There Are Always Streaks

A summer of learning about empathy.

(image credit: Carol Yepes // Getty)

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I was a fairly well-behaved kid but probably not for the right reasons.

We were a poor family, and by the time I hit middle school, I knew my only way out of poverty was following the rules, avoiding trouble, and respecting authority figures.

I don’t think I judged other kids for getting in trouble—on some level, I probably admired them—but the thought of disappointing the adults in my life was very scary, and I acted accordingly.

A less-than-satisfying grade, a word of admonishment, a disappointing look — any of these were enough to ruin my week as a kid. I held myself to an unhealthy standard, and when I didn’t meet it, I felt like my future was slipping away and I would somehow wound up like my mother, broke and mean and angry at the world.

The summer before my freshman year of high school, my sister and I had moved in with my father and his wife after a contentious custody battle he had with my mother, who was quite an abusive person, which I won’t go into here.

Because of Texas custody laws that center the desire of the child, it was legally resolved with relative ease. The actual splintering, of course, was far more complicated and would ultimately lead to no true sense of resolution or peace for anyone involved.

Overnight, I found myself with new parents and new expectations in a new home in a new town (Round Rock, a suburb of Austin), and I didn’t really know anyone. My friends had faded into the background with the rest of Killeen and Fort Hood, and I was suddenly unmoored socially. This was a few years before cell phones were ubiquitous and social media began to slowly take over youth culture.

I was a weird kid in the sense that I couldn’t simply be idle or relax. I couldn’t sit around all day. If I wasn’t doing something productive toward my future, I feared I may not have one.

When you’re 14 and without cash in a place you don’t know that well, there ain’t a whole lot you can do in that vein. We couldn’t afford summer camps or foreign language classes or any number of activities that would look good on a college application. And although I could technically get a job with limited hours under Texas law, no one in those parts were hiring 14 year-olds.

There was a library a few miles from home, and I made the most of it. Believe me, if I could go back and just read to my heart’s content the entire summer, I’d have taken that deal in a heartbeat.

But at that time, even while reading, I felt like I wasn’t doing enough to secure my future. The things that go through a traumatized 14 year-old’s mind can be quite thorny. I felt I needed to do something tangible. I wanted to be able to point to something, a contribution of some sort, and say: See? I pull my own weight. I am useful, and I have a future.

Living with my mother, this had not been difficult. My sister and I took care of ourselves and our place. We did all the work. There was a quiet, implicit contract between us and our mother and her third husband: if we did the chores, they would leave us the hell alone. If we did these things, there would be less abuse.

But in this new town, my sudden liberation left me unexpectedly stranded from purpose, and that was terrifying. Bad things happen when there’s nothing to do.

I forget who told me, but I learned about a recreation center in town, not too far from where we lived. It was a decent walk, about 45 minutes or so. I had been given the impression that volunteering there in whatever capacity was needed might look good to colleges down the road. So, on a late Monday morning, I made the long walk in the summer heat.

I was at peace with this decision, and I also had no idea what I was doing.

The building itself, the Clay Madsen Recreation Center, had finished construction and opened the previous year, and it was one of the most impressive places I had ever seen up to that point in my young life. Clay Madsen had been a beloved stand-out athlete at Round Rock High School in the early ‘90s before he was diagnosed with cancer his junior year and passed away the following November.

The building, a wonderful tribute, was gorgeous. It all looked very new and expensive. It was my first deep realization that Round Rock was the kind of place where people have money, and this is not something I had yet experienced.

My middle school football team in Killeen had used equipment that was probably around since the Carter Administration; now, I was standing in a freshly-paved parking lot full of cars whose approximate value was likely more than my mother’s net worth.

I walked through the front doors into a wall of cool air and the scent of… well, I don’t know exactly how to describe it. It smelled like clean plasticity, which is a lot better than it sounds. It felt secure.

I found the front office and attempted to seek out guidance. There was a man and a woman behind the counter, both around their early 30s and in branded shirts with the recreation center’s logo, and they stopped talking when they saw me.

There was an awkward pause between us, and I spoke first.

“Sorry, excuse me, I was told I could do volunteer hours here?”

As the woman turned away, the man had an ever-so-slight smirk on this face, which I couldn’t read. Was he smirking at me? Did I interrupt something?

There was another uncomfortable beat.

“Sure. Do you know how to clean windows?”

“Yes, Sir, I do.”

“Good answer”, he said, dryly. “We’re going to get along great.”

He took me to a janitor’s closet and pulled out a bottle of Windex and cleaning towels.

“We really need all the glass cleaned. It’s been looking a bit grimy lately. Put this stuff away when you’re done.”

And then, without another word, he walked back to the office. We had met less than two minutes ago.

Okay then.

The building has many, many windows, but he had gestured toward all the racquetball courts down the hall. There were four, as I recall, each fronted with whatever the hell kinda safety glass is used for racquetball courts.

I had never seen such a thing up close. I had been under the impression from movies that these only existed in big cities on the East Coast. As I walked past them, I peered inside at older white men in goggles furiously slamming a small rubber ball against the back of the court, over and over. The muffled ponging sound was oddly pleasing.

I got to work, starting at the farthest unoccupied court. I sprayed and wiped in careful circles to avoid streaking and then, I did it again. And again.

I loved cleaning glass. I still do. There is an instant gratification when cleaning glass that isn’t as vividly present with other chores. With glass, perfection almost seems possible. Just look at it. Can you see any smears or streaks or debris? Anything other than a completely transparent field? Gorgeous.

I stood back from the first court I cleaned and admired my work. It was gleaming, and I was feeling pretty damn good about myself.

It took me an hour to do the racquetball court glass. Then I moved on to the numerous windows in the hallways wrapping around the front half of the building, finishing maybe half of them and nearly draining the bottle of Windex by the time I decided it was probably best to head home before my father got back from work.

About four hours of cleaning in total.

I went back every day for the rest of the week and did the same thing. I forgot this guy’s name, but he would see me, offer a tepid expression of recognition, and gesture casually toward the janitor’s closet. He was never warm. He almost seemed dismissive.

Nevertheless, I felt productive. I had satisfied this strange need within me to do something tangible and be proud of my work.

At the end of the week, I walked into the front office to inquire about collecting some sort of documentation of my hours, which the gentleman helpfully prepared for me in a printed-out note.

As he was typing, he said, “For what it’s worth, you’ve done a great job with the windows this week. We’ve gotten compliments.”

For what it’s worth?

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I appreciated the kind words.

“Thank you, Sir.”

He looked up at me with a facial expression somewhere between curiosity and amusement.

“So, can I ask… what’d you do?”

Huh?

“I’m sorry, what do you mean?”

He stopped writing and held my gaze, seemingly unsure of whether or not to elaborate, that smirk back on his face.

“Well, you seem like a good kid, so don’t take this the wrong way, but we were making guesses on what got you in trouble and landed you here.”

After a few seconds of my brain whirring, everything suddenly clicked into place — the weird looks and cold indifference from other staff, the strange tone when he talked to me, the less-than-warm greetings when I arrived each day that week to start cleaning.

He thought I was there on court-ordered punishment. Community service hours to report to some juvenile agency.

I can laugh about the reveal now because it’s funny, but in that moment, as vulnerable as I was, not knowing anyone in that unfamiliar town, honestly trying to grow as a young adult and take my future seriously — I felt deeply embarrassed. And being the 14 year-old perfectionist I was, I felt quietly indignant.

“I didn’t get in trouble,” I told him, my voice barely even. “I’m here to build up my college application.”

His facial expression of amused curiosity instantly evaporated into bewilderment, his eyebrows simultaneously shooting up and crunching into the middle of his forehead.

He, too, now seemed somewhat embarrassed.

We stared at each other for a few beats, and he leaned back into his chair and looked in the direction of the racquetball courts, his mouth slightly ajar. Then, he looked back at me and finally spoke again.

“Well, I think that’s great, and you did an incredible job this week. You should be proud. Your parents should be proud.”

He warmly smiled at me for the first time. I took the piece of paper he signed and began the 45 min. walk back home, my embarrassment turning to anger as I rolled it all over in my mind.

I felt foolish and pissed. And for most of the walk, I couldn’t figure out why I felt that way. The previous few months had been hard on everyone in our family. It was the Summer of 2001, and things felt so uncertain for us at home and would be yet in ways we hadn’t anticipated.

I was scared about the future and life lately had been hard, but here was an accomplishment. I had gotten my volunteer hours. I had done something tangible.

Why, then, was I so angry?

And in maybe the first truly adult moment of introspection I’d ever had, I realized that I didn’t want to be mistaken for a kid who gets in trouble, and suddenly, without warning, a wave of guilt hit me.

I had friends who got detention regularly, kids I liked and enjoyed being around. Did I think I was somehow better than them? Was it so horrible that I might be mistaken for them? I felt like shit upon that realization, and I missed my friends, who might as well have been an ocean away at that time.

It was an important lesson for me to learn.

I’ve never forgotten the way I felt when I realized that guy and his colleagues treated me differently under the assumption I was a “bad kid”.

I have often wondered about the kids who make some mistakes, stray from the path, attempt to negotiate trauma without any guidance, and try to get back on track, only to be met with unnecessary coldness and low expectations from grown adults who lack empathy and grace.

Or how about the kids and adults who experience that solely because of bigotry toward their race or religion or migrant status? What about folks who are incarcerated, actively or formerly? Or those of us who are queer?

I’ve thought back to that moment so often when I felt myself becoming even a little judgmental toward someone I don’t know, someone who I might otherwise not have given a chance before I got to know them, arrogantly and foolishly.

I never did volunteer again at that recreation center. Over the years, during high school, I visited a half dozen times to use the pool or shoot some hoops, and occasionally, I’d see that guy and exchange a friendly wave, his greeting now being warm rather than tepid.

On each of those occasions, I’d take a gander near the racquetball courts to hear that familiar ponging, and I would casually peer at the glass.

There were always streaks.

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Hi, I’m Charlotte Clymer, and this is Charlotte’s Web Thoughts, my Substack. It’s completely free to access and read, but it’s also how my bills! So, please do kindly consider upgrading to a paid subscription: just $7/month or save money with the $70/annual sub. You can also go way above and beyond by becoming a Lifetime Member at $210.

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