Recently I was exposed to some rather unseemly behavior. It wasn’t directed anywhere in my direction. I was merely a witness.
The scene involved a parent speaking to a child in an abusive manner that made me extremely uncomfortable. That exchange continued for several minutes, and when another adult confronted the child’s parent, saying the child was a good kid and deserved better, the parent responded by saying that yes, that child was a good kid and the parent then proceeded to blame other adults in the vicinity for the entire episode. (I cannot give more specific details. These are very real people, and I do not wish to publicly disrespect any of them.)
When all was said and done, I thought about the scene and felt sorry for the kid, naturally. The kid was just trying to cope with life. I watched that child try to explain the parent’s behavior to other adults. I also watched that kid try to laugh off the whole event.
I don’t judge parents for doing the best they can. I have no idea how it must feel to walk in anyone else’s shoes. So please don’t think otherwise. But a kid is a kid. And when an adult uses her or his age to belittle and verbally (or otherwise) abuse a child, well, that’s something I do judge. No child should have to defend a parent who bullies. No child should have to laugh off abuse, using laughter as a coping mechanism. Seeing that broke my heart.
You know what else pissed me off? Seeing a grown adult blame others for mistakes. I do not like it when we blame everyone on the planet – except ourselves – for our errors. If I screw up, it is my fault. If I make a mistake, it’s mine to make right. Each and every time. No exceptions.
When I was a child, somewhere between the ages of 12 and 16 (I honestly don’t remember my precise age), my kid sister and I were in the middle of a full-on name-calling battle. This all took place in my Grandmama’s kitchen on a weekend afternoon. Grandmama stood at the stove, with her daughter – my mother – beside her. Anyhoo, my sister and I were really on a roll. Our exchange of friendly fire went something like this:
My Sister: Oh, yeah? Well you’re a dork!
Me: Well you’re a nerd!
My Sister: Well you’re a booby-head!
Me: Oh, yeah? Well you’re a dildo!
Before my sister could respond with another brilliant kid-salvo, my mother hit me so hard across the face – I nearly saw stars. I immediately grabbed the side of my head and cried, “What was that for?” She screamed at me, “You know what you did! Now shut up!”
Only I didn’t know what I’d done. I was only a kid, and a naive, mostly innocent kid at that. It would be years before I learned that “dildo” wasn’t just a funny sounding word, and that the entire experience really wasn’t my fault. By the time I did learn those things, I had turned the whole memory into a knee-slapper of a story, replete with sound effects (“you could hear [my mother’s] arm flying through the wind as she spun around to hit me”) and raucous laughter. I had to turn it into comedy. How else could I make sense of insanity?
Our present selves are formed by our pasts. I don’t deny that. And I know that my funny bone was developed in part because of the craziness of my upbringing. Now, I could go through my days, behaving poorly and pointing a finger at my childhood. But at some stage, as adults, we can no longer blame our pasts. We must take responsibility for our behavior and choices. Blaming others is lazy and childish. And it’s just plain wrong.
One of the beautiful things about aging is the ability to say, “I’m over X-years-old, so I don’t have to take that crap anymore.” I make that statement all the time. But there’s a flip-side to that coin, friends: I don’t get to dole out crap anymore, either, because when I do, I have to own it. That’s what being an adult means. And you know what? The responsibility of being an adult is a beautiful gift.
So when I overheard that child making light of the parent’s crazy explosion, I understood. That kid’s aim was at one goal: survival.
I don’t know if that kid will grow up to repeat the cycle of insane abuse or not. I don’t know if that sense of humor will be developed and honed. Honestly, I don’t know if that kid will even make it. But I pray for the child. And I pray for the parent. It’s not easy being a kid. It’s not easy being a grown-up either. But if we’re lucky – really lucky – we get to try.
God bless us, some of us are actually trying our best.