Panim el Panim: Face to Face

Face to Face

Our faces are literally two intimate inches from each other. I see you. I’m looking right into your eyes. And you see me, too. Staring at me, into my eyes. I feel seen by you. We connect instantly. Two souls offering compassion. “How are you doing” takes on deeper meaning when your faces are two inches apart in unbreakable eye contact, straining to listen and be heard. Separated by glass, we try to hear each other over the background noise. Beyond active listening. I see myself in you. Middle-aged, same height. Mothers, sisters, daughters. Both navigating the patriarchy. Both grieving. We’ve both made less than wise decisions at one point in our lives. Here we are. Face to face.

We talk through a small mesh hole in the door. I hear you. Another layer of barrier that distracts neither of us, I’m wearing an N95 mask because covid is raging throughout the jail. But, I’m here with you, and you hear me. And, I hear myself in your voice, too. Your fear, your sadness, your shame. Your rage at a system that was built to hold you back. I see you. Two inches from your face, I see your tears just beginning to form in your eyes. How often do we witness early tears gathering in the eye. You see me witnessing you. Breathing with you. You tell me part of your journey. Trying to get free. Running, escaping. And, I see myself too.

It’s almost Passover. After our visit, I walk away from your cell thinking about my narrow places. The tight places. The constriction of my throat. Seeing. Hearing. Being.

I see you

I hear you

I am you

I am