For Uncle Sam

Earlier today I stopped at the Post Office. The line was longer than usual, and as I moved to the front I could see why. Of the three postal employees working with customers, one was dealing with a pile of letters to be overnighted and another was helping a family—mom, dad, young teenage son and daughter—apply for passports.

I was contemplating my choices for stamps when I overheard the woman behind the counter talking to the passport-seekers.

“I don’t know. They look gray to me,” she said.

I glanced over. She was peering into the face of the son.

“What should I write?” asked the father, appealing to his wife.

“We’ve always called them hazel,” said the boy’s mother.

“They’re really—what color are those eyes? I’d say gray,” the postal worker went on.

By now I was intrigued, mostly because it’s interesting that this kid had reached adolescence without his parents coming to an agreement about the color of his eyes.

The father looked a bit exasperated. He glanced in my direction—I was at the front of the line by then—and I smiled.

“Ask her,” he said to his wife, motioning to me, and then to his son, “Look at this lady.”

The teenager turned to me and I examined his irises. He looked remarkably poised considering that in the last few minutes two different middle-aged female strangers had been gazing into his eyes. He even raised his eyebrows so I could get a better look—at eyes of such a pale blue that they really could be called gray.

“I vote gray,” I said, and grinned at the boy, who looked relieved.

“I said gray,” the postal worker affirmed.

“What color is hazel, anyway?” the mother mused.

So that’s how today I contributed to the U.S. government’s official record of one if its citizens. It was kind of exciting to cast the deciding vote, even if it was a pretty big responsibility. After all, if on his trip to another country the kid wants to learn the word for his eye color, he’d better have an idea what to ask.