The Stare

by Toni Burns

I am a middle-aged, wrinkling, graying woman. Despite my best efforts, my middle is becoming thicker than my wit, and the only things slimming for me are my chances for two good knees and fully functional memory. I’m not saying this to elicit compliments through encouraging disagreement; these are merely facts. I harbor no illusions that I will ever again be carded beyond standard business practice or gratuitous attempts for better tips. I am grateful, though, to those who know and see me through the lens of personality, as my soul and heart remain far younger than my nearly six-decade-old body.  And yet, when I cover my suburban mom physique in leather – jacket and chaps with purple inlays (of course), vest, half gloves, and waist pack - I get “The Stare.”

The Stare is not an “Oh, baby,” wolf-whistling kind of look. It’s the sustained gawking that got you in trouble as a child - a jaw-dropping, mouth agape eyeballing of the first oddly formed or decorated “never-before-seen-in-your-young-life” person. Children don’t mean it to be rude or discriminatory. It’s merely a fascination with things never encountered before in the realms of human form or function. Still, that look inspires justifiable adult admonishment in a stage whisper behind clenched teeth – “It’s not polite to stare” – as they are dragged away before further embarrassing themselves, their mom, dad, grandparents, or the object of their attention. The Stare, by contrast, lacks that compassion, leaving recipients feeling that the giver sees them as bizarrely different from normal humans. 

I received a particularly remarkable Stare recently as I walked into one of those innumerable, forgettable chain restaurants that are so unavoidable on a long ride across America. I don’t recall why Scotte was not by my side, though he was probably checking some navigational thingy on his phone before entering. At the far end of the restaurant, a table of likely locals joined in The Stare. Like watching The Wave slowly develop in a football stadium, one by one, starting with the mom, heads turned in my direction. Grandma and great-grandma, both of whom had been seated with their backs turned, actually twisted around to Stare over the tops of their glasses and the backs of their chairs. Unlike The Wave, it did not subside. Rather, they manifested a sustained, full-on Family Stare. I met their gawks, thinking that perhaps if I made it obvious that I saw them staring, they would stop. Oh no. As I walked to the side to sit in the booth offered by the not-staring waitress, great-grandma shifted the weight of her frail frame to a cane and stood shakily to present me with a Full Body Stare. At this point, I just ignored them, blowing gum bubbles and perusing the menu. They eventually returned to the business of buffet consumption as though they had not just slain what remains of public etiquette by staring it to the floor and then stomping the sucker flat.

I went online that evening and did a little research about why people stare. The explanations ranged from attraction or admiration to trying to make sense of something odd or out of place. And, of course, there’s the chance that it could all be in your head. I dismissed the possibility of attraction based on the dry-iciness of The Stare. I further discounted it being imaginary because the voices in my head told me so, and Scotte confirmed that he’d witnessed several occurrences just as obvious. All of which left the only explanation being folks seeing something uniquely unusual or out of place in their experience.

So, how to make the unusual, usual, so The Stare would cease? I could ignore The Stare, and the people behind it, but that felt like letting my own manners die a cruel and unmarked death. I could get angry and all “up in their grill,” as kids say these days. Or I could do what I do best and that is in keeping with our efforts to dispel stereotypes and whatever other preconceptions lurk behind The Stare. But how?

An answer came on a subsequent sweltering morning outside a little southern diner in rural Georgia, as a gaggle of elderly gentlemen gave me the Good Ol’ Boys Club Stare while Scotte and I parked our bikes. As usual, I headed toward the front door to get a seat while Scotte checked our route and locked up some miscellaneous items in his saddlebags. Instead of entering, though, I made a 90-degree turn at the front door and walked straight into the middle of the gray herd. As with the family mentioned above, the men held their high ground, noses raised. I figured their mamas had taught them better, but that wasn’t the tack to take here. Instead, taking off my gloves, I asked with a great big smile, “You’ve probably guessed, I’m not from around here. I just have one question.” Here, I paused to remove a purple folding fan from my leather pack. A flick of the wrist opened it in a lacy flourish as I shamelessly batted my eyes a bit and asked, “Do y’all ever get used to the humidity out here?” 

Smiles creased the weathered, previously Staring faces and started them a-jawin’ instead, with a hearty “So, where’re ya’ll from?” Chuckles and head shakes followed when I told them South Dakota, and the “Oh this heat is nuthin’! Why, I remember back in ‘87...”

The Stare vanquished, I was welcomed into their sweaty banter. It was good to see that folks is folks - even if you sometimes have to remind them that you are, too.