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The night before the Hunley was raised I worked the night shift taking care of the injured and the ill of the community. At eight thirty in the morning I was chauffeured by one of my colleagues to a parking space along the Charleston Battery. It was near that place that the two of us and one other registered nurse would wait to pay homage to the brave crew of the Hunley who are forever woven into Charleston’s tapestry. It would be another three hours or so before I would be able to get a glimpse of the wounded vessel. I found an iron bench in the park, where I perched to conserve energy in the hot Carolina sun. My two colleagues went on a scouting mission to get the latest update on the location of the Hunley. I had been asked the night before why an African American woman would be interested in the Hunley. My answer was that there has always been a special place in my soul reserved for those who sacrifice greatly for what they believe in, or for what is right. I could not help but focus on what the day’s events meant to me as I sought refuge from the sun beneath the trees of the Battery. I found myself deep in thought concerning the problems of the community at the dawn of this new millennium. The greatest human tragedy that I have witnessed as a nurse is what happens to a community when humanity leaks unchecked. So virulent are the problems that plague and sedate our city. More virulent than the HIV virus, more debilitating than arthritis and much more ignored and denied is the social cancer that ravages this lovely, historical place. With its progress tainted with regression, its beauty overshadowed by pain, and growth stunted by a boycott, Charleston continues to limp bravely into the 21st century with her chin up. My thoughts were interrupted by the voice of a six-year-old child. “My name is Paisley, what’s yoze [yours]?” she asked in six-year-old vernacular. I looked down into the cutest green eyes that I have ever seen. The child’s full red curls were brushed in no particular direction. Her smile was so wide, that not only was it ear to ear, but it seemed to wrap around her entire head. “My name is Sarah,” I replied with a smile that had no chance of matching hers. “My name is Paisley. Did you come to see the Huntley [Hunley]?” she asked. “Yes, I did,” I replied. “My Daddy says they was brave. Do you think they was brave?” she asked. “I sure do,” I replied, captured by her innocence and realizing that her grammar was irrelevant. She looked over at her father as he sat down on the bench next to me to feed a small baby. A woman, who appeared to be Paisely’s mother, waved from the gazebo while supervising a toddler who was determined to climb every step and run through the park without being touched. “My Daddy says that you and me are sisters,” Paisley continued. Her eyes got wider as she asked, “Do you like being my big sister, Miss Sarah?” I suddenly felt the sting of tears against my contact lenses, but was able to hide my emotion behind my sunglasses. “Yes, Paisley,” I replied. “I really do like being your big sister.” She gave me a satisfied grin that displayed every tooth in her head as she scooted up next to me and held my right hand with both of her hands. She continued to rattle on about her school friends. I was more focused on the warmth of her hands, what it meant to me, and what it can mean for my patients. She did not let go until twenty minutes later when her father finished feeding the baby. She hugged me, letting out a large grunt from squeezing so tightly. Then she bounced away with her family. When she was several yards away, she turned and waved. I waved back and tried to project my smile across the space between us. Two hours later, when the Hunley passed nearby, I could still feel Paisley’s hands around mine. I was captivated as the “Charleston Armada” escorted the Hunley from its resting-place, and then past the Yorktown. As the Hunley disappeared from view I still felt Paisley’s hands around mine. Her gesture left me determined to keep my spiritual bruises healed, and to live up to her high standards of care. I have been unable to forget Paisley’s words and her healing touch. I will always remember my sister, Paisley, the redheaded ambassador to future generations who has already discovered the cure for social paralysis and the worst type of heart failure.
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