The aspect of human nature that halts me in my tracks is the eye, the so-called window to the

soul. I dont doubt this orifice acts as a window to the soul-- and thats what I have trouble with.
A twenty-something author discussed her way of looking at boys differently depending on their
importance to her romantically. As one who treats boys more as respected equals than playthings, I never
exactly chose identical tactics, though Ive found myself using eyes to my advantage when the time
comes.
There was the boy I fell for that was utterly enthralled by my best friend; for him to notice me, I
allowed my smile and stare to linger when the others averted their eyes and enjoyed his jokes in solitude.
Then the boy I spent my rehearsals staring at, unashamed externally but wallowing in guilt for my
musical failings. He returned my gaze with emotion-filled eyes for what sometimes added up to over an
hour, enthralling me with the brown caverns and dilated pupils I felt held as much character as his
exuberant personality. An ex-boyfriend, perhaps only his eyes missed me.
And of course the countless others, such as a youth group leader that tried to tell me
Armageddon was only 30 years away, speaking to me in eighth grade as an effort to rally troops, whom I
admired for her pure, angelic eyes the color of a huskys. I had a huge crush on the new student from a
small town, fighting fires and spoiling his nephews, with this shade of blue that seemed to float in the wide
whites of his eyeballs like turquoise inner tubes in snow. And theres my mothers eyes, which return my
gaze more frequently than words escape her mouth-- and although countless interactions shes forced to
make for work on mobile devices, not to mention an unsteady sleep schedule, sometimes rob the
meaning from her stare, Im positive each gaze is flooded not only with internalized meaning, but love.
Then theres the man I dont trust, with his disenchanted comments and unsavory advice, who
stares at me long and hard, bearing an unconvinced expression-- especially since I revealed my parents
pay for my car and cell phone bill-- who holds my gaze for uncomfortable centuries as he delivers
belligerent remarks. It seems only I show respect through eye contact, and he takes me hostage with his
gaze as punishment.
I read a book on the way to Chicago this May that claimed screenagers and adults alike spend
enough time on their electronics that a fresh set of eyes at times fills one with a great amount of wonder
and awe. This passage rang true when, young and hungry for affection, I refused to wear the glasses
prescribed to me by the family optometrist. Though my sight to this day hasnt worsened enough to
prevent driving without glasses or sports without full vision, the one peculiarity I encountered in those two
blurry years of junior high was difficulty deciphering whether friends or strangers at long distances stared
at me or noticed when I stared at them. In a way, I felt discreet and invisible, slithering between classes in
my stylish bangs and sporty ponytail with little mind as to whether I stood out. Yet still, it felt like an aspect
of my life was absent, as if I missed out on a gift awarded to those with a better set of eyes.
Then my first week of summer band, I stood on a blacktop with 200 kids, 400 pairs of eyes, all
glancing and glaring and gazing somewhere. Perhaps my way? Intimidated and intrigued, I ordered my
first pair of contacts.
With the knowledge that eyes point to the soul, I think that glances can be deceitful, tricky and
unfair when the heart of a person is pure.

When I place an pastry item on a plate at work and the customer clearly ordered a box, I
impulsively search for forgiveness in their face, raping their vision in pursuit of a sorry.
Then of course theres the psychological theories about eye contact adding to charm and leading
to persuasion, just as Mr. Trumps smile and plain language has led to a national revolution, that prove
some experts solicit their gaze for profit.
And then that poem from Ms. Livrones creative writing class, which described wind as a rich
mans hand and eyes as a prize of some sort, which should have warned me that those unashamed
members of the human anatomy arent so innocent.
Alas, Keats describes the persuasion a friend used on him: Beauty is truth, truth beauty-- that is
all/ Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. I challenged this notion last year, when I found myself so
intensely conflicted about morals, tendencies, and pursuits that it only made sense to dress how I felt:
very poorly. Of course, on weekend visits to meet my friends, Id wear my hair down or change out of a
sweat-stained Concord shirt without sleeves. However, due to a racing heart or my lack of communication
with others, I couldnt bring my eyes to meet theirs. It always went the same: Id look down constantly,
speak to the floor, the left, the right, and as they spoke, theyd catch me eyeing them politely and hold my
stare a little too long, as if to inform me, This is okay.
And yes, I grew out of the habit when I spent more time with others.
But that confused stare my friends passed along after I found their eyes, which always seemed
more chastising than forgiving, somehow filled me with a sense of betrayal. As if eyes bring out the evil in
man, the sense of anguish we spend life overcoming.