Mistaken Identity

Everyone knows the impact that a first impression can have. It becomes your instant branding, a virtual blinking-neon sign that flashes above your head forever linking you with a particular demographic of the population. We all practice the art of the instant-size-up, and it usually takes only seconds before we smack that label onto a person’s forehead and forever group them as: our superior, equal, or, God-forbid… throw them to the lions with the ‘going no-where-in-life’ status. THAT first impression is the kiss of death. Heck, if you exude that vibe, you might as well pack your bags and start the move back to mom and dad’s because you are only delaying the inevitable. Thankfully, I have never had much trouble with first impressions. I am friendly, outgoing, tiny, non-threatening, and believe it or not… usually come off as ‘sweet’. I make it a point to only surround myself with the non-idiot portion of the population, and I am opinionated (and sassy mouthed) enough to be viewed as one of the non-stupid. But as usual, Karma decided it was time to take this overly confident Army Wife down a few notches…
The life-lesson was dropped on me last Tuesday when I headed to the Warrior Support Center at Fort Sam Houston to eat dinner with my favorite wounded vet. His name is Charles, and I consider him family— my brother-from-another-mother-kind-of-family. I met Charles through the music and wellness program (Tunes for Wounds) at Soldier’s Angels a few months ago, and have spent every Tuesday and Thursday working with him musically since he first limped into the music lab. Anyway, Charles was planning on helping me advertise the music program to other wounded vets, and we set out to drop off some fliers and make some rounds to talk up the music program. A simple plan in the grand scheme of things, but with one fatal error… It was Fiesta time in San Antonio and the Warrior Support Center was all decked out with piñatas, chilli peppers, and the worlds loudest and most enthusiastic mariachi band. I couldn’t hear myself think, no less talk with any other soldiers, and unless I suddenly stood on top of my table, shook my God-given maracas, and shouted, ‘Ole!’ there was no way that anyone was ever going to notice my presence.
Anyway, I tried to make myself useful, forced Charles to grab extra guacamole (I have a slight addiction to avocados), and offered to carry his nachos (which I totally planned to scarf down when he wasn’t looking). We decided that eating outside would probably provide the least damage to our ear drums, and I precariously balanced the nachos, fliers… and a milk shake that I was offered (which I tried to politely reject—but as everyone knows, skinny girls are NOT allowed to publically refuse fattening food). I was inching my way to the back patio—the mariachi band in hot pursuit—when Karma decided to wreak havoc once again in my life. My grip slipped, the chips tipped, and as I desperately tried to re-establish the order of the universe to save the nachos, I somehow managed to forget that my other hand was holding that unwanted milkshake. I guess I could blame it on the incoming texts that were blowing up my phone, or the fact that I was wearing 4” heels, or the fact that I was totally preoccupied with finding a somewhat polite (or at the least a non-violent) way to request for the mariachi band to march back to Riverwalk—but for whatever the reason, I managed to spill that milkshake all down the front of me—and I mean, ALL DOWN THE FRONT OF ME.
Now, standing in the middle of the Warrior Support Center covered in soupy ice cream was embarrassing enough, but the truly mortifying moment happened a few seconds later when the milk-shake-creator-extraordinaire looked at me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said (ever so slowly AND emphasizing EVERY syllable), “It’s . .O.K…HON..EY. I..WILL… GET… YOU… SOME… MORE… NACH…OS.” Feeling a little confused, I dumbly nodded as I tried to figure out why this man was treating me like I was an idiot (because I was certain that a spilled milk-shake had no relevant bearing on one’s IQ). His warm eyes radiated pity as he handed me a towel so that I could wipe off my drenched chest, and he gave me the hint of a smile that I recognized in an instant. It was the ‘everything-is-going-to-be-ok’ smile, and I used it frequently when working with wounded veterans. I tried convincing myself that I had imagined that smile—really, there was no reason that I should be receiving a grin of support—and I numbly turned to head outside with Charles (who was still laughing so hard that I was fairly certain he was going wet his pants).
Charles looked at me, laughed, smiled, laughed some more, and lovingly pointed out that he would pay big bucks just to see a repeat performance—heck, Thursday was Italian food, maybe I could spill some raviolis down my shirt for a little variation. I, on the other hand, squished my eyebrows together, calmly waited for him to stop laughing (at some point he was going to need to come up for air), and finally pointed out the unthinkable, “Charles…. I am pretty sure that man just thought I was retarded.”
It wasn’t until the next day, when I was listening to one of my dearest friends, Toby, tell me about how some chic had just found his latest look smoking hot, that I finally accepted the annoying truth. That I, Amy Kemter—the woman who has a come-back for EVERYTHING—had somehow lost my edge in society. In desperation, I turned to Toby, held up a hand to interrupt his tale of glory and devastatingly shared my moment of woe. Thankfully Toby is more enlightened than the average male, and after he was done laughing at me (which took at least ten minutes) he pointed out the obvious fact that I missed. No, the milk-shake-man had not mistaken me for a developmentally delayed individual, but rather a wounded veteran—only one with a TBI (traumatic brain injury).
And all at once, I was ashamed. How could I claim to be a woman committed to helping wounded soldiers when I was still so blinded to their trials and daily struggles? I had somehow missed the unmistakable fact that war can do just as much damage to the heart as it does to the body. Sure, it is easy to feel pity for the amputees and burn victims- their scars are tangible and real--but what about those who wounds are internal? What about those soldiers, who at one time possessed a sassy Yankee mouth, but had lost part of their soul on the battle field? How can one even begin to heal when they can’t even remember who they were or how they once loved? My heart ached for these drifting veterans and the battles that they continue to fight on the homefront. The brave victims of a TBI have no scar to hide behind to explain their erratic behavior, but rather are forced to endure the looks of disdain and impatience as they try to create a new normalcy in their daily lives.
I made a promise to myself that night that I would learn to ignore the first impression that tries to whisper whether a person is worthy or not. Who am I to judge? I am only the Army Wife, safe on the homefront, blessed enough to still have my identity intact. Karma reminded me—via a milkshake down the chest-- that it’s not the outside of a person that defines and individual, nor is it necessarily the interior . A human life can only be truly understood when we show unconditional love, believe whole-heartedly that there is goodness inside everyone, and trust that healing—even if it is not the miraculous healing we pray for—is within us all.
Yes, last Tuesday I was mistaken for a TBI patient when I dumped a milkshake down the front of my shirt at the Warrior Support Center—a heroic first impression that I am nowhere near worthy enough to deserve.