How I Look, Yo?

The quest for compassion-filled living and leading starts here: learning to see one another and ourselves with compassion, the lens through which God sees us all. We begin here primarily because the sum and substance of spirituality and the essence of being human is a growing, deepening, and transforming awareness of mutually inherent belovedness. That is hard won. Mainly, I think, because God does nothing outside the context of relationships, as a mentor once told me.

You could argue that if looking for a foolproof plan to assure every single person of his or her belovedness, surely God could have thought of a better way, especially since pain and messiness come with the territory of interacting with one another and the likelihood that this approach guarantees things will go wrong in all kinds of ways.

Naturally, this creates a tension: awakening to a sense of our belovedness does not happen in a vacuum of isolation but only occurs within the context of the relationships that constitute our lives. And yet, the relationships that form our lives often create a void of painful separation that poses a significant threat to awakening to such a thing. In other words, you can't see someone else's belovedness if you are not at least in the process of recognizing your own; and you can't recognize your own unless someone else sees you as beloved.

We learn to see ourselves by perceiving how others see us. We see others the way we see ourselves. And the way we see ourselves has a profound impact on how we understand the nature of God and our capacity to trust how God relates to us. Since emotional pain is social and awakening to belovedness is communal, we cannot escape the necessary condition of belonging to a community that beholds us in such a way as to reveal our belovedness and reminds us of it when we forget. And we do ... forget.

José is laid-back. Chill, you might say. Reserved yet reluctant to let anyone get too close too fast. Some of this is personality; some the result of the dehumanizing and violent trauma he's endured and the emotional survival skills he's sharpened because of it. Understandably, he's guarded. Some might perceive this as indifferent. At nineteen years old, he finds himself in the same life situation as many of the kids who grow up in the gang-affected streets of southwest Houston. Lacking education and well familiar with the juvenile justice system, he spent a significant amount of time bouncing around juvenile lockup, then county jail once turning seventeen. With all that, opportunities for "advancement" have been few and far between. Now, with a new baby and baby mama to take care of, he needs a steady job. You'd be right to assume that José is not at the top of employers' must-hire lists. Too much risk, they would say. But a friend with a roofing company cares and is more than willing to give him a shot and pay well. It's a late November day when I pick up José at his apartment for a lunch interview with his potential employer at a local Tex-Mex restaurant. Actually, it's not really an interview. The job is his if he wants it. Roofing is physically demanding work. I have my doubts about whether José — a buck-twenty soaking wet — will jump in after hearing what the job entails. But all goes well. He starts tomorrow.

On the ride back to his apartment, I'm curious about what's going on in his head. "So José, what do you think? You a 100 percent?"

"Yeah, dog! A hundred and ten!" He certainly sounds enthusiastic, confirming his excitement with a fist bump.

"I was thinking you might need work gloves, boots, and maybe some other stuff for work tomorrow. You got any of that at your apartment?"

"No. I ain't got none of that."

Pulling into a store, we gather necessary gear for his new job. As we pass racks of winter coats making a limited appearance in Houston, I'm reminded that the forecast has called for temperatures to drop and for the weather to turn wet and cold. I ask if he has a warm coat. Tugging on a thin, hoodie pullover he's wearing, he says, "I got this!"

"Hmm." I point to the winter coats. "What about any of these? You think they might be a little warmer? Pick whatever you want."

For several minutes, we peruse the long coat aisle, which stretches from the front of the store to the back. José runs a hand over the garments, getting a feel for the merchandise. He tries on a few, of varying sizes and colors, and puts each one back. This one is too big. This one is too small. This one is too. ... Finally, it looks like he's found one that is just right. Then I catch sight of something that catches me a little off guard. In the middle of the store, oblivious to the crowds walking by, there is José somewhere in his own world, standing almost statuesque. Time seems to have stopped. He arches his back slightly and lifts his head just a little. Slowly moving both palms up and down the front of the coat, feeling the freshness of the fabric, he alternates looking left and right, perhaps checking to see if any of his fellow shoppers have taken notice. As he returns his attention to me, our eyes meet.

"Hey, G. How I look, yo?" he says, posing in front of me, still brushing his hands on the front of the coat. It's apparent I'll be serving as his mirror.

The question hangs in the air between us as something radiates from José I hadn't seen much before. Dignity, pride, and a sense of worth — no, worthiness and amour propre rise from the depths of his brokenness to break the surface of his defended exterior. I'm telling you, he's a sight to behold. Beaming. "José, wow! You look great! You look like that coat was made just for you!" Not a huge smile but a subtle grin cracks the left corner of his mouth while his head nods in agreement. "Yeah. Yeah, G! I like this one."

How I look, yo? Truth be told, it's a question we all wonder about, maybe not out loud in the middle of a crowded store but silently among the competing voices fighting to gain a foothold in our hearts. It's not so much a question of, Do I look good? but more like, Am I OK? Am I adequate? Am I loved? Does anyone notice? Does anyone care?

As much as we pretend otherwise or prefer it not be the case, How I look, yo? is a question that requires someone else to answer for us. Standing in front of a mirror to ask and answer it for yourself, well, it loses a little something.

Social psychologist Charles Cooley theorized in his concept of the looking-glass self that how we see and feel about ourselves is primarily determined by...