Sam, She Is

How do I describe Sam? A woman so non-categorical. I’ll start with what I noticed first, though this story isn’t about me, and these are observations anyone paying attention could make.

First impressions: she is beautiful. Not the normal, “Awww, look how pretty she is,” like all young women are mostly pretty. She is the everlasting sort of beautiful. The kind that originates in such abundance from the depths of her inner being that it has nowhere else to go but outward, for the delight of others.

She hates that part of herself.

She doesn’t want attention. At least not for her looks. She has a mind, and it’s sharper than most men’s. She sees the world through its mechanisms—the parts and how they work, the way they are put together and function—as though she is constantly deconstructing the world around her into its pieces.

She spends her mental energy trying to grasp and understand why people act the way they do while also living in fear of having to interact with them personally.

It is exhausting.

The irony is that she spends so much time trying to understand others, but she doesn’t fully grasp her own pieces. There is a familiarity she has with her body and the constant changes she has experienced throughout her first quarter-life of existence, but she would not describe her knowledge of it as intimate. How could it be when she has yet to find satisfactory answers to her multitude of questions, which grow daily?

Her mother would only ever explain things to her about her body and her duties as a woman in relation to whether or not they would be desirable from a man’s perspective. The impression being: when you are old enough to know how “those parts” work, a man will show you.

Unsatisfied with those answers, but at a loss for reputable sources of information, she redirected her attention from herself and her needs to the world around her.

She was industrious and intelligent, so while the lack of good confidants made it difficult for her to see the bigger picture of the world kept from her, she would focus her exceptional mind on the things she could observe. She was vigilant in her attention and would document internally everything she could track.

She was a lovely girl, inside and out, so she never wanted anyone else to share her confusion and disappointment. This would often cause her to give lots of unsolicited advice, which, when I observed it, made me unable to help but smirk. I knew what she was doing, and I knew the person wouldn’t heed her advice, even though it was sound in relation to both of their limited experience.

I should mention I was in love with her, but this isn’t about me.

I would watch as one boy after another approached her, and after a brief interaction, he would walk away sullen and embarrassed. She looked twice as uncomfortable and completely confused by the interaction. It was hard to feel bad for him because he took the initiative, and she never asked for this kind of constant attention.

I had the advantage—if you would even want to call it that—of hearing their opinions of her as they formed in the locker room.

“She is a stuck-up bitch.”

“She is a tease.”

“I really thought we had a connection.”

“She knows how beautiful she is. It’s cruel to be that nice to a guy and then pull the rug out from under him.”

But the truth is, she didn’t ask for the attention, and she doesn’t know how effortlessly feminine and beautiful she is. Her mother never let her know it. And when her attractiveness started to emerge, as she grew into her nose and her freckles faded to just the choicest ones, her older sister hated her for it.

She had no idea the power she possessed, and no one showed her how to wield it.

It wasn’t intentional. She only knew what she had control over, and that was her inner world. She developed inner qualities like kindness and joy in the face of struggle. She was generous and helpful. It only drew more attention to her while also being ignored and overshadowed by what was easily visible.

Men and women alike quickly adored her and then capriciously hated her, despite her efforts to be good—better than anyone had been to her.

I couldn’t help but love her for it. For her beauty, inside and out.

But again, this isn’t about me.

It’s about Sam and the truly beautiful person she is.

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