A Kindness

Some days just need one small moment to reframe everything. In A Kindness, spoken word artist and empathy educator S.C. Says shares a story from one of those days where nothing seemed to be going right, that changed after a chance encounter. A meditation on what we miss when we're too depleted to pay attention, and what happens when we stop just long enough to see who someone actually is. One small moment, one massive shift in understanding.

Transcript

Hey there. Find a comfortable place to be. To hear a story. Take a breath. Take a moment. Before I tell you this story, I want you to think about a day. Not a catastrophe of a day. Not a tragedy. Just one of those days where everything is slightly off. The coffee doesn't taste right. The drive takes longer than it should. The small things start piling up. Little pebbles in your shoe that you just can't stop feeling. But they're not annoying enough to actually stop and remove them. You know the day I'm talking about. This is a story about one of mine. It was a regular Tuesday. I was working a job at the time. An honest job. A responsible job. But a job that had nothing to do with why I got up in the morning. Every day felt like dragging something heavy across a floor that never seemed to end. And by the time I finally got to leave, I wasn't tired. I was drained. That particular kind of exhausted that comes from spending hours doing something that just isn't you. The day ends, But I had a list of errands. A few small things I needed to take care of before I could finally go home. Turn off. And just be still. And one of those errands meant stopping at a grocery store. I just needed two things. Should be in and out. I walked in with the energy of someone who has goals, A timeline, And absolutely no margin for distractions. Two things. Get them and go. That was the whole mission. I found my items. I got in the shortest line. And there, In front of me, Was a woman. An older woman. Short, White hair. Slow, Deliberate movements. A basket that appeared to contain a significant portion of the store. A loaf of bread. Peanut butter. Apple granola bars. Several bottles of Gatorade. A Hershey's bar. Toothpaste. Chocolate hostess cakes. Water. Milk. Now, I'm in a hurry. It's been a long day. This isn't what I needed. I watched her unload every single item onto the conveyor belt. One at a time. Carefully. No rush whatsoever. And I felt something tighten in my chest. Like someone put one of those wind-up handles on my back and started twisting. Then, She started talking to the cashier. Actually talking. Asking about their day. Laughing. And I feel the spring of my last nerves growing tighter and tighter. We are not here to make friends. We are here to purchase items and leave. Then, She did the cruelest thing anyone had done to me that day. She pulled out a checkbook. A checkbook. I watched her fill it out. Slowly. Carefully. Handwriting that clearly had a particular way to be. While I stood behind her with two items and a rapidly deteriorating sense of calm. The cashier had, I am almost certain, Never processed a physical check in their entire life. They had to call a manager over to show them how to do it. Live. In real time. In front of me. With my two items. The manager came. There was a lesson. The check was processed. The receipt was printed. The bags were packed. And finally, Finally, The woman picked up both bags and made her slow, Unhurried way toward the door. I, Quickly, With eyes that screamed, No new friends, Paid for my two things, Grabbed my receipt, And went to leave. Only to be delayed again by this woman, Who is currently making evolution look expedient and blocking my exit. I moved to get past her. But she didn't go to the parking lot. She made a sharp right turn, Just outside the sliding doors. And something about how sudden it was, How intentional, Made me stop. Made me actually look. There was a man, Sitting just to the side of the entrance. He had a small sign resting next to him. It read, You are loved. Anything helps. And I watched this woman, Who had just consumed every last thread of my patience, Slowly, Carefully, Lower both bags and all the items she had just purchased to the ground in front of them. All of it. The bread. The peanut butter. The granola bars. The Gatorade. The Hershey's chocolate bar. The toothpaste. The water. The milk the store clerk had to run back to grab for her. That milk. Every single item she had taken her time selecting. Every item she had placed, One by one, On that belt. Every second of that transaction that I had spent resenting. None of it was for her. It was always for him. I stood there in that parking lot and I felt something move through me that I didn't quite have a word for yet. I had written an entire story about this woman in my head before she'd had a single chance to show me who she actually was. I decided she was slow, Inconsiderate, Out of step with the world. I decided she didn't know how things worked anymore. And I was wrong. She wasn't moving slowly because she was confused. She was moving carefully because what she was doing mattered. I think about all the people I've passed in a hurry. All the checkout lines. The traffic jams. The slow walkers. The phone calls that went too long. I think about the number of times I was so locked inside my own experience. My bad days. My list of things to get done. My impatience. That I completely missed what was actually happening right in front of me. How many moments like this one have I walked right past? How many kindnesses have moved through my life that I was moving too fast to see? There's a version of me that walks out of that grocery store angry. That goes home and numbs out. And that woman becomes just another frustrating detail of a day I would rather have forgotten. But I didn't. I stopped. I saw. And everything changed. I eventually wrote a poem about her. I called it A Kindness. I finally found the word I was looking for that described what she did. And every time I've shared that poem, In schools, At conferences, Poetry slams, People always laugh first. They recognize the impatience. They've been me in that line. They know that depleted, Pebbles-in-your-shoe kind of day. And then the poem turns. The story turns. And everything in the room goes absolutely quiet. That good kind of quiet. The kind that means something landed. Something was felt. That's what I want to offer you today. Not a call to be perfect, Because clearly I am not. Not a lesson about patience, Because again, Clearly I am not. More an invitation. The next time someone seems to be in your way. The next time someone is moving slower than you'd like, Or doing something you don't understand, Or taking up more space than you feel like they have a right to. Pause. Before you decide who they are. You might be standing at the edge of a kindness you weren't expecting to witness. You might be one small moment away from seeing something that actually changes you. Alright. Hope this story helps you feel seen. And to lead with more empathy. Be well. I'll see you next time.