A Language Older Than Words - Derrick Jensen [58]
I recently drove cross-country, and I spent a lot of time listening to the radio to pass the miles. I came across a talk show about disciplining children. Caller after caller described the necessity of, in the words of the host, "wearing out the belt." A seven-year-old girl, according to one typical caller, no longer had to be "whipped," as he put it, because she was conditioned to "fall right into line" whenever he mentioned the belt. This caller was proud of his youngest daughter, five, whom he has had to whip only a few times, because, as he said, "She's smart, and she sees what happens when her sister gets out of line."
The host laughed as he read a news report of a woman upset because when she arrived at the day care to pick up her three-year-old son, she found him crying, his mouth taped shut. The host expressed agreement with a district attorney who would not press charges.
I heard only one caller speak out against the violence. He said that as a Christian he had no choice but to step in whenever he saw someone publicly strike a child. "Violence against children is wrong," he said, because "it springs from anger, and anger goes against the teachings of Jesus."
The host, also a self-described Christian, disagreed (for the only time on the show), asking sharply, "What business is it of yours?"
Hearing that, I thought back to an interaction I had with a woman and a child several years ago. I was at a social services office, waiting with a friend while she straightened out a problem with her medical coupons. The office was crowded, the wait long, the room hot, and tempers short. The conversations I overheard were sharp and tense. A television blared in one corner of the room, making patience or sustained thought nearly impossible.
Finally my friends name was called. I wandered around the room until a quick movement caught my eye. I turned in time to see a four-year-old slap an infant.
Both mothers reacted instantly, grabbing the four-year-old and shouting, "Bad girl! You're a very bad girl!"
All conversation stopped, as though someone had hit a pause button. When talk resumed, I no longer heard the women, but only saw them shaking the girl and shouting. I began to tremble.
I wanted to run to the women and ask them to stop. I don't know why I didn't. The child was frozen. Perhaps she was used to this and benumbed. Some of the other children seemed terrified. Most adults seemed oblivious. Perhaps they, too, were used to it.
The women continued to shout, and continued to shake the girl. I made my way outside and sat on the curb.
A few minutes later the mother of the four year old emerged, pushing a stroller in which there was another infant. The four year old held tight to the stroller.
My friend followed them out the door, and it happened that we walked in the same direction as the woman and children.
The mother continued to berate the child. Another woman in the parking lot pounded on her hood, laughing and shouting, "You tell her."
Why doesn't anyone stop this, I wondered. Why don't I?
For two blocks I walked behind the woman. Over and over she said, "You're a bad girl!" I knew if the child heard it often enough she would believe it. My hands were shaking. I thought I would throw up, and wanted to do something. I didn't know what to do.
Suddenly I became very calm. I knew what was necessary. Without thinking, I walked to the woman and said,