The Sticker

It started out just like any other trip to the clinic in Dhahran: the boys and I sitting on the hard plastic chairs in the waiting room, surrounded by covered Saudi moms and their children. With appointments for flu shots and typhoid immunizations, we had already mistakenly gone to the primary care building instead of the specialty building. The boys were a bit crabby not just because they knew they were there for the shots, but because there was the potential to not make it back to school in time for some activities they were looking forward to that afternoon. Despite all my best efforts to get there early, get in and then get out...we still had to wait. Wait on the plastic chairs to be called in for the height/weight/temperature readings, then wait again on the chairs to be called into the doctor's room to discuss the immunizations and any other concerns, then wait again on the chairs to be called back for the actual immunizations. Impatient boys are not good at waiting - their mother is even worse. Thankfully, or perhaps with a bit of foreboding, I had given them permission to bring their DS games along. This kept most of the griping at bay.

On the hard plastic chairs in front of us was an Arab family with two young boys. The boys looked to be about ages four and six, judging from the wiggling and complaining going on. They did not bring anything along to do, and started looking longingly at the video games my boys held in their hands. The younger one spoke first. "What is that?" he asked no one in particular, speaking remarkably good English. His mother quickly told him it was a DS. Almost immediately the older boy and my two began conversing about what games they had, many of which were in common. Already bored with this topic, the younger boy showed me the Winnie the Pooh sticker on his shirt.

It really wasn't anything special at first glance. Even at the second glance, it was still just a sticker. Actually it was far from an ordinary sticker.

He launched into a monologue, none of which I understood. The translation included something about earning the sticker by doing a job at preschool that morning. Being very careful, he took the sticker off his shirt in order to give me closer view. I leaned forward to look but he expected much more from me: he wanted me to hold his treasure. As I gently examined it, I told him it was wonderful and he must be very proud of it. Then he wanted me to keep it. Of course I insisted that he keep it but he would hear nothing of it. Feeling very honored, I pressed in firmly on the back of my hand and thanked him profusely. Shortly after this exchange, the family was called in to see the doctor. The small boy beamed at me as we said goodbye.

Within minutes another mother and child took their place on the plastic chairs. The small girl, around the age of five, was crying incessantly at an unbelievably loud volume. They had just come back from the room where you get your vital signs taken. I looked at the sticker on my hand. Without a thought, I leaned forward to interrupt her relentless sobs.

"Would you like to have this sticker?" I asked the distraught child. Her long curls bobbed up and down as she silently nodded. Even with her tear streaked face she was very cute. "What do you say?" her mother prompted her. A small sweet voice said thank you, as her eyes held mine for just a brief moment.

It was truly astounding how quickly the crying stopped. One might argue that it was the embarrassment of a stranger talking to her that ebbed the flow. Or perhaps the distraction took her mind off the horrifying prior events.

If you ask me though, it was the magic of the Winnie the Pooh sticker. The sticker had lost its stickiness by that point, but not its ability to bridge cultural divides and bring smiles in even impossibly frustrating situations.

Where can I get more of those stickers?