The Human Touch 2013 - University of Colorado Denver

My dysfunctional family [Continued]
The amorphous unease crystallizes into hard realization, tinted with shame.
I cannot look at him.
His skin is black. Mine is white. My ancestors were landowners. No doubt
his ancestors came to this country as slaves and, like most, took the family
name of their owners when they were freed.
I grope for something to say. My face feels hot, prickly. I stare at my hands,
closed around the metal bed rail. Yes, I imagine they knew each other. I
imagine my ancestors beat and raped yours, and your family hated mine
and dreamed of a day when my family would suffer the same injustices they
perpetrated on your family.
His hand covers mine. It is warm, patient. Slowly, the prickling fades. I
look up into his dark brown eyes. They hold a hint of a smile. Not mocking
or bitter or spiteful, just smiling.
“Looks like we’re….all of us….part of the same family, aren’t we?” His smile
broadens. “You’re just lucky you don’t have to spend Christmas with my
crazy Aunt Brenda.”
The tension is broken. I take a breath and then hear myself chuckle. “Well,
if she’s anything like my grandmother Belle, maybe we can trade one year.”
His laugh resonates in my heart as I stand and straighten my coat. He
extends his hand.
“Doctor Yancey, it’s so nice to know you. I appreciate you taking such good
care of me.” The handshake is fi rm. Gratitude spreads over me, cleansing
me of my shame.
“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Grayson.” Really. It is.
I step out of his room back in to the hallway, and slide the door shut behind
me. For one moment, I lean against the door.
He didn’t bring it up to shame me. He only brought it up after we had
talked a while, about his kids, how much the Broncos paid for Peyton
Manning, our love of good Mexican food. He just saw a connection
between two people, and he asked about it. He did so with an honesty and
compassion that cut through my shame and allowed me to feel that same
connection.
The intoxicated man in the hallway is singing “A Hard Day’s Night.” He
begins to chant the “Pledge of Allegiance” to no one in particular.
I look past the blackened toenails, the army surplus camoufl age pants,
the stained gray t-shirt. His eyes are light blue. They remind me of my
Granddaddy Yancey. Granddaddy was a farmer. That same tanned,
weathered skin, the same light blue eyes.
“…liberty and justice for all.” He stops for a breath. The blue eyes focus on
me. The hand placed over his heart drops onto the bed. “Ma’am? Could I
please have something to eat?”
I walk past him to the end of the hall and stop in front of the refrigerator. I
retrieve a baloney sandwich and a juice box from the bottom shelf and
return to his bedside. He takes the sandwich and tries to open the sticky
plastic wrap around it. The callused, arthritic hands cannot penetrate the
wrapping. I take the sandwich from his fi lthy fi ngers and peel back the wrap
with my fi ngernails. He watches me. I hand the sandwich back.
“Thank you.” He buries his nose in the sandwich and inhales as if it were
a glass of aged Bordeaux. The smell of baloney mixes with that of his
clothing. I watch as he devours the sandwich. As he swallows, I notice the
tattoo partly covered by his t-shirt. It reads, “Death before Dishonor.”
“Were you in the military?” I point to his tattoo. He stares down at his arm
as he swallows the last of the sandwich.
“Yes, Ma’am. United States Marine Corps.”
“I’m a veteran myself. Air Force. Where’d you serve?”
“Vietnam. I was all over. Da Nang mostly, Khe Sanh.” I lean on the metal
bed rail and watch him drain the juice box in a single long gulp. His light
blue eyes meet mine briefl y. Then his gaze drops to the hands now resting
in his lap, still clutching his juice box.
“Ma’am? I—I’m sorry about---the yelling.”
I nod slowly. “I know.” •
PG 116
PG 117