People-watching.

There’s an art teacher on the fifth floor of my high school who spends her classes telling us about how important it is to see beauty in our everyday lives. She hangs up these paintings of fruit and tin cans and dead people, and she keeps the window open, even when it’s freezing cold. She says she wants us to be in touch with the outside. She says she wants us to open our eyes, and when we do, to be brave enough to keep them open.

There’s a girl who sits near the trash cans during lunch. I see her there every day. When she’s done eating she plays with these paper clips, and she makes intricate wire animals out of them almost like it’s nothing. Like she’s fiddling with these pieces of junk that no one wants and boom, suddenly something is there, suddenly there’s life to something that was soulless. I’ve never seen anyone say hi to her. I don’t know if she wants to be disturbed.

There’s a boy in the back of my science class who has never, not once, raised his hand. I see him bending over his desk, etching ink doodles into his skin, eyes with long lashes and stars and circles in circles in circles. His notebook is covered in doodles, little comic strips, drawings of the window view, an unnecessarily detailed drawing of a plant cell. Sometimes he’s listening to music with his earphones, twirling his pencil like a drummer twirls a stick. I hear us being told that we need to participate in order to get credit. I see him folding in on himself, his head on his desk, tilted in a way that allows him to see what he’s drawing, as if he’s trying harder to make himself invisible now that he’s forced to be seen. He still hasn’t said anything.

There’s a janitor who brings speakers wherever he goes, so he can listen to music while he works. Sometimes I’ll stay after school for a club and I’ll hear his music before I see him pressing the mop onto the ground and moving through the hallway in a rhythmic pattern, as if guided by the beat. He stays the latest out of anyone in the building, I think. He’s a solitary figure, armed with his cleaning materials and keys, dancing to the notes echoing through the empty third floor, sharing his music with everyone.

There’s a girl who’s a leader of an obscure club, and she hosts meetings in the classrooms at the end of the hall, the small rooms and the occasional stairwell when the other bigger clubs take all the good spots. During these meetings she discusses her interests, what she would like the club to become, and how much she appreciates us for coming. I see the way her eyes light up when someone mentions crystals or fungi or Haiku poems, and even though I’m still not sure what this club is all about, I know she wants to share her passion with us, and for that reason I think it’s special. She takes extra efforts to make people feel welcome, waving hi at the hesitant students at the door and asking questions and trying to find common interests. She’s trying so hard, and I see her heart breaking a little when people leave.

There’s a pre-calculus teacher at my school who loves math so much he keeps his students after the bell to ramble about the wonders of the arctan function. He keeps his lesson plans in a moleskine notebook and he flips through it studiously, excitedly transcribing the concepts onto the chalkboard, covering the age-old chipboard with meticulously labeled diagrams and notations and elaborate mathematical theories. I can tell that trigonometry is his favorite unit to teach. “Isn’t that so pretty?” he’s saying, looking proudly at the board as the class struggles to stay awake. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Now that we’ve proven the theorem, it all falls into place…”

I think about if these people will ever be noticed. How will the world ever do them justice? Then I realize they’ve already been noticed, because I see them. 

I’m looking outside my art classroom’s window, taking in the alleyway and the traffic and the gray sky. I’m making up stories for the paperclip creatures that maybe someday probably I’ll share with the girl in the cafeteria. I’m adding my own drawings to the boy’s doodle-covered looseleaf paper, saying good morning to the janitor, telling the club leader her meetings are the highlight of my week, lifting my head from my hand and smiling at my math teacher in understanding as he excitedly explains another concept to show that I’m not falling asleep even if my brain wants me to be. 

Through the widening of their eyes, the soft half-smiles and the occasional ink doodle now finding its place on my arm instead of his, I’m told that maybe I’m making a difference in their lives. That maybe I’m helping them. That maybe they see me too.

Process

This was inspired by a workshop prompt called “when you see those who aren’t seen.” I started thinking back to all the people who seem to be ignored or underappreciated in my life, and I chose the setting of high school, since that’s where I spend most of my time. I picked out different people, mixing and matching their qualities, trying to figure out what went on in their inner worlds. Writing about these people was nice because I felt like I was learning about them too.