Starring blankly around a room, as I often find myself doing in boring situations and large crowds, my gaze is nearly automatically attracted to a family standing near the back of the crowd. The father looked like a laid back motorcycle type, two black tattoos on the arm I can see and his hair pulled back in a ponytail. The mother, looking considerably younger than him, was wearing a nice pink typical ‘maternal’ shirt, but it didn’t hide the barbed wire band around her arm, and although she looked like a very kind woman, not one that I would like to mess with. There was a middle school age boy in a stretched out brown tank top and shorts with them too, climbing all over the bleachers. But the figure that had caught my attention was the daughter in the group.
She was about average height and build, with dull blonde hair she wore nearly parted down the middle running far past her shoulders to the edge of her breasts. She leaned against the bleachers behind her casually, both brown cowboy boots evenly supporting her weight. Her jeans looked worn, but not like they were made that way. You could tell she; or perhaps someone who had them before her, had done some serious work in those pants. A braided leather belt wrapped around her waist, keeping her loose-fitting Harley shirt tucked in. By this time she has moved from her standing position to sitting on the floor Indian style, her Route 44 in one hand, sipping it absentmindedly as she listened to the children in the concert sing. I watch in awe and envy seeing her sit so comfortably, so beautiful. Well, if she tried, she could be beautiful. But she’d rather be herself. She fixes her array of bracelets, jelly bracelets, thick plastic bands, and chains, and smiles up at her father as they applaud with the audience, the children having finished their last selection. He helps her up and she turns to him, smiling and talking. She had something more than confidence, something more carefree. I cannot figure out what it is. She turns in my direction and looks into my eyes. I am quick to turn away. Scanning the room, I see hundreds of ‘familiar faces,’ people who look like everybody, the nobodies, the ones who just want to exist, never seen. I steal a quick glance back at her. Maybe that’s what it is. She knows she’s being seen, and she doesn’t care.
