Alice Minium

Her skin was sickly gray like that of a corpse, but I knew that once upon a time it had been porcelain white.  Her eyes were a dim, muddied steel color, with cataracts of pessimism from the world she had seen.  I knew that, once upon a time, those eyes had been vividly blue.  Her hair was a metallic orange, but I knew that it had once been a vibrant and flaming red.  She wore a floral print jumper and an oversized cowboy vest that did not match.  Her fingernails were caked with dirt and her knuckles were deathly pale and chapped.  She was frail and slight in form, but she was shoveling food like a WWE Superstar.  Every few bites she would pause with awkward anxiety before the fork met her lips, as if she were embarrassed to accept the nourishment, but her animal hunger was more pressing than her human pride.

Her name was Amy, and I remember her photograph vividly.  She might as well just be a photograph, for all I know of her.  In the documentary that I sometimes imagine my life to be, Amy was a still frame.  During the summer I spent in Philadelphia working with the homeless, she was distinctive in the sea of faces.  Her image was the one ingrained permanently into my mind.

It was free spaghetti night when I met her.  The evening itself was unusual.  As I looked around the room, I saw everyone shoveling their food like Amy.  People reeked of garbage.  People glared at one another with hostility, because trust had always been synonymous with betrayal.  People did not make casual conversation with their neighbors.  People had tired eyes and prematurely wrinkled skin.  People did not smile.  Seeing these people, I realized that, being raised in middle-class suburbia, I did not know the true meaning of poverty.  As I looked around the room, the face of poverty stared back at me, mangled, gruesome, and bold in its ugliness.  I saw the face of poverty, and it was shame.

I was drawn to Amy because in some way I saw myself.  Minus the rough wear of the streets, I knew she could have been about my age.  All I could think was, this could have been me without a home, car, money, family, and love.  This could have been me.  This could have been me.  I decided to undress my fear.

“Hi, what’s your name?” I smiled generously and without pretense.

“I’m Amy,” she croaked.  She met my eyes cautiously.

“Hi Amy, I’m Alice.  I think you have really pretty hair.”

The still-frame moment struck when Amy smiled.  I literally felt a rush of warmth wash over me that awoke my inner humanity like the awakening rays of the mid-summer sun.  People smile all the time, but rarely do they glow with the elation of a small child and the inner peace of an angel when they do.  Rarely does a smile express joy.  I knew from the newborn light behind her eyes that I had just made Amy’s day worthwhile.  I knew that nobody had told Amy she was pretty in a long, long time.  I knew she did not feel pretty on most days.  I knew that she had needed that compliment as badly as she had needed that free spaghetti, and maybe a little bit more.  I swear her eyes glistened a more vibrant blue as serenity filled them like tears.

“Thank you.”

I will always remember that fleeting yet infinite moment.  Through an encounter that would have been meaningless in any other time or place, Amy and I tapped into a connection.  She was my equal, and we shared the cosmic, unbreakable bond that all humans share but scarcely acknowledge.  We were one and the same.  I gave her kindness, because kindness was all I had to give, and I had seen by her smile that that was enough.  One kind word that cost me nothing had borne enough fruit to feed someone’s hungry soul.  “All you need is love” has become a cliché, but I was struck dumb by the truth that simple acts of love are enough to make a difference.  I could not give Amy the life she deserved, but I could give her a moment of happiness by treating her like a person again.

After that night, I started smiling at strangers all the time.  Everywhere I went in Philadelphia, I made eye contact with as many harried, frantic people that I could, and I smiled with warmth behind my eyes.  I told the cashier to have a wonderful day.  I waited to hold the door for the rugged-looking man.  I loved to walk around the city simply to smile at lonely-looking people as they walked by.  I knew there was grief, exhaustion, despair, and unimaginable pain in the hearts of the people I passed on the sidewalk.  I had always been too wrapped up in myself to consider what the man who works the hot dog stand might be feeling that day.  When I stopped to meet that man’s eyes, I felt what he was feeling.  When I shared light with my smile, I felt myself make his day a little bit brighter.  The more I smiled, the more I wanted to, and joy, compassion, and goodwill blossomed within my heart.  That joy, compassion, and goodwill enriched my understanding of what it is to be human and what it is every human needs — that which I so often take for granted: kindness and love.  I gave food, clothes, handwritten letters, and hours of service work to the homeless that summer, but I feel like I gave them the most with my smile.

What Amy taught me was remarkable.  Without her calm yet childlike joy in that moment we shared, I would not have the wisdom and perspective I do today.  I still always smile at strangers.  It is almost laughable how years are wasted and billions are spent collaborating to discover the magical equation that will finally bring us world peace.  Imagine what the world would be if we were to smile at everyone we meet.  Imagine what the world would be if we saw every stranger as equally human, our brothers and sisters who feel as alone as we do on this crowded planet.  Imagine if we said, “Thank you.”  Imagine if we told somebody that they were beautiful every day.  It is embarrassing to the human race that our timeless problem of pain has such an obvious solution — smile at every stranger, and love a little more.