The tough girl
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Sean of the South
A little girl. I see her in the hotel lobby. She is maybe 10 years old. She has her luggage with her. Her gait is severely uneven and labored. She is having a difficult time traversing the lobby.
Her mother is with her, holding the child’s arms for support. The girl takes multiple breaks to catch her breath. She sits on her luggage now and then. She looks like she is going to puke from exertion.
Her luggage is blue and orange, with Auburn University logos plastered all over. There are burnt orange ribbons in her hair. Her T-shirt says “War Eagle.”
The little girl is not giving up. Each time she gets onto her feet, she staggers across the lobby with a determination such as I have rarely seen.
She’s getting closer to the elevators now. There is a man holding the door for the girl. He has been standing here, waiting for her patiently.
Once the little girl is in the elevator, we cram inside, shoulder to shoulder. We are close enough to smell what each other had for lunch. Someone has been hitting the onion dip.
“What floor?” one passenger asks the girl.
But the girl struggles to speak. It’s hard to get words out. You can see her mouth working hard; nothing comes out but small groans. Even so, her mother doesn’t help her speak. She has the courtesy to let her daughter do it herself.
“S-s-even,” the little girl finally says.
We are riding upward now. When we deboard, a few of us passengers offer to carry the girl’s bags to her room. The child labors to respond to the offers, stammers, and she eventually gets the words out.
“No, thank you.”
So we all sort of watch the little girl push her heavy roller suitcase through the hallway, moving at a pace of about three feet per minute. Determined.
Her mother lingers behind her. And as the girl soldiers along. I see her stumble. I see her fall. It’s not a faceplant, per se, but it’s not pretty. She hits the ground with a thud.
She is on the floor now. Her mother is helping her off the carpet, but the young woman says, “No, Mom! I can do it myself!”
“Please let me help,” says Mama.
The girl pushes her mother away with delayed motor skills.
The girl takes five minutes crawling off the floor. Resolved to do it herself.
Her mother watches her daughter. You can tell the mother really wants to help, but she honors her daughter’s wishes. Because that’s what moms do.
Once the child is on her feet, the kid dons her backpack and resumes towing her suitcase. Mom and daughter pass me on the way to their room. The little girl and I lock eyes for a brief moment. I am not an Auburn University man; I pull for the other Alabama team. Even so, I know greatness when I see it.
When the child passes, I smile at her.
“War Eagle,” I say.
The kid smiles back. I can see tears on her cheek.
“War Eagle,” she says.
