From Behind the Mask

The drive from my little apartment in North Miami to my University of Miami education gig was one I looked forward to once a week. I would always take the longer route, oceanside. I could have saved time by just hopping on the freeway. Yet the extra 30 minutes or so was always worth the investment for me. Air thick with salt combined with mouth-watering scents of bacon, eggs, and fried potatoes. A quick stop along the way to pick up a Cuban coffee to go, the perfect kick off to the upcoming day.

It was to be my last day of work before leaving Florida for the overdue return to my home in Colorado. So, at the end of the morning shift, I treated myself to my favorite lunchtime routine just one more time. I always looked forward to routine, to relaxation and to the predictability of those lunchtime breaks. Yet my lunchtime break that day would turn out to be anything but routine and predictable.

I picked up fresh homemade vegetable soup and a warm corn muffin from the campus café, glad to see that my favorite bench in one of the many hospital courtyards was unoccupied. October in Florida was glorious and the sun on my back felt just right. A slight breeze rustled a nearby palm tree. I settled into the familiar. Doctors and nurses and hospital personnel conversed in small groups around the cement lunch tables. Some moving slowly, taking in the day, some rushing past and still others in sport shoes and matching scrubs, apparently getting in an afternoon workout.

It was all fun to watch from behind my mask of anonymity. To imagine who these people really were and what their lives might be like outside of this place. Then, out of the corner of my eye, a figure came into view. Not so familiar and seemingly out of place.

It was his stride that caught my attention at first, leaning full speed ahead, as if he was ready to fall forward. As the figure came into clearer view, I began to make out his features.

He was a tall guy as guys go, light brown creamy colored skin, red hair, tight curls. He wore a wrinkled, white T-shirt and army green sweatpants. Under his arm, a clear plastic, hospital issued bag with additional clothing items inside. He wore no shoes. Instead, just socks. Hospital issued, too, I supposed. Light blue footies, the ones that usually have grippers on the bottom.

I wondered where he was going. Had he been discharged, or had he just walked out of there unnoticed? I thought I might ask him myself or call him to the attention of one of the many hospital professionals passing by. No one else seemed to notice him or if they did, no one seemed especially concerned.

So instead, I chose to finish my soup, preparing to move to a different courtyard across campus. My favorite spot to enjoy dessert. I didn’t notice as the guy disappeared from view.

I took the winding brick walkway leading to my spot under a cypress tree in front of the Cancer Treatment Center. Even though it was still balmy here in October, the Cypress is one tree that loses its thin needle-like leaves early in the season. I watched as the slightest of breezes peeled the first fall leaves gently from the tree. I reached into the little white bakery bag next to me on the bench. The corn muffin was still a little warm. I pulled off the crispy top first and dug in. Chewing mindlessly on my muffin, I caught sight of him again. Same tall guy, still carrying the same bag of stuff, wearing the same socks, only this time, he was forging in the opposite direction.

He really did seem lost. Yet there they were, a different set of doctors and nurses, in their own worlds, just like me. Why shouldn’t they be? I watched the guy for a minute to see if he might approach someone for directions. He didn’t. But he did stop walking, though, and just stood there, in the middle of the parking lot, perhaps to rest, or to gather his thoughts.

From behind my protective mask, I gathered my thoughts, too. Who was he anyway? Maybe the more important question--who was I? I saw a playback of myself somewhere in my mind, watching myself let him walk by, just like I had done the first time I saw him. The accompanying mind-audio told me that he wasn’t my problem. It’s not like I was thinking it over or anything like that. Just observing a succession of flashing images and thoughts, delivered to me from somewhere else. Like watching someone’s else’s movie from a front row seat, only this movie was mine. Just like they say happens when you die, life passing before your eyes. Images of my distraction. Images of myself, failing to notice. Images of my noticing but walking away anyway. Babies, children, friends, strangers in the grocery store, reaching for a shelf too high, and of me, failing to notice. Were the images of the real me? I wondered. Or were they, once again, masked versions of my true self. Was I fearful and insecure? Or was I one of many who honestly didn’t care.

Whatever it was or wherever it came from, I became driven by those movies in my head. I decided to notice. I decided to care. I decided to come out from behind the mask, even if just for today. So, I headed toward him, this guy with the wrinkled white tee shirt and army green sweatpants. I began to feel a little self-conscious and over dressed in my off-white suit and gold jewelry, ready for the presentation I was scheduled to give teachers and therapists, right after lunch. I would not be on time. I ditched the rest of my muffin in the nearest trashcan on my way over to him.

His head just hung there as if he was closely examining the pebbled drive where he stood. I bent to make eye contact.

“Hi. Are you looking for someone or headed somewhere?”

He responded. I was right. He was lost.

“Well, I just left the University of Miami Mental Health and they told me to go to Jackson Mental Health across the street, but I can’t find it and my feet hurt from walking in these things.”

He looked down at his stocking feet.

“Well, how about we go inside here. I pointed toward the Cancer Center lobby. We can talk to security. Maybe someone can give us directions or even give you a ride.”

He smiled and began to follow me. He said his name was Joshua. Just as we reached the entrance to the security check point, Joshua stopped walking with me, and lagged behind.

I was ready to tell him I could go inside myself and he could wait there if that was ok, but he came up to me instead and took my hands. Both of them, forcing me to face him.

“I can sing, too, ya know!”

That’s what he said to me, looking me straight in the eye with conviction, with maybe a little belligerence there, too. The odd thing was, he had emphasized the word I, clearly comparing himself to someone else.

A chill of energy moved through me, pins and needles and hot and cold, all at the same time. I was unsure of what was happening. Yet, I was comfortable and eager to discover what was coming next.

“What do you want to hear?” he wanted to know, as if his repertoire was infinite.

“What would you like to sing?” was my response, being careful not to request a tune that he might not know.

And so, it began. There we were, standing together, face to face, hand in hand, at the entrance to a busy hospital lobby. Cancer patients and their families must have been coming and going. Doctors and nurses must have been punching in and out. Others must have been taking much needed breaks or returning from lunch. Yet the people, the traffic, all had completely dissipated. It was just me and Joshua as he sang to me. He was really good, too. A deep, resonant Lou Rawls kinda voice that didn’t seem to match his physical presence.

There’s a spark of magic in your eyes. Candyland appears each time you smile. Never thought that fairy tales came true. But they come true when I’m near you. You’re a genie in disguise, full of wonder and surprise.

Trapped even more deeply by his gaze eyes, bright green, magnetic, hypnotic, having recognized the song, I joined in the chorus.

Betcha by golly wow. You’re the one that I’ve been waiting for forever…

Joshua would sing two more songs before it was time for us to let go.

You think he loves you, but he don’t. You think he’ll be there, but he won’t. Good God. How did he know so much about my life?

Then, a grand finale with Frank Sinatra’s classic My Way.

And now the end is near, and I must face the final curtain.

Joshua’s face changed as my tears fell. Was this the end of something rare and beautiful? Or was it a new beginning?

“I can see this touches you,” he observed. His forehead read of deep concern for me and empathetic tears pooled in his own eyes, tears that never fell.

Through this whole experience, the funny thing was, I was not alarmed. I was not uncomfortable. I just let Joshua sing and I imagine that I would have let him go on forever if he had been willing. But he stopped. And just as mysteriously as he had come into my world, Joshua vanished. Not physically. But in an instant, when the music was gone, Joshua was gone, too. Unresponsive. What they call catatonic, I suppose.

Now what? Joshua let me lead him, by the hand, mindlessly, as I moved forward to seek help for him.

No one in the Cancer Center would get involved. Liability and all that. So, we remained hand in hand, Joshua and me, and I guided him through a busy crosswalk across the street, hoping to find Jackson Mental Health.

I spoke softly to him as we went, apologizing for having failed to find him a ride, acknowledging how much more his feet must hurt after all the walking. I heard my own voice and it sounded like someone else. So gentle and careful. Once inside the lobby of Jackson Mental Health, Joshua let go of my hand, as if he knew where he was and took a seat among the others who were waiting.

I approached the receptionist, unselfconscious of my tear, make-up-stained face.

“Uhhh…excuse me. Do you see that gentleman over there with the red hair?”

She responded. "Yes…”

Good. That was a relief. It occurred to me that I might have imaged Joshua and this whole crazy lunchtime interlude.

The woman seemed patient and kind and promised me that she would look after Joshua. For some reason, I emphasized his name.

“His name is Joshua. Please call him by name?”

She promised she would.

I went back to check in with Joshua. He was still absent. Reluctantly, I walked away. There was a grip in the pit of my stomach, like a tether preventing me from moving too far. How could I leave him when in just a few minutes, Joshua had become a precious, forever part of my life. But I did walk away, glancing back over my shoulder to see if Joshua might make eye contact again or notice me leaving or maybe even object. He never did.

I headed back to the adjacent building where I was scheduled to speak to 50 special education professionals. I was late. I didn’t care. As I began my talk, my face undoubtedly still streaked with tears and mascara, I made a perfunctory apology for my tardiness. Then, without hesitation, I removed the mask. Torn it off, if I am being honest. The mask that I had meticulously constructed over a lifetime, carefully designed to protect myself from who I was, from what others might think, fearing that everyone around me would love my facade more than the me underneath.

I began my presentation.

"Screw compliance and the over-focus on a process dictated by a broken educational system, often devoid of human spirit."

I told them why I was late. I told them about Joshua. A small few in the group looked like they would like to run screaming out of the room. Instead, they remained, squirming in their chairs, and looking at the floor to avoid eye contact with me. But the majority of these hard-working teachers and providers came to life, as if they had finally been given permission to be free to do their work their way, and tell their stories from heart and soul. I sensed that perhaps, they had set their masks down, too, that day.

Since then, I have more often than not, lived in Joshua’s world where fairy tales come true, a world is filled with wonder and surprise. I have yet to discard the mask completely, but I definitely rely on it much less often. And on days when I am especially successful at being me, I often find my inner power to guide others, children and adults, to strengthen their own inner spirit. This is my way of continuing Joshua's mission, every day, the very best I can.

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NOTE: Since meeting Joshua in October, 2013, Sandra has published Autism Spiritual Approach and A Better Day Curriculum, all designed to help educators nurture the inner spirit of their students. She now owns and operates Strength of Spirit Consulting.