I was standing on the subway platform
in Atlantic Terminal on a cold evening, about 8 o'clock or so, in the
weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. A mother dragged her
crying 3-year-old son down the stairs to a bench and ordered him to
sit. He climbed onto the bench and she stood in front of him as he
cried and called out to her, reaching for her. She smacked his hand
away and said, "If you touch me again, I'll break your
arm."
I stood there staring at her, wondering
what to do. If I said something, would it make it worse for the
little boy at home. I was aware that if this were my mother and I was that
child, that any stranger making critical comments about her mothering
ability would enhance her shame and later, I would have to deal with
that. This young mother needed help, that was clear. And also clear
was that this was her relationship with her son. I don't mean the
relationship was none of my business. I mean that she had already
established authority with this little boy - most likely through
violence or the threat of violence - because he wasn't moving off
that bench.
She saw me watching her. I'm quite
sure my confusion and disapproval were registered on my face, but
that didn't change anything. Wherever, however, she lived, this
behavior was acceptable. And I understood that, because my mother
used to speak to me that way. She didn't threaten to break my arm.
She threatened to brain me and when I asked at four years
old what that meant, she told me "I'll take a brick and bash
your brains out."
We lived in a neighborhood
where one mother wore a leather belt strung around her neck so it was
at hand to beat her kids. Our next door neighbor used to lock her
daughter in a closet. I know that because one day I was playing in
their house and I got locked in the closet with her. I wasn't
frightened really, because Maggie told me her mother always let her
out.
These are the parents who only feel
powerful when they are angry. They live on the edge of breaking down
and back away from the edge by lashing out. Their words are worse than
their physical actions and far more permanent. They can put a fine face on
to the public - so friendly, so charming - but their damage at home
is continuous and unseen especially when someone has stirred up their
deeper shame.
There's a way of living that isn't in
the Christmas commercials for Sears or Target or Wal-Mart where
everyone is so jolly and families are so supportive. There's a way
of living that is filled with stress and overwhelm. There are people
who see the ads on TV and billboards - happy families, buying power,
holiday cheer - and they wonder where it is. Anger, frustration,
sorrow, those are their ghosts of Christmas past-present-future.
So, I tread carefully that night.
But, when I see a homeless person, I can think for a moment what they might have experienced. Think of the
sense of worthlessness they may have lived with that's brought them
to beg at the freeway off-ramp right next to my car window. I can hand a disposable poncho to a man in the rain, a few dollars to an old toothless woman (who blessed me and when I blessed her back, thanked me for it). I can give the last few dollars in my wallet to someone struggling to eat.
I encourage you to think about giving a smile,
encouragement, tutoring, mentoring, coaching. Think of the children, the elderly, the vulnerable who have need of a kind word if not a dollar or two.
Don't be lazy. Don't
be afraid. You have something to give away. Forget about the tax write-off and hand a bag of clothing to someone at the corner begging. For a day, stop posting your
provocative messages and angry opinions on social media and turn to do something good,
something kind and peaceful, something that could have far-reaching
consequences that you may never know about.
Think of that little boy on the train
platform in Brooklyn. He's in all of us to one degree or another.
