Our Differences are Window Dressing

At the end of my workday, I trudged down the hospital hall to the security booth. My rubber-soled shoes were soundless against the sparkling tile. I noticed my reflection at my feet, so clear in the polished granite, as two women carrying balloons and flowers passed to my right. For a step, their smiles and light chat erased the effort of my day.

I turned the corner and passed the cafe and gift shop, recognizing human shapes but avoiding eye contact. Withdrawal is my introverted go-to after six hours on my feet photographing newborns. My exhaustion does not result from the act of arranging a shot and pressing a shutter. Exhaustion invades my body and mind after hours of social effort.

How I see, what I see, is not what you expect.

Each precious newborn is of those who rarely share my skin color, my language, my religion, my education, my economic status, my generation, my culture. My goal, my effort, my focus, is directed solely at identifying a route to connect to these other human beings. Often, I face resistance. To some, the decor of my world is too dissimilar, too unfamiliar, too foreign. And the effort to share the moment is ineffective.

The families are Muslim, Shinto, Hindi, Buddhist, Catholic, Pagan, Jewish. They ask me to come back after their priest leaves or their morning prayer time is done. They add tokens of culture and god to the photos, signs and jewelry. They pray over their child. The consistency in their effort to invoke a higher power escapes them. They are not blessed with my experience of visiting the other families along the corridor.

The rainbow of skin tones is limitless. Cream and honey, amber and gold, chocolate, ebony and milky white. Braids and beads and buns, each mother, unaware of her inherent and breathtaking magnificence, wants to primp before I capture her image. Daddies sleep, comfort mommy, fumble with diapers, return home to care for the other children, run out for snacks, and straighten the limited space as best as they can.

As I capture images of their child’s first moments, the parents speak to each other using Mandarin or Spanish or Bulgarian or Bengali. I try to understand some of the Spanish with my limited fluency in Italian. My spotty words typically fail and I resort to gestures and facial expressions to ask and answer. No matter the language, the smiles and joyful tears, the hugs and adoring stares at the new family member are present in each room on every face.

The younger post to TikTok; the older design birth announcements to be mailed to far-flung family members. Telephone and video conversations fill the room. Laughter and queries, requests and comments. Promises to visit and send photos offered across satellite connections. The language spoken may escape me, but the tone and meaning never does.

And as I adjust the new person into another pose that will make mommy coo, as I sincerely welcome the little one to earth and life. All I see is the beauty of breath. The magic of beginnings. The promise of tomorrow.

Yet, my vision, my outlook, takes energy. An undercurrent of disassociation charges each room. The juxtaposition of languages and skin tones seem to give notice: The photographer is not one of us. She is not the same. We have nothing in common. She is an outsider. What could we possibly share with her?When will this outsider be done with her camera so we can feel safe in our shared private world?

I arrive at the security desk and start my check-out process. I enter my information into the kiosk and wait for the computer to process my information. To my left, behind a plexiglass barrier, is the security counter. The security clerk scans through her phone between checking in guests. When a person enters the building, the rope barriers funnel the visitor to that desk, to that clerk. The clerk asks where and why they are going. She asks if they have had any Covid symptoms. She gives them a sticker-badge to adhere to their shirts. She points to the corridor and elevator that will lead to their destination. She does this robotically, the same questions and responses rotely offered for hour upon hour, to face upon face.

Her sudden call of “What’s wrong?” Draws my attention from the security computer.

I turn towards the entrance. A tall Hispanic man, his shirt doused with sweat, his frown deep, his eyes wide, leads an older Hispanic man through the double doors. The older man does not walk, cannot walk. The younger drags him towards the counter, pleading for the emergency room.

“This isn’t the emergency entrance.” The clerk states this less robotically than usual, but with as much annoyance. “You need to -” she starts to direct. Then she pauses. She watches the young man allow the old man to collapse against the counter. The clerk grabs the phone. “I’ll call them.”

Between calling out “Poppy,” the younger man says several sentences in Spanish. He turns to the clerk. “Please help him.”

“Is he okay?” the clerk asks, as if the question alone will heal.

The son cries, “Poppy. What’s wrong, Poppy? Sit, Poppy! I don’t know what’s wrong.” His words mix English and Spanish, questions and statements.

“The emergency staff is on their way,” the desk clerk offers. She’s standing now, leaning towards the plexiglass barrier, the son and his patient just beyond. I’ve never seen the clerk stand.

A nurse pushing a wheelchair reenters the building. She rushes forward, offering the chair to the old man. She says, “Here, sit,” and guides the struggling man into the chair. His shorts catch on the seat. The nurse frees the material and checks for the old man’s safety. She asks, “What’s going on?”

The son rubs his hand across his forehead to clear his thoughts. He replies, “He’s — he started to act strangely. Earlier today. Poppy! What’s happening, Poppy?”

The desk clerk shakes her head. “He’s drooling.”

The nurse nods, continuing to adjust the old man. She reaches for his wrist and checks his pulse. “They’re on their way?”

The desk clerk nods and regards the struggling old man. Her eyes fill with frustration, pity, pain.

The son turns this way and that, checking the hallways for signs of rescue. He puts his palm to his forehead and swipes his dark, damp hair from his face. He drops his hand to his father’s shoulder, then scans the space again. And then his tear-filled eyes meet mine.

I blink away my own tears. I reach out my hand and place it on his arm. I share two breaths with him, eyes locked in shared reality.

And in that moment, our souls merged. In that moment, is all that we share.

The power of birth and the miracle of living. Reliable supply of healthy and delicious food on the tongue. Expression of talent through anything from repairing an engine or designing an engine, singing or writing a song, dancing or leading. Parenting. Sunlight through a window of a place we can call home to protect from the elements. Comfortable and expressive clothing. Pride in accomplishment. Honor in responsibility. Trusting and being trusted. Passionate physical love. Passionate, purposeful work. Soap and water. A soft touch. Enough to stability to stave off fear and enough excitement to bring joy. Giving or taking a welcome hug. A beautiful landscape and fresh air. Friends and laughter, anticipated holiday traditions. Sickness. Health. A hand to help climb out of a dark place. Feeling respected and finding another to respect. Tenderness. Finding subjects to direct our curiosity and engage our attention. Feeling needed, wanted, and appreciated.

Loving and being loved.

The human condition does not vary with melanin or faith. The human condition frames life like wood and cinder block, brick and mortar frame a home. Every human shares that structure.

The rest of it is window dressing.