A four-year-old boy snuck through the four-foot-high brush and bushes of his front yard, with a styrofoam arrow pulled tightly back across a cheap plastic bow. As I ran past on my morning jog, I saw him release the arrow with all the gumption he could muster. It flew a few feet, and then bounced superficially off of an unsuspecting red chicken wandering in the yard. The chicken startled and sprinted zig-zags through the brush. The boy triumphantly marched after his arrow, his eye now following a white chicken.
What he didn't know was that I just had my first child, here in the stroller in front of me. We had had a rough morning, and I needed to know that she wouldn't be a newborn forever.
My husband's friends came over for a Brazilian dinner on a Sunday night. I was busy in the kitchen, trying to juggle my baby, piles of dishes and black beans, meat, and salad. Him and his friends laughed as they remembered their good times together, and I tried to keep them comfortable and my baby entertained. As I began the clean-up process following any sort of party, one of his friends left the group and approached me. He asked me sincerely about motherhood and listened intently. After I talked far too long, he looked me in the eye and kindly said "Kaylee, what you are doing is so important."
What he didn't know was that the day before, I had been rejected from graduate school because of a logistical error. I had worked for years to qualify for this program, and I had graduated with a flawless GPA and hours upon hours of experience. I didn't know what to do or where to go, and I felt very, very small.
I walked into the gas station with a handful of change, carefully counted and collected. I filled up a 32 ounce cup with my favorite drink and went to pay, to find out that the price had changed and I was short. The cashier, a quiet old man, grabbed a nickle from his pocket, smiled, and said "No problem. Have a great day."
What he didn't know was that my husband and I had just taken out our first student loan, and we were about to fall severely into debt. I had been saving spare change for three days to treat myself.
As I walked out of the gas station, I struggled to carry my purse, drink, and a car seat full of a fussy baby and a few blankets. I walked slowly, trying to balance one too many things. A teenage boy, with huge gauges in his ears, black hair, and two sleeves of tattoos, walked quickly in the gas station staring at the ground. When he looked up and saw me struggling, he turned and sprinted back to the door. Opening it, he waited with a smile on his face. "You are so welcome," he said, as I finally reached him and the open door.
What he didn't know was that it was my birthday. My husband had been at school all day. To this point, I had spent my time at the doctor's office with a sick baby and teaching piano to try to make ends meet.
For every story told, there are one hundred silent. For every word spoken, there are one million hidden.
I am going to tell the silent stories of the extraordinarily ordinary people of the world, and I am going to publish a book that if read will increase empathy and kindness. Can you imagine going about your day, looking at people and knowing what they have lived through, conquered, and endured? I imagine it would be a better place.