As an aspiring writer, you would think that my attention span is attuned to every minute detail of every face and circumstance I wander past. Contrary to the stereotypical image of a word connoisseur with a notepad and pen at the ready to scribble down every thought and experience, I appear to the outside world as an oblivious third-party individual just trying to make it through the day. In short, I notice nothing, and I am always caught red-handed.

I have learned to tune out unwarranted attention and mundane questions – and yes, by the way, there is a such thing as a stupid question. I despise those motivational classroom posters and cheerleader teachers who claim to their impressionable students that every question is important and has a purpose. “Stupid” questions often spew from the lips of those who were not paying attention due to boredom, sleepiness, daydreaming, etc. Therefore, when faced with the request for verification of instructions because you were caught up in your own little world, gossiping away with the girl next to you like you hadn’t seen her in ten years, I will most certainly use you as an example when explaining why stupid questions exist.

Because I have trained myself to tune out the world, I often miss out on story time moments, inside jokes, and the wandering eyes of the male species. It takes the nudge, punch, or kick from a friend to focus my attention on the tall drink of water walking in my direction; my oblivious gaze would have never noticed without the guidance of bystanders. I’m sure I’ve missed out on many an opportunity because I appeared to be more interested in the patterns in the tile. It is also very likely that the glazed look in my eyes paired with that chronic case of RBF I’m struggling to maintain scared them all away like a scarecrow protecting this season’s crops.

While I am a painfully oblivious human, my brain does manage to pick up on little snippets that most would gloss over because they are ignorant to the situation or the circumstances, which is most likely no fault of their own. Let me explain.

As you all know, I work in retail. What you may not know, is that I am approaching four years at my current job, and when I started college, I was fortunate enough to be able to transfer back and forth between two stores – one at home, one at school. This was truly a lifesaver because I had guaranteed employment for the next four years, and I was saved from custodial work on campus. (I have many stories to divulge about my time as a custodial worker on campus, which I will address in a separate blog).

Working at two stores was a stressor in my life in the beginning, but now I’m awarded with twice the amount of idiotic people to expose and pull obscure character traits from for future use. I am also grateful enough to have been exposed to people from all walks of life, which has proven to be the biggest inspiration for what is to come in my writing career. These people truly inspire me to educate myself and to learn to make society more accommodating in any way that I can. There is one experience that stands out most vividly and serves as the first ball of snow that started the avalanche of research and ideas for a potential children’s book series.

Last semester, I found myself working yet another long closing shift, running around like a madwoman trying to clean out fitting rooms and fold down basically half of the store. It was nearing the middle of spring, and anyone who works in retail knows that this is the height of trying on bathing suits season. Essentially, the store was trashed, I was an anxious and twitchy mess because I had to write two ten-page papers within a three-week span because I procrastinated my life away for a good month bingeing The Office, and customers were just being the worst kind of humans that day.

Bathing suits were dripping from the return rack like melted cheese because apparently no one knows how to hang anything the way they found it. Instead, they like to hang it inside out or leave fifty suits in the widest range of sizes heaped in the middle of the floor for me to sift through; I’m honestly not sure which is worst.

I was ticked off and trying to solve the most complex puzzle of twisted fabric ever when a woman approached me, clearly needing assistance. I turned, plastered that smile on my face, and asked her what I could help her with. Immediately, I knew she was going to be an exceptional human because instead of answering my inquiry vocally, she signed her response. Now, I do not know sign language, but watching this woman try to communicate with me in the only way she knew how while I stood confused as to how I was supposed to handle the situation, I knew I wanted to learn.

Embarrassed, I explained to her that I did not know how to sign, and she placed her hand on my arm and said, “It’s okay, honey. Just look at me when you speak; I can read lips.” Even though there was a language barrier between us, she managed to accommodate my language needs. I spent a good forty-five minutes helping this woman find exactly what she needed, making sure to look at her when I spoke. I also showed her the price of each item, as well as the item description on my handheld device to make sure she knew all the information about the products she was purchasing. Before she left, she hugged me and thanked me for helping her so intently, and she even took the store survey for me.

This experience changed my life in two ways. First, it made me realize how ignorant I was of the deaf community and of the existing language barrier. I felt so helpless when she signed to me, and I was not able to accommodate her speaking needs. She was so kind and understanding and truly brightened my anxious spirit. She opened my eyes to that world, and I even hope to take sign language classes in the near future. The second way in which this experience changed my life was that it forced me to be less oblivious to my surroundings because you never know what amazing sights you might be missing out on.

This experience was the jumpstart of the inspiration train that lead me to this point in time. As I reflect on this moment with this particular woman, my memory is serving up even more snapshots of inspiration for my decision to write a children’s series that proves disabilities and exceptionalities do not define a human being, their actions do. Instead, beautiful personalities shine bright and break through the crippling stereotypes society decided fit the mold of the basic character. I plan on educating myself thoroughly enough to paint a picture of exceptional children doing things just the same as you and me. Of course, coffee is my loyal sidekick, but the main character of my series needs something a little livelier and furrier to keep her on her toes.