I could hear the woman through my headphones. The child was laughing, as children do. I wondered why he was laughing considering that his mother was reprimanding him loudly and with harsh inflections of anger. The longer he laughed the more intense her berate became. The boy stopped his expression of joy, yet his mother continued to scream at him, making sure she had sucked him dry of any feeling other than shame and smallness. I could not make out all of the choice words she was firing at him for it was quick and fluent. Not her first time. I did hear a few phrases such as 'Shut up', 'Dammit, boy', and 'Are you stupid?' It was enough for me to feel some anger of my own. I noticed another woman standing near, taking interest in the scene. Though it wasn't my business I did make my way towards the happening. It only took me a few moments to move my body and belongings, but by the time I was upon the participants the woman who had been hovering before had now interceded. She had apparently seen the mother slap or spank the boy, and confronted her about it. The mother proceeded to turn her rage onto the out-spoken passer-by tell her to 'F**k off! You come raise the little devil! Who the hell are you to tell me how to raise my son? It ain'tcher business you crazy b*tch!". The other woman was calm for a while and then become slightly heated exclaiming that when someone puts a hand on a child in a harmful way it is, in fact, her business. The mother just continued to bash the woman and her unwelcome opinion. I just stood there, hoping to make eye contact with the mother to shoot her a scowl or something. Unsuccessful. The woman who had the courage to stand up for the powerless child walked away after too many four-letter words were slung in her face. I almost stepped in to aid her efforts. But I did not. I was silent.
I have no regrets, only experiences that help me realize what I will do differently next time. If there is a next time. I admire the woman who spoke her truth. I could see how hurt she was as she walked away defeated. I wanted to follow her and say "No, let's make a difference. Let's face the situation together." Instead, I was silent. I feel as though I let that child down. His mother took away his joy, his laughter, and allowed her own toxic emotional state to potentially scar him. On the brighter, yet slightly twisted side, this will serve him. It could do nothing else. He may develop a strong hatred for his bitter, rage-riddled mother. This may lead to some destructive behavior and poor choices. This often leads to enlightenment sooner than later. To speak from my own experiences, it was anger towards my father and other verbally abusive male figures in my life that generated enough emotional energy to enable a talent for writing. If I had had no colorful experiences as abuse-aftermath, I would have a dull life story. This means I would have nothing to write about. Maybe the red-headed boy won't hate his mother after all. Maybe her hatred will be a lesson to him, and he will choose to embody compassion instead. Because her heart has been hardend, the boy will learn a valuable lesson quite early in his life, and open his heart instead of closing it down. Perhaps my silence will be a catalyst for the opening of the child's heart.
I do not believe in good or bad, right or wrong. There is only perception. Though it seems difficult, there is no need to judge the 'Mad Mommy'. She is only a representation of the human condition. A very small part of an infinite whole. There is only one effective action I can take to ensure the well-being of that boy, and that is to continue my own healing process. I can embrace the wounded child that resides in me instead of feeling failure for not speaking up for the stranger child. I cannot save the boy, or his mother, or my father, or you. I can only save myself. Isn't that why we decided to drop down to this blue planet? We are here to have occasional bouts of terrible shit happen to us, live through it, and learn that we possess this amazing power to rescue ourselves from drowning. The next step is to drag our soggy selves forward, heal, and then tell the story. This is what is asked of us. To share our stories of how we saved ourselves so that others may find hope and human connection. Your experience is valid, and you are not alone. You are self-savable.
The boy will be ok. I no longer harbor guilt for my silence. I acknowledge that children are resilient and have a large container to absorb love. They are like little love magnets. I will pray that it is love that fills the boy. As for the mother, I will honor her while I do my own work to un-harden my own heart. For she is only a reflection of my own hatred, resentment, and bitterness. As for the truth-speaking woman, I will keep her in mind and honor her every time I choose to verbalize my words of wisdom. As for me, I'll continue to do what I'm doing right now. Take it in and write it down. Through the silence a voice is born. A voice that isn't always heard, but is always healing. Cheers to you, your word, and you priceless and valuable voice.
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