I thought her struggle was about clique politics.  She taught me it was about communication.

“Try to steer away from Greek mythology,” Bob counsels as he and Saoirse come down the porch steps, headed for the car.  I hear them from the wood pile as they pass.

“Oh!  I know!” I shout over a heap of chopped oak and maple.  “Tell them how your parents are idiots!  That’s usually a great conversation opener!”

Saoirse laughs.  Then, before she shuts the car door, she calls over her shoulder, “You know I don’t lie, Mom!”  Sweet kid.  They pull away.

Bob is taking her down into the valley for her second day of band camp.  As a rural home schooler, Saoirse hasn’t had a chance to play in a group ensemble setting.  So this year, the directors of the week long camp agreed that the recorder was a legitimate band instrument.  So they let her join.

She was the only home schooler.

She was the only new kid.

I didn’t think it would be a problem.  They’re band geeks, I figured.  Recalling my own middle school and high school days, band was a repository for a whole bevy of social outliers.  If there was going to be a place where a quirky home schooled recorder player would fit in, it had to be band camp.

But on day one, not a single person other than the directors spoke with her.  On day two, she promised me she would initiate one conversation.  Since the theme of the week was Irish music, they had a morning workshop where the group learned a bit about Irish dance.  Saoirse’s big victory was screwing up the courage to ask kids to be her dance partner.  Apparently the conversation consisted of “Do you want to be my dance partner?” , which she repeated over and over in an effort to find someone.  In the end, her partner was the teacher.

Bob and I were getting worried.  Saoirse’s best friend moved to California two summers ago.  And while that friendship has held strong across the miles, and she’s made a few new friends, she has not found another bosom friend her age with whom she has a deep connection.  We want this for her.  She wants it for herself.  We’re all trying.

On Wednesday, her big thrill is that she is assigned to work in a small group on a project about Ireland.  Therefore, those kids have to talk to her.  The conversation is limited to their project.  At lunch, she asks if she can join them.  The girls allow it, but Saoirse remains silent, unable to find common ground as the discussion turns to boys and school gossip.  At home we chalk up another small victory.  At least she mustered the courage to ask to join them.  At least they didn’t say “no.”

And then Thursday night comes.  Only one more day of band camp remains.  Saoirse and I are perched on stools in the kitchen, sharing a warmed plate of leftovers late at night after finishing at the farm.  Ula has decided to have a sleepover with Grammie and Pop Pop, so Saoirse has Bob and me to herself.

She pushes the food around with her fork as I ask her about her day, talking about what she’s learned about slip jigs and reels, about the stories behind different Irish folk songs.  And then she stops and looks up at me.  Her eyes are wide with confusion.

“Mom,” she says.  “I’ve been there all week.  And no one has even asked my name.”  She looks down at her plate before she says the next words.  “Ula can walk into any situation.  And everyone sees her.  Everyone is her friend.”  And then the question I am dreading comes next.

“Why can’t I be like her?”  When I make no reply, she adds the most painful words.  “I’m invisible.  And just once, I’d like to be seen.”  And for the first time in this entire painful week, she lets a tear slide down her cheek.

That is the ironic difference between my two daughters.  Short little 8 year old Ula, with her extra thick bifocals, can hardly see.  But in a crowd of kids, every child sees her.  At 12, Saoirse is already as tall as me.  She is graceful, beautiful, intelligent and witty.  And in her own words, she is invisible.  And yet she sees.  Everything.

I was vaguely aware of this phenomenon.  But for some reason, I didn’t think my daughter was.  And now, sitting beside her, I am witness to the folly of my thinking.  And all I want to do is wipe away her pain.

“You think they don’t see you?”  My voice tightens in disbelief.  “The problem is that they do see you, Saoirse.  And they don’t know what the hell to make of you.  So they pretend you’re invisible.”  She cocks her head.  “Girls that age are into their cliques,” I begin my rant.  “I swear to God, if they are with their friends, they are petrified to speak to someone they don’t know, because it will break some sort of unwritten group code.  And they let life pass them by while they try to follow some stupid set of rules that they don’t understand.”  Every vile experience from my middle school and high school years is pouring into each word that I say to my daughter.  Every hateful time I watched girls be mean to each other.  Every time I was upbraided because I didn’t  leave a minimum of 14 days between repeated outfits.  Because I wore overalls instead of Guess jeans.  Because my sneakers were the wrong brand. Because I talked to people I wasn’t supposed to talk to.  My own rage from that horrible time pours to the surface.  “They’re jerks!” I’m getting louder now.  “They’re shallow.  Why would you even want to know these people?”

The tears are flowing freely down her face now as she puts down her fork and slides around on her stool to face me directly.  “They’re not jerks.”  Her voice is strong.  Unwavering.  Her wet eyes pierce deeply into me.  “They’re nice girls.  And we don’t know how to talk to each other.”

My tirade has hit a brick wall of truth.  Like I said.  She sees everything.

But I don’t know what to do.  If I can’t blame those other girls, then I cannot take away her pain.  And I am her mother.  This is my friggen job.  Kiss away my children’t tears.  Tell them how to fix it.

And I can’t.  I can only share her pain.  I lean forward until our foreheads are touching.  I wrap her hands in mine.  And my tears join hers.  We stay there for a long time.  I hate having nothing to offer her.  I hate recognizing that she is beginning the phase of life where some problems must be her own.  Where she must find a way through, and all I can do is wait and watch.  I offer her the only last words I can.  “You’re right.  But they do see you.  They’re only frightened and insecure.  But they see you.  You have to trust me on that.”

She nods.  Her smile is back.  A few minutes later she is dancing upstairs once more, bubbling with excitement about her concert the next day.

On Friday night, Ula, Bob and I squeeze in with the other families for the concert.  Because Ula can’t see, she takes a seat on the floor in the front.  She positions herself right in front of her sister, eager to take in every moment.  Saoirse looks down at her and smiles.  And, as always happens with Ula, she is noticed.  The girl sitting beside Saoirse watches this little kid a moment, then leans over and whispers something.  The kids on stage aren’t supposed to be talking.  But Saoirse whispers back.  And the two of them begin to laugh.  Everyone else is waiting for the concert to begin, but I know I’m already watching the real show. A simple conversation.

In the end, Saoirse and the girl walk off stage together.  Later, she runs and finds me, throwing her arms around my waist.  “I’m coming back next year,” she whispers.

 

Photo courtesy of Nancy Daynard.