so, as she seemed to do with respect to everything else, the African American child in front of me closely scrutinized the situation. She noticed that the checkout clerk was neglecting the conveyor belt button – the one used to advance items toward the register. The clerk was simply reaching further and further along the belt, grabbing items to scan.

As a consequence, no space was being freed-up on the belt (space that would have allowed me to begin placing items from my cart onto it). And so the black girl retrieved a separation bar from its resting place, positioned it behind her family’s items, and began to methodically move their purchases closer to the checkout point, synchronizing her pace with that of the checkout clerk’s.

I was about to ask the clerk to electronically advance the belt, so that the child would not have to bother, when the youngster caught my eye. Her expression begged: “Please don’t.” And so I didn’t. I instead thanked her for making space for my purchases, and I complimented her on her helpfulness to her mom. Again without uttering a sound, she offered her modest thanks.

Before long, the girl’s mother was signing the credit card slip, and she was dutifully placing the packed bags into their shopping cart. As her mother inserted the slip into her purse and prepared to leave, the girl turned and looked at me one final time.

I smiled and nodded. She nodded back. And then she was gone.