Strange Encounters

WORDS Leah Heath VISUALS Ali Sy

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It was my turn to spend time with my father, and so we went out to do what he loves most: attend a basketball game. I loved going to these types of events. I don’t much care for sports, but if I could eat junk food without limit, I was in. Basketball games always meant cotton candy, popcorn, light up sabers, and usually drive-thru food before or after. Staying up past bedtime was every fıve year old’s dream, and nights like these made it so.

At half-time my dad would ask if I needed to use the bathroom. After two refılls of orange soda the answer was “yes.” We went down the stairs of the stadium, into the large area that held all the concessions. I went into the bathroom by myself while my father waited outside. Coming out of the stall, I remember seeing all these beautiful women with short skirts and long spray-tanned legs, nowhere near popping out a child. But there I was, precious and alone, and they seemed to think it was really cute as I washed my hands. We all walked out together.

“Your daughter’s really cute,” they said. My father thanked them and we walked back to our seats, my hand in his. He asked: “Didn’t mom teach you not to talk to strangers?” He didn’t seem upset, just one eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, but I don’t know what that word means.” I shrugged, and after we sat back down, I continued to devour more popcorn than my stomach could hold. The suffıx “er,” tacked on at the end of the word “strange,” makes the entire word sound as foreign as the person it is supposedly attached to. And

connection. I just blindly agreed with what my mom had taught me. “Don’t talk to strangers.” My comprehension of the term still felt trivial.

I believe that people at their core are harmless, at least the majority are. I don’t worry about being stabbed everytime I walk out of my front door. There is such a thing as minding one’s own business. That doesn’t mean we all follow it.

I’ve had quite a many strange encounters in the DC, Maryland, Virginia (DMV) area to be exact. There always seems to be an elderly black woman around ready to prod me into telling her what high school I went to, because I look that type of familiar. Though especially in airports or bus stations, eyes seem to bore

into me. Here’s a few examples:

Boston Logan International Airport: I’m sitting at my gate. I have one hour until boarding, and I’m eating a Honey Ham on wheat sandwich from Starbucks. An elderly lady sits eighteen feet away from me, fıling her nails and staring at me. I feel uncomfortable and continue to eat my sandwich. Not a word is spoken between us.

Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport: I have just checked in my luggage and am heading towards TSA. I’m going down an escalator and a young airport worker is coming up the one right beside mine. He’s staring at me, and I’m trying to not do the same to him. I keep glancing at him though, and each time I look, he’s still staring. As we get to the passing point on our escalators he says, “Sorry, you just look really familiar.”

Syracuse Amtrak Station: An older man, wearing one shade of camo green, with white converse and a thick New York accent, asks me if I’m a Saggitarius. I am. He’s shocked even himself, and goes on to compare me to an eel. Yes, the fısh. Because I’m giving off “an energy.” We were both on our way to Rochester and boarded the same Greyhound.

There’s something about being perceived that makes the veins under my arms turn to worms...crawling...urking. I can feel the eyes staring into the mass of my hair. Something that seems to be an open invitation for people to stare, and half the time that stare comes with the threat of being interjected with a vocal response. Sometimes it’s things like “you’re beautiful,” or “what’s your name?” All of which I don’t usually respond

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to. If I do feel the stares, I’ll put my hair back into a weird bun. It seems to work as a “don’t talk to me” mechanism. I think it’s the framing of my face.

My hair is one of my main, recognizable traits. Near the end of last year, I was walking on the street with my luggage when an old friend saw my hair. I hadn’t seen him for half-a-year, due to him being in a different state, and it was a pleasant surprise to see him randomly on the street. “I thought I saw your hair.” He said. Things like that, I like. I don’t mind when people stop me as long as it’s genuine.

Grocery store checkout lanes are also a place where looks get passed around. Especially by babies or small children. But mostly babies. Their eyes bore into you and their heads are so heavy that they seem to lean backwards. Usually their gaze captures their guardians’ attention, directing them to what they are staring at. However, I feel like grocery store checkout lanes are an exception, where it is a socially-acceptable place to look. But also to be looked at. Though not talked to. Don’t do that to strangers.

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The art of glancing is something I’ve had to become familiar with. I’ve always felt as if it was a personal problem that I make the random glance of eye contact with strangers that result in interaction. I’ll try and try again to not do it. Though glancing is kind of my way of checking in and making sure everyone is oriented around me as they were before. No sudden movements are ever made. More often than not it can also be played off as just looking out of a window behind you, and not at the person trying to gaze into the back of your head.

I was formally taught to look people in the eyes when I talk to them. It’s become impossible for me to converse by yelling from different rooms, or behind closed doors. Conversations can be a lot more simple face to face. Can you tell I’m a caller and not a texter? It’s polite to look at someone while they are talking, it shows attentiveness. Your eyes don’t have to bore into each other like cyclops, but that attentiveness as you look at the person talking is appreciated.

Still, if you are a stranger reading this, please don’t stare at people. Now you know how it feels.