I think I failed to mention this earlier, but Jug got a new car. Our little Volkswagen Tiguan was too high off the ground for him to jump into everyday, several times a day. So, we decided together it was time to revert to our beloved Minis, only this time we decided a Countryman was a better option – 4 doors, bigger backseat (room for the baby elephant to lie down), a bit bigger cargo area. However, as we will be making a cross-country trek this summer, that rear cargo area fails to meet our necessary luggage capacity. (If you’ve seen my shoe obsession first hand, you will understand this problem, and do not even suggest I cut back on the number of shoes. Not the slightest chance in a very, very hot place that will happen.) Besides, baby elephants require quite a bit of gear themselves.
So, yesterday, we drove to our Mini dealership, and bought the rooftop box. The price almost made me faint, but I’m seeing this as a long-term investment. This summer will not be the only time I use this thing, I’m quite sure. One snag: when they sold me the car, they failed to include the key for the rooftop rails, which are, apparently, a necessity. Huh. Never fear. The keys are now on order, and everyone who works for Mini is so amazingly nice that you can’t help being slightly glad you get to go back to see them again even if it’s because someone there messed up. You just smile and nod and wave goodbye, agreeing to come as soon as they call – all of this completely heart-felt legit. You’re almost thrilled at the tiniest bit of incompetence.
Anyway, driving home sans rooftop box and rail keys, I drove past one of Maricopa County’s numerous community colleges, and sitting at the city bus stop across from the school was a young man, 18 at the very oldest, dressed from head (No joke – he had on a fleece hoodie.) to toe in retro green camouflage – you know, the kind all the services wore before the Navy went to blue and the rest went to the computer- graphic looking camo. Even the boy’s backpack was camouflage. I had to look twice, – really, I did. It was +80°, and this boy was in fleece camo from head to toe. And sunglasses. (Well, at least his eyes were protected.)
My first thought was, Oh, son, where is your momma?, because I am now at that age that he really could be my son, and I’m pretty sure I would have raised a kid who knew better than to face the Sonoran desert sun in high-80° temps in fleece. (Do you know how hot he had to be, how bad he had to smell?) Then, I remembered what I learned all those years ago my first day as school nurse at Washington High School just a few miles away from that community college – that not every child grows up with two parents, or even one parent who cares enough to teach them common sense, and I was ashamed of myself and my judgment of the boy.
So, I moved on to my second thought, What are you hiding from? Military camouflage is designed to help protect service members by blending into their surrounding environment (or that was the original idea). Thus, “desert camo” and the Navy’s blue camo. So, camouflage clothing is a method of hiding. In dressing in fleece hoodie and fleece pants – yes, fleece pants – in retro green camouflage, to green shoes what was this boy trying to say? (Could totally be a simple fashion statement, but we are not talking a Kardashian in a camouflage mini-skirt. Not that I’d have seen that as any less of a cry for help. Actually, I pretty much view everything a Kardashian does as a cry for help.) Was he trying to fade into the background, become just part of the scenery of his very own life? And that thought brought on a wave of anguish for him. I’ve known countless kids who longed to do just that, and maybe their lives and psyche turn around, but not without mature adults in their lives who truly care for them; I’m making a calculated gamble here – if that boy left his home dressed like he lived in Omaha with the Phoenix weather forecast days in advance smack-on accurate, there probably weren’t many adults in his life who cared that much to help turn him around.
I could’ve been completely and totally wrong. There could’ve been a loving mother and father, aunts, uncles, grandparents, youth pastor, etc., all surrounding this “camo kid.” Maybe he was just “cold-natured,” and really, really needed that fleece. I do realize that in 2 glances I could not know his life story, and that snap judgments can be devastating. I’m just telling you what it looked like. But, I’m also going to say that I know in some ways we all hide, we all don camouflage – maybe not to the extreme of our friend at the bus stop, but to some degree we each put it on every single day of our lives; it’s a form of self-preservation.
The easiest example I can think of is women and make-up. Oh, boy, do most of us love our make-up! (And if you think make-up as camouflage is a modern invention, please see “History: Ancient Egypt.”) We are so careful to keep someone else, everyone else, from seeing our flaws, the very things that make us human, that form our authentic beauty. We are afraid that if we took off the camo, if we uncover what is underneath, come out of hiding, we’d instantly become unlovable. Now, here’s a maybe not-so-revolutionary thought, but what if taking off the camo drew in the people who would truly love us for who we are, stand by us despite the hurricanes that blow through our lives, hold us up through the earthquakes that tremble and separate the fault lines of our worlds? Are we ready to do that? Are we ready to allow others to see the stripped down versions of ourselves? My own answer: it depends. (Not very committal am I?)
I want to be genuine in my approach to others, in what I show, but honestly, some people just aren’t safe. I want to show the real “me” to the world that surrounds me, but I have felt the keenest forms of rejections and am not really enthusiastic to rejoice in them again. Even as I write this, it occurs to me that we have been promised that we will be rejected, we will be hurt, we will be broken, and these should be counted as joy. Can I find the joy that redeems these aches? Can I count these denunciations as blessings? Mostly, at this point, no, but I believe I’m learning, and that’s something for which to be grateful. Someday, if I am open enough, I will reach a place where I can find the blessing in the refutations, and truly, that will be a day for celebration.
Meanwhile, please, do yourself a favor and just say “no” to head-to-toe fleece camouflage.
The Unexpected Life 