Who Can See Me?

I went out to the bus stop at 5:50, as per usual on a Tuesday (or Wednesday) morning. I waited for the 6:00 a.m. bus (that usually doesn't come until 6:04) until about 6:12 before I gave up and went back inside to take a cat nap until it would be time to come out for the next one.

At 6:35 I ventured back outside to wait. It is still more dark than light at that hour, but signs of the city's wakefulness were prevalent. People were out running and jogging, others were walking to their cars, steeling themselves for a frustrating commute. And the garbage truck that services the grand apartment building on the corner was out in all of its maloderous glory. I took my place at the stop.

After a few minutes I noticed one of the garbage men making his way across the street. 'Is he coming to talk to me?' I wondered. He stopped in front of me, and said, without preamble, "What did you do to lose weight?"

Instead of answering him right away, I asked "how do you know I lost weight?" He simply said "I know."

So I told him.

You may recall that I've written before on this type of interaction with my mailman. The main thrust of my comment [in that post] was that he didn't have any hangups about addressing anything as potentially sensitive as weight (with a woman), and that because he and I had a predetermined level of friendliness between us, I wasn't offended. Beyond that, though, I should assert that there are different sets of cultural norms in play, depending upon the person (or people) with whom you are interacting.

The garbage man from this morning and my mailman are both black. Being an overweight woman does not mean the same thing in African American culture that it means in other cultures, not totally. Body image is very differently conceived, though that is not to say that black women are any less negatively affected by the predominant images of beauty.

Anyway. I say all of that to say that these two men, one of whom I know marginally, the other not at all, both felt confident in his right to comment on the evolution of my body. Not in a proprietary or demeaning way. Not in a sexual way. But in an objective, almost fraternal way. I would have assumed that I was invisible to both of these men, who are by and large invisible to me. I assume that I am invisible to most men, not that I even think of it. It hasn't been that conscious until this morning. Most people don't see anything unless they have a reason to see, unless something is pointed out to them.

As the garbage man was making his way back over to his truck, I thought about the mailman, and the bus driver from some months ago who complimented me very specifically and substantively. His appreciation, too, was encouraging, not shaming. Thinking about the bus driver led me to recall the bakery truck driver who waves to me every morning when I'm crossing the street to get to my office...

All of my life, I have wanted a certain type of man to see me, to no avail. But these men, all of them black, all of them service professionals, all of them between the ages of 35 and 55, have no trouble picking me out of a crowd, and noting how I change and when.

I am feeling especially reflective about personal and collective invisibility just now. Having been steeped in Conversations with Toni Morrison, in which that theme keeps repeating.

And lately I have begun to worry that I am going to die old and alone, with no one to see me for who I really am. No one to take note... not "no one." No man, more like.

What does it say, then, that I am seen, but not by the kind of man I want to see me? Is it time to simply go where I am accepted and acceptable?