To the Young Woman Who Sat Next to Us at the Movies

I can remember a time in my (much) younger life when I was afraid of a man named Donald. I had no logical reason to be afraid of him; he never bothered me, or even looked my way as he walked slowly up and down Westchester Avenue, a main road in the town where I grew up. He couldn’t have been more than five and a half feet tall, and we were always separated by at least a street length .  

To a thirteen-year-old girl, the problem was he didn’t look right. He seemed unkempt—thin, worn khakis, oversized jacket—and he walked with a limp. One black shoe was built up so tall, it appeared he’d accidentally pulled on two different shoes that morning. The truth is he wore an orthotic shoe with a stack of metal plates inside, because Donald’s legs were not evenly matched.

That’s the memory that came to me when, by chance, my son and I sat next to you and your family. We had been running late so, once we finished eating we had to hurry to the movie theater. “My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2” looked to be the kind of movie my son might find silly enough to hold his attention, given the fact he’d more than likely be unable to follow the plot line. Physical comedy, slapstick, larger-than-life characters skilled at funny-face expressions—that’s the genre we go for.

Anyway, we stood on line for popcorn—no butter--Welch’s fruit snacks, small Sprite, and headed for Theater 6. It was crowded inside, as you know, and the front row seats we prefer were already filled.

We stood at the bottom of the stairs while I scanned the theater for two seats together. A voice called out, “Are you looking for two seats? These are free.” An older woman four rows from the back pointed to the empty seats next to you. It might have been your mother, but I can only assume. I felt so relieved and grateful for that lone voice in the crowd.

“Come on up here, Cliff. Follow me.” We linked arms and climbed up, thanking your family for standing up to let us by. I didn’t notice anything about you at first; I was too busy wrestling off our coats and trying to convince my son not to inhale the bag of candy before the movie even started.

The coming attractions played, but no one had turned off the lights. People were shouting, “Shut the lights!” “Hey! Lights?”

A few of us clapped for the lady in the last row who announced her intention to find someone who could rectify the situation. She had a ton of blonde hair and a voice that carried. “Alright, people, I’ll take care of this!” Do you remember that?

I sure do. Do you know why? With the lights on I began to notice you moving yourself as far as you could away from my son. At first, it was a subtle movement. I wasn’t exactly sure what made you shift so far to the right.  Then I saw you glance over your shoulder at him. And I immediately understood; your expression was unmistakable. What was it that made you cringe like that?

Was it the anticipatory giggle Cliff was making, the sound he makes sometimes if he's a little anxious or sometimes when he's just plain happy? It wasn’t loud, and he was quiet once the movie started. Or was it because he looked over at you as though he knew you? I've seen that look on his face many times, the one that expresses an innocent hope that a stranger will smile back and say hi. 

The lights finally off, a few folks responded with happy hoots and hollers. And when your parents couldn’t tolerate your rude behavior any longer, your dad switched his seat for yours. I have to hand it to you; it was swift, it was smooth, almost seamless really.

I looked over at him, wondering if I’d sized up the situation incorrectly, but this kind of thing is sadly familiar.  He kept his eyes trained on that screen  like his life depended on it.  I glanced at him several more times over the course of those two hours. He must have felt my eyes on him but didn’t let on. Embarrassment has that effect sometimes. But the effect you had on me is the reason for this letter.

I am not angry or upset with you. You’re young, just like I was once. And I will not be able to impress upon you the lessons your parents have failed to teach you, because you know everything, like lots of people your age. You don’t have to like my son, talk to him, interact in any way. But you do have to remember that he is a person, and I am his mother, with all the concomitant love and devotion that relationship entails. I love him the way your mother loves you. I will always defend him and I will never apologize for him.

Now that I have that out of the way, I want you to know your behavior made me sad.  It’s an awful thing, to feel as though we are not welcome. Thank goodness my son was oblivious to what happened right next to him. The funny thing is if he had understood, he’d have forgiven you in an instant.

On our way home that night, I thought about how important it is for me to maintain my optimism. Here is what I hope for you:  that your parents will start a conversation with you about who you should rightfully fear and who you need not fear; that you will come to understand that over the course of your life, people like my son are more like you than unlike you; that when you go to school, your teachers will welcome classmates of all abilities from whom you can learn; that when you grow up and leave your family, you’ll find community with the sort of people who would never switch seats; that you will find the depth of understanding your intolerance, and decide instead to be kind.

Remember Donald? My fear and avoidance of him was completely unfounded. According to the people who knew him, Donald was very religious and personable, an intelligent guy with a talent for photography. His friends called him Donny. I wanted you to know that, because I’m ashamed to have avoided and feared someone because of his outward appearance.

My biggest wish is for you to be challenged again and again as you grow up, until you understand that your character is your most attractive quality, not your hair or your jeans or your pink pow lipstick. I wish this with the kindest of intentions, because I wouldn’t want you to miss out on knowing someone as awesome as my son.