The Voiceless Speaks

by Angela Tadlock
Despite the bustle of shoppers, the fruitcake slicing, mistletoe kisses and the magic adrift on the moonlit snow, politeness, during the holidays, leaves a lot to be desired. The rudeness that accompanies the irate mother and the disrespect that linger in the shadows of the impatient customer the other eleven months of the year, suddenly rages forth like a leviathan the morning that dark Friday arrives.One lesson I learned while working in retail was that a person chooses to be rude. It costs nothing to be polite. The only requirement is that you not care about other people or how they may perceive you.I have worked in retail for five years and have formally retired to the stock room where I oversee the organization and preparation of the back stock. In that stock room I work alone, away from people and their malcontent. Unfortunately, my job insists that I must trudge out to the sales floor on occasion where I am forced - or rather paid - to stand behind a counter and ring out customers’s sales of whom, most are rude.Most talk on their cell phones and don’t respond properly when you cordially say, "Hello." Others permit their children to pull clothes off the racks, and some return clothes emitting the strong scent of cigarette. But above all, it’s their demeanor that offends. A refusal to smile. Persistence to stay on the cell phone throughout a transaction. A lack of propriety as they gossip endlessly about their private affairs.In the mass of rude conduct, I will always remember a single child who showed me that thankfulness still exists out there in the material world. Her stringy hair was light brown, which covered the glasses she wore. Her eyes seemed to bulge from the refracted optical lens making her appear slightly frog-ish. Her smile was as big and as bright as her eyes. She was the most polite child I have ever met in my life, standing only forty-five inches high with a scraggly frame. She tried to bottle an enthusiasm that hopelessly poured over. But what I remember most of this child, was the enormous hole in her neck.Her eyes glistened with joy as her grandmother placed a little knit purse on the counter. I’ve seen parents and grandparents lay down more than three hundred dollars for a single child at a time. During the holidays parents will ask for twelve boxes to wrap four outfits so they can "wrap each item individually so they’ll have more underneath the tree.""Ungrateful," I think to myself every year."You’re promoting materialism!" I want to shout in place of the cheery "Merry Christmas!" I wish them. But I’m paid to give them their boxes and not discuss the materialism that has infiltrated our society.Now, before me, there stood this little girl with nothing but a single knit purse clenched in her tiny hand. So happy to be getting this purse . . . or so I thought."Hello." I said with a genuine smile.A short, raspy "I," was her reply, which resembled the scratchy squeak of a soprano clarinet in the anxious hands of a student. The sound plunged a bucket of ice water into my stomach as I fought to hold the smile unaltered on my face. Her grandmother began to explain."Four weeks ago she had surgery. She’s four and has never been able to speak before." The ice water froze in my stomach as my throat tightened."The surgery has allowed her to speak for the first time since she was born." Her grandmother continued. "I’m buying her a purse today ‘cause she’s been such a good girl."I continued to smile despite my hardened gut. Her face beamed with pride, not over the purse in her hands, but the voice she finally had. I looked into the eyes of this child as I thought of what ordeal this four-year-old already had to bare. I no longer saw her stringy hair or her bulging eyes. Only the proud smile that said, "I can talk," spoke the words she was unable to articulate. I looked at the angel as selfless and as thankful as the heavens could send and for the first time in my life, I was humbled.I felt the tears sting my eyes, which I fought back. I composed myself quickly unsure of what to say while I gulped down the knot in my own neck. I finished the transaction and bagged her little purse in a small accessory bag – the children always love that."Goodbye," I called to them as they turned to leave.Without hesitation she turned back to me waving her whole arm, refusing to miss an opportunity to omit any kind of sound."I," She called back with her new voice, smiling like never before over the power to speak.As they turned away once more, my thoughts filled with my two-year-old daughter, who had spent that morning shrieking inane babble at me in between shrieking no’s. In an instant I became grateful that my daughter could tell me "no" for she could also tell me "I love you."The next time she screams I’ll be grateful that she can and, despite the materialism, there is one angel I know of who was grateful enough for the voice she finally had.