Sometimes, some days, you walk about as usual and you notice something that may have slipped by you many times before, or had you taken more care beyond your company you might have guessed already, then quickly distinguish the idea.

There was a young woman who had obviously dyed-brown and bleach blonde in her hair in alternates stripes. She wore simple jeans, a black and red sweater atop. She had a nose piercing and the look of someone who couple years back might have been easily mistaken for your rebellious teen. I felt bad for my prejudice judgment. My mother and I had been standing aside, herself contemplating jewelry when I looked about and noticed this.

The young woman called out to her toddler. It was just a firm command.


The child had yet to appear because she began to look exasperated and backtracked her steps. With a bystander’s curiosity, I looked behind me to see the subject.

“Danté, would you listen for once.” With that the woman advances behind the counter, beyond my view, and there emerges a little boy just slight of half her height. She lightly smacked his knee with a large umbrella – the kind that does not fold into a neat roll in the palm of your hands – and walked away in lead. When the little boy followed, what I heard was one of those astounding moments where people don’t look for, and though you may take in the entire situation as nothing but mundane on a usual day, it hit me.

In less than comprehensive, or even so many coherent words, the boy whined. I couldn’t see his face because they were behind another counter, but I recall the on come of a sob written on his face when he had trailed behind his mother, then passing by me for a brief moment after the reprimand. His voice was tremulous when he said “Don’t hit me. You can’t do that.”

I was shocked at his word; with a silent bravodo that didn’t reach his way, to behind and below the counter, before she spoke.

“I can do whatever I want.”

It was the most indifferent tone that I’ll probably ever witness, or wish to witness, in this situation. His mother looked on towards the jewelries on display without even the spiteful worth of neglect. She simply said the words and moved on.

From the other side of the counter where I stood, though my mother hadn’t taken notice of the event, there was no rebuke from the small child.

My mother and I had been browsing around to wait till we could take our family portrait. When we had been waiting for the woman to process our photos, a young family walked in – stroller in view, a young woman not too long off the preggo boat and the husband, was whom I noticed. He had a tattoo on his neck and a rough all bout ambiance. Maybe it had been my influenced bias from before, but I thought they meant trouble with bad attitude.

I had forgotten that they had been here – the reason why my mother and I had to wait, the reason why I was witness to something that might develop to much less subtle form of abuse and a household that will teach the young toddler suppression of his voice – the family strolled in and sat beside me where the clerk turned her monitor at an angle so I could make out the photos with a hint of glare.

It was their baby’s photos and their couple photos.

“Oh all the blood is just flowing to his cheeks. He’s adorable.” the young mother said, her own cheeks very well rouged, looking on with love and admiration.


Danté, although I don’t know you, and can’t even properly recall all the features of your face; this little amorphous-becoming blob in my head with a military jacket and a pouty face. Might it sound mean for the bland and discriminate comparison, but be it so that you may grow up a bit rough all around the edges and carry something you shouldn’t – that may well create easy misunderstandings. Grow up to be that family, that husband whom I took off handedly as someone to be aware of; prove people like me wrong.