SAM
by Samantha Martinez Palomares
Three years ago, while sitting on the kitchen floor at three o’clock in the morning my mother confessed to me, in a moment of delirium, sabes cariño, sometimes when I look into your eyes… I can’t recognize you. This comment, as you can imagine, crushed me so very deeply, and continues to do so now when I linger on the memory.
I was twenty-one then, exiting what my close circle likes to call the party years. I suppose the reason the comment stung so much was that I wasn’t sure I recognized myself. In fact, I could not recall the last time I had. Or, if there ever had been a moment where I looked into the mirror and knew exactly who was staring back. This likely accounts for why I don’t stare at myself for too long.
On the off chance I do find myself looking into mirrors, I tend to focus on specific features, never the eyes. When I apply makeup, for example, I’ll look at my lashes when it’s mascara, the eyelids when it's eyeshadow, and so on. Scared of what exactly might look back, if I did, even for a second, make eye contact. I might see someone I dislike, or worse, I might see nothing at all.
Truth be told, I don’t know myself any better than the stranger behind me at the grocery store would. I see what they see, and nothing past. I understand myself as an amalgamation of sorts, one that tends to absorb more dominant energies, too afraid of developing her own. How might those around me react if I did? What if they hated it, hated me? Might they stop loving me? I can’t imagine a reality where I deal with that sort of rejection, therefore, the cycle continues.
Today there is the Sam who gets along great with everyone, pretends to like her coworkers, she’s chatty, and makes everyone feel comfortable. Tomorrow will be the Sam that Devon likes, she’s spontaneous and wild, never says no to going out. On Saturday, there will be the Sam that everyone tolerates at dinner because she’s agreeable and polite. And all three Sams can coexist, but never mingle.
In the summer, I will be the Sam that my friends in the city enjoy; she is outspoken, aggressive even. She takes up space and is known to care about the superficial. But, come wintertime, I will be the Sam that Max brings to ski trips. She’s quiet, calm, collected, observant, emotionally intelligent, a good listener, and most importantly, selfless. I ponder now, which Sam my mother was referring to when she made that cutting remark? Presumably, the Sam that’s mom’s best friend.
It must have been an off day for me to forget to switch characters. I’m certain I won’t let it happen again. Given I only know how to be the something, someone wants me to be. For the people I have yet to meet, there are still the Sams I have yet to create. Each version, I’m sure, will be crafted with care and attention to fit the person I’m with.