Smile

I found a broken smiley-face ring in the gutter the other day. The black curved mouth and dot eyes on a yellow background always evoke a jerky little grin on my own face. Must be like the yawning reflex. 

This doesn't surprise me. When I started my nursing practice in 1976 in a violent psychiatric ward of a state hospital, I was horrified and frightened on many of my early days at the job. The impoverished facility was overpopulated. Forty beds were expanded to fifty by placing unmade vinyl mattresses on dirty linoleum floors. As a state facility, we could not say "No" to a committing court. Yes, many of our patients had committed violent crimes. 

Murderers and serial rapists slept near intellectually challenged adults who would have been better served in a group home. On a good day there were five or six of us to deal with the patients. The evening and night shifts had three. Our job was to insure cleanliness, safety and treatment for every patient. We also had to monitor and/or protect visitors, many of whom were themselves mentally ill and violent. 

At twenty-six I was a strapping guy. I was six-foot-three and weighed about 190 lbs. However, I had an absolute aversion to violence. This included striking out in self defense. I took many kicks and punches. The chief psychiatrist explained to me that my size invited violence, especially from conflicted patients who really didn't want to hurt someone. My size suggested authoritative invulnerability. This was not reassuring.

I gradually found I possessed a tremendous deterrent to violence, quite by accident. A particularly articulate schizophrenic in recovery once said in a community meeting on the unit, "I wanted to smash Paul in the face but he has such a disarming smile." Everyone chuckled when I broke into an automatic grin and blushed. 

Then I remembered something. Four years earlier I had lived with my partner in an African American neighborhood. He and I were among a handful of struggling Caucasians in the densely populated area which was notorious for gun play and street walkers. Our neighbor on one side was a busy brothel. The prostitutes sat on the stoop in warm weather. As I passed one day, the usual cat calls of "white trash" were hurled my way. I routinely walked by them, smiled and gave a small wave. Inevitably, one of the women would say loudly, "Yeah, he's OK that one." and they would all laugh.

After the patient commented on my smile, I realized I had lived in that rough neighborhood for a year without one angry or violent confrontation with anyone. It had never really clicked in my mind before then. After that day, I developed my "clinical smile". It has served me very well for nearly four decades in most areas of my life.