The Lesson; All Beings Are a Beautiful Bundle of Love
copyright © 2008 Betsy L. Angert. BeThink.org
The day was delightful. The water was superb. The sun was full and bright. A few billowy, puffy clouds floated through the sky. They were white, cumulus, fluffy fellows, the type that excite many a child as they gaze into the heavens. In parks, on lawns, little ones were likely looking up and pointing. "Look," they might say, "It is a horse, a donkey, or perchance a unicorn." It was a day for whimsy. The children, playful in the pool, barely noticed the graceful shapes as they danced above their heads. Instead, they were focused on what they decided were June bugs.
Three young sweet girls stood in the warm water near their Daddy. All were calm, content, and serene. The sisters chatted easily. Father smiled. The youngest lass expressed her curiosity. As her sibling searched for bugs on the plastic rope line, the "baby" in the family asked of the insects. "Are they icky to touch," the cautious curly haired youngster inquired. The more confident elder sister said, "No! They are cute," she said. See." The "older" child showed the girl of fewer years.
A stranger, in the adjacent lane was preparing to swim. Becky was her name. She was much older than the children, and perhaps no wiser; nonetheless, she share her assessment of the beetle. Becky said of the six-legged lovelies, "They are life; all creatures are beautiful." With that thought, the father beamed, and the older lady plunged head first into the water filled cement reservoir.
Lap after lap and look after look the woman and children enjoyed the quiet of the day. The words the swimmer shared seemed to hang in the air. People came and went, throughout the afternoon, and splendor was all anyone saw.
Then, everything changed. The evolution from tranquil to trauma was slow; nonetheless, unexpected. Those in the recreation park were struck, as if by a bolt of lightening. However, unlike when a storm threatens, swimmers were not forced to leave the pool. The jolt evoked more silence. No one screamed, but the sole boy, victim to the method his Mom's adopted for instruction.
The young mother, a woman, perhaps, in her early thirties, was extremely pleasant in appearance, and it seemed her personality was equally delightful. She, Madison, entered the deck area with her small son in her arms. Skin, beautifully tanned, this well-dress lady strode to the lifeguard tower. The little guy, let us call him, Michael, was not as bronze in color, and was visibly agitated. Michael whimpered, even as his Mom held him close.
Becky, the swimmer who enjoyed the company of the little lasses and their Dad before she began her exercise had just finished the more strenuous part of her routine when the mother and child came into view. Becky, a teacher, enjoyed children, in or outside the classroom. She marveled at the openness of a mind not yet crushed by the weight of worry. The sincerity of a small one was a source of fascination for Becky. Children, early in life, were candid and joyous, at least most were, or appeared to be.
Little Michael, a lad, maybe three, or four, was not a cheerful child. He wore no glee on his face, although his features were cute as could be from what Becky was able to see. When the swimmer first noticed Madison and Michael, they were yards away. They approached the guard tower at the opposite end of the pool and spoke with Brianna, the young adult hired to protect the public in an emergency. Becky thought nothing of the interaction. She was relieved to have only her stretches left to complete. Becky moved the shallow end and commenced with another ritual.
Behind her, a metal chair scraped along the concrete. The sound startled her and she looked up at the area where people sat enjoying the sun. Had Becky waited just a moment she would have known Michael and Madison had moved closer to her. The cries filled the air. The sweet little boy shrieked, "I wanna go see Daddy." Michael howled; "No Mom!!!! No!" His face scrunched tightly, this little lovable fellow yelled, "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Please Mom! No!" Michael repeated the words, "I wanna go see Daddy!"
His mother chided him, gently. "We have to do this." Madison did not seem to believe she could quiet her son's fears. An expectation that the little guy might enjoy was void from her voice. The Mom simply worked feverishly, to accomplish the dreaded task. She prepared Michael for his dip in the water, and said, "Let's just get this over with."
Becky continued with her work out and wondered of the circumstances. Perchance, the mother and father were divorced or newly separated. Michael may have expressed the deep distress he felt for a family no longer united. Becky, the daughter of parents who parted understood how stressful such a situation might be. She was eight when . . . her reverie was interrupted.
Madison had abruptly carried Michael to the step at the shallow end of the pool. The Mom now wore a white shirt over her own bathing suit. Sweetly, she smiled and leaned forward. Madison said to Becky, "I do not wish to disturb you. I want to warn you; I am teaching my son to swim and he screams, loudly." As an experienced educator, Becky imagined it would be a mild and momentary shout. As one who swims daily and had for well over a decade, the teacher witnessed many a young child learn to paddle and breathe in water.
Indeed, at this very facility she has observed perhaps hundreds of child learn to master their strokes. The excellent swim teachers, parents and paid professionals, helped calm many a neophyte nerve. Often Becky watched with admiration as patient Moms, Dads, and lifeguards helped little ones wade through the water. It was as she shared with the girls earlier in the day, "They, people and insects, are life. All creatures are beautiful."
What Becky witnessed next was not beautiful; it was brutal! Madison held Michaels arms tightly. She forced him into the water. The Mom insisted the boy's head remain face down immersed until she pulled him up. Apparently, they had practiced this cycle before. Becky now understood why Michael cringed and cried out long before he was ever near the expansive liquid sea.
Initially, the trained instructor was paralyzed. Becky could not imagine that a mother might torment her child. The volume of Michaels screams increased. His little arms flailed. "Mom, No! Pleassssssssse!" The emotional agony he felt was palpable. Mom did not stop as he pleaded. The pain on his face did not move Madison to succumb. His words, his anguish, nothing stopped this mother on her quest. For Becky, what must have been a minute or less seemed like hours, years, decades. She thought of sweet obedient Michael. While he shed many a tear and shrieked when he could gasp for air, the little love did as he was told or required to do. He dropped his head into the pool on demand.
Off into the distance, in the parking lot, just outside the fence, Becky noticed a late model shiny black vehicle. The man at the wheel peered in. His car was not situated in a space meant for stopping. This fellow seemed interested in the antics of Madison and Michael. Becky mused; possibly the sound of suffering haunted him as it did her. She could not stand by a moment longer.
With an earnest concern, Becky expressed her empathy for the child. She inquired; "Is he frightened.." The mother responded, "He can swim." Becky queried aloud, had the mother sought other means for instruction. Perchance, if Michael were given the opportunity to slowly adjust to the water. If he were allowed to breathe easily as he slowly learned to stoke . . . Becky's words were cut off. Still somewhat genteel and reserved, Madison explained, "This is what his teacher taught me to do." "She is excellent. Everyone goes to her. They call her the swim Nazi."
The practiced swimmer, and professional educator, shared her own expertise. Becky told of a time when she worked with another teacher who was extremely punitive. This castigatory colleague was an award winner. Some children loved her, parents too. Students taught Becky what she had not known; if you are raised in a family where cruelty is common, you learn to believe that rough treatment is love. Violence is fondness when a family is familiar with vicious behavior.
Becky spoke of a man she loves. He was introduced to swimming in much the way Michael was guided. This man loathes his parents. As an adult, he says of himself, he is really messed up. For the man Becky cares for, trust is not an option. The lesson he learned at the hands of his mother, who taught him how to swim, just as Madison now advised Michael, is that people will hurt you.
In this very short and quick conversation Becky, recalled her own memories, and how she has vivid recollections of events in that occurred in her life when she was younger than Michael. Becky looked over at Michael's face. The torment was already etched into his skin. The screeches scarred him.
Madison listened, maybe. She was polite. The Mom never let go of her cherished son, Michael. The activity did not stop. Nor did the blood curdling screams. The echoes of pain continued to pierce the air, and break delicate decorum.
People within the recreation center while startled, they stood still or pretended to ignore what escaped no one. Only Becky articulated her concern. Madison expressed her interest; more so once she realized Becky is an educator. However, without a moment of hesitation, or a break from or for Michael, she offered a retort. "I will speak with the teacher." Becky again offered, the teacher does what she thinks is best. Perhaps, she, just as the pupils Becky spoke of, had parents who were as aggressive as she was.
Those who admire the techniques the Nazi swim teacher endorses may also be intimately acquainted with instruction through intimidation. "In my family no one yells," Becky said. Madison responded; the same was true in her life. She and her husband do not scream.
Michael continues to squeal. "Mom, Please, No!" He thrashes. He grabs for her mother. Michael reaches for Madison's shirt and slaps her body and face. The Mom had mentioned she wore the blouse just for this purpose. Michael grabbed at the swim instructor, just as prescribed, and when with her, Michael clawed for Madison's clothing.
His moves do not seem to suggest an intention to hurt the mother Michael loves. From appearances, the boy only hopes to find a source of solace. He wants to hold on to someone, anyone. His words seem to express a desire that his Mom will save him from her. The child cries out again and again. He flaps; he flounders. Little lovable Michael thrashes and struggles. Madison was not discouraged.
Still alert and attentive to her purpose, Madison proclaims, "The swim teacher has them trained within a week." Once more, she says, "Everyone goes to her." She may have sensed or seen Becky's alarm. Apprehensive, the mother said, "I will speak to my husband. He is in the car."
Becky realized the man who she had observed earlier might have studied the pair with an interest that could not be described. Possibly, what the father felt was beyond words. Becky knew that emotionally, this event tugged at her heartstrings. She wondered; did the Dad wait for he too could not endure the misery inflicted on his son. How could a mother be so cruel? How could anyone treat a child with such contempt? Why were words of compassion and caution not enough to stop the abuse? Was Becky alone in her anguish?
She exited the pool area, entered the locker room. Then she scrubbed herself in the shower. All the while Becky heard the howls and the hollers. This small sorrowful soul did not rant or rage against his Mom. He only called out for help. Each shout sliced the air and sent chills up Becky's spine. She could hardly contain her own tears.
Becky left the building and again approached Madison, whose energy and purpose had not waned. The worried woman spoke, "If I could I would like to inquire; would it not be better if Michael loved his lessons (and the person who teaches him)?" Did she share the latter thought? She was so troubled, she did not know what she said. Had she asked if it was necessary to master the skill in a week? Madison ignored Becky. She was done with this exchange. She said to Michael, "Just a few more minutes."
Defeated, Becky left the deck. She walked to the office where the guards stood in alert. The group discussed what left each of them distraught. A resigned Brianna verbalized her belief, "There is nothing we can do or say." Shocked to discover Becky spoke to the woman, Brianna began to ask of what was said. Then she realized Madison, with a drained and strained Michael in her arms, was near. She let out a sound that signaled the need for silence.
The mother and her madness quickly fled the premises. After a short discussion with the guards, Becky thanked them for listening to her fears and followed the path from the pool to the parking lot. Apparently, the couple and their child were settling into the coupe. The father glanced over as he saw Becky near the vehicle. Nothing was said. For Becky, there were no words.
She pondered. Was Becky the person now considered a predator? Had Madison grumbled to her husband as she shared details of the encounter? Exhausted and uncertain of the empathy she had supposed all beings had for others, Becky went to her car. She could not drive away, although she saw the family did. The lover of living beings, of children, could not fully understand what existed only for moments in her own life. She was haunted by the hurt she saw in Michael's face and heard in his calls.
Stunned and shaken Becky sat trembling for a very long time. She wailed; she wept. Had she just let a sweet child fend for himself in a world too awful to survive?
Hours passed and Becky imagines, in her life, Michael, and the impression he made on her would never move on. Sadly, she fears, what for her was but minutes, for Michael, will be life.
Becky had mentioned to Madison, or hoped she had, the effect of trauma. To this day, the older educator recounts the stresses that transformed her being. The lessons, what her Mom, Dad, and mentors did supposedly for her benefit, if not facilitated fondly, harmed her deeply. Cognizant that children absorb all they encounter and are affected by every exchange, Becky contemplates the drama Michael endured.
In a desire to calm her self, Becky, an educator who loves to learn, sought answers. She had so many questions, so many concerns. As a teacher, never labeled a dictatorial tyrant, she had much trepidation. What had Madison taught Michael? Was he expected to sink or swim? As she read, her angst increased. What would become of Michael?
How Do You Recognize a Patient (or Person) with Trauma if it is Not Always Obvious?
Different people respond differently to traumatic events. Some people will carry it around in ways that everybody can see that they've been impacted. But most people actually will go through a traumatic experience and won't have any easily visible or obvious manifestation of that. The problems may emerge many months or sometimes even years after the original event. So it's very important for people who are trying to understand trauma to become aware of the various ways in which traumatic symptoms can manifest, the various ways in which trauma can be carried forward by children and adults, and the pervasive impact that trauma has independent of the way someone is observed to perform.How Do Relationships Affect the Way the Brain Develops?
Human beings are at our core, relational creatures. We are designed to live, work, play, and grow in groups. The very nature of humanity arises from relationships. You learn language, you learn social language, you learn appropriate emotional regulation, and essentially everything that's important about life as a human being you learn in context of relationships. And the very substance of a successful individual is bathed in a whole host of relationships with people in that person's life . . .
Can You Continue with the Relationships and How it Affects the Brain
When you look at someone, when you hear someone, when you have a conversation, when you make a joke with somebody, when you touch someone, every single one of those physical interactions are translated into patterned neuronal activity that go into the brain of both people in that interaction and result in positive changes. These physical changes influence our immune system and they influence the autonomic nervous system that controls your heart and your lungs and your gut. Literally, when people have a wealth of relationships, where relationships are present in high quantities and they're of good quality, these individuals are actually physically healthier, they're emotionally healthier, they're more cognitively enriched, and they actually reach their potential to be humane in ways that are impossible without relationships.It's a very interesting thing that people don't really appreciate this very much, but that there's no better biological interaction that you can have than a relationship.
Yes, all beings are but a beautiful bundle of love. Yet, rarely do humans honor that veracity. So few people understand the depth of each interaction. Too frequently, individuals do what was done to them, or what they think they can. Societal standards, customs, traditions, the lessons taught by authoritarian teachers shape them. People learn. Yet, they may not have studied the ultimate lesson. We are each a lovely and fragile beings. We grow well when hearts, minds, bodies, and souls are tenderly touched.
"Michael, I am soooooooo sorry," Becky mused. What of the relationship she had with Michael, or for that matter, with all beings. What affect did her actions or inactions have. Becky though of how all that occurred developed, and how Michael might grow. "If only I had done more, been more, were a better teacher to your Mom, or had offered to help you learn to swim." Becky, heart heavy with regret promised herself, if she were to meet this family again, she would . . . in truth, she did not know what she could or would do. She only hoped that someone would tell her. How does one swim in a world where too many forget, all beings are but a bundle of love.
Sources and Suffering . . .
Posted by Betsy L. Angert on July 6, 2008 at 09:00 AM in "Take me as I am!", Abuse, Adult Influence on Children, Aggression, Approval or Love, Art of Loving, Have or Be, Change the World [Within], Children, Desire to Learn, Dreams Live and Die , Education, Emotional Decisions, Emotional Intelligence, Empathy and Evolution, Family, Functioning, Fables, Life, A Forward Motion, Looking at Life, Nature or Nurture, Quality of Life, Teach The Children | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Calm Communicators Unite Us. Cruel Commanders Divide Us
copyright © 2008 Betsy L. Angert. BeThink.org
Americans are at odds. As a nation, we are splintered. The parts do not function as a whole. Some wish to control and command. Others prefer to work for the common good. As we stand, we are a country divided.
The most recent Internal Revenue Service data, shows one percent of Americans received twenty-one and two-tenths [21.2] percent of all personal income. In 2005, fifty [50] percent of the people in this nation, those who have long struggled to survive, earned twelve and eight-tenths [12.8] percent of all wages and salaries. In the United States, dollars earned split the population. Wealth is not all that separates us.
Color causes schisms. Citizens live in regions of the country labeled Red, or Blue. Brownish immigrants, with or without papers, are relegated to reside in neighborhoods far from the affluent or influential, even when authentic assimilation is meant to be an option. Frequently Black Americans are housed in communities where opportunities are few. When persons of various hues intermingle with the massive pinkish population, in the United States, the people of color are alienated.
Were Americans do physically unite, they would likely remain segregated. Americans subtly separate themselves from those they loathe, and form the people they love. Few ever consider what they do to create a rift. In America, demeanors, the way in which we communicate, divides us.
In this nation, a large portion of the population is frequently aggressive, abusive, and antagonistic. Those they encounter, the not obnoxious or toxic ones, accommodate, appease, appear unaffected, or remain anxious when in the company of the people who believe the best way to appear authoritative is to dictate what needs to be done, by whom, when, where, and why.
At times, the public is able to openly observe and discuss abuse, but usually, only when it is evident in the extreme. Banner headlines may scream a need to attend to what, for the most part remains hidden. Neglect, Abuse Seen in 90, 000 Infants. However, mostly Americans demonstrate their angst in manners identified as normal. No one speaks of what is standard. Perchance, the reason is, in the States reactive behaviors, which reveal annoyance, are so common as to be customary.
Daily, in periodicals we read of what we would wish to think is not traditional, but may be. The accounts scream to us. Citizens in this country think it outrageous when they realize. In Chicago, youth violence is increasingly prevalent. Twenty-two [22] students were slain in this heartland city so far this year. Our fellow country men remark, 'This sort of thing occurs only among 'those people.' Surely, the rest of us are sane and serene. 'The average American would not strike out in such a manner.' People say, 'Weaponry is for outlaws,' or at least, mechanical arsenals are meant only to combat a political enemy. Those who reside in the United States never imagine that "they" would use a gun in anger, or lash out when with a friend. Few consider how frequently they attack those they say they are fond of.
When words are the weapon of choice, and blood is not spilled, most in this country think no harm is done. War and wounds are what we see on the battlefields, and mostly abroad. In this country, life is calm.
We read of skirmishes elsewhere daily. Americans witness what occurs in the Persian Gulf. Iraqi deaths are on the rise regardless of the Americans attempt to Surge and subvert the violence. Now, that is awful. Thankfully, this nation is not torn apart by war.
Few ponder the fact that these excessive examples illustrate and amplify what is apparent in American homes. People pounce easily and often. We cruelly criticize and intentionally drive a wedge between unions. We conquer; and in America, we destroy.
In this country, enemies are thought to be around every corner. We publicly rant and rage when we refer to people of another race or religion. Privately, many are punitive towards those who reside in our homes. When we look upon those the "commanders" consider beloved, we see differences, and ignore similarities. He is wrong; I am right. She is flawed. "I am perfect." Spite is right. Malice is might. Vindictiveness is used to undermine viciousness. In many American homes, tit for tat is the acceptable.
Those in authority, "Tsk, tsk," the ones who they would wish to weaken. Children are infrequently given information about the consequences of their choices. Calm and complete communication is too often a rarity in our abodes. Rather than work to create cohesive communities within a household, parents and their progeny dictate, and divide.
Adults learn their aggressive manners in childhood. A slight from a toddler's first teachers cuts to the core. Terse comments, a tease, or a taunt directed at a teen does not simply slide off the back of one scarred by a lifetime of verbal slashes. Adults do not deflect digs; some have merely learned how to present the appearance of being unaffected by an oral assault. In truth, "Sticks and stone may break my bones, and names hurt me more than a physical attack might." Many may relate to a common event and decide this is not my business.
As I was leaving gym one morning, I overheard a mother berating her daughter for refusing to put her face in the water during a toddlers' swim class. "You're such a little coward," she told the sobbing child -- who could not have been more than three years old. "It's the same every week. You always make your daddy and me ashamed. Sometimes I can't believe you're really my daughter."Although my stomach churned with rage on the child's behalf, I said nothing. After all, I rationalized, the mother would just tell me to mind my own business. But I had no doubt that what I had witnessed was in many ways as bad as a brutal beating. It was emotional child abuse.
"The bruises don't show on the outside, so there are no statistics on how many children are victims," says Dr. Elizabeth Watkins, chief of pediatric primary care at St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital Center in New York City. "But anyone who works with children knows that the problem is widespread."
University of Minnesota psychologist Byron Egeland, who has conducted extensive studies on parenting and early-childhood development, says the effects of emotional child abuse may be at least as devastating as those of physical abuse. Research conducted by Egeland and his colleagues suggests that emotionally abused children suffer an even greater decline in mental and psychological development as they grow older than do physically abused children.
This abated state does not necessarily translate to an academic deficit. Often times, persons who were beaten down emotionally excel in their physical and intellectual endeavors. Countless adults, who were verbally assaulted as children, believe that the cruelty and callousness they endured, has made them stronger. People in older bodies show no physical blemishes. A mature member of society is not noticeably bruised or disfigured. Most middle-aged grown-ups, those once exposed to such exploitation have learned to hide the scars. Hurt hearts do not inhibit intellectual growth; nor do the effects of verbal and emotional injuries restrict achievements. As a tot, a teen, or an individual in his or her golden years, a person harmed by words can thrive and triumph. The attitude is, "I will show them!" The thought that provokes our success is, "I will do well. Then, they will [finally] love me."
The truth is mean Mom's and dismissive Dad's do love their offspring. They simply do not know how to show it. Too often, we do as was done to us. As adults, we become the people our parents were. While we may have abhorred mother or father's behavior, it is what we know. We grow to be as those who taught us were.
At birth, we learn of what we despise most. In our parents dwelling, as tots, we become acquainted with insults, invectives, and insolence. The invisible barbs are experienced as a barrage of bullets; each pierces the flesh. Mothers mock us. Fathers jeer. Brothers and sisters, bully. In our earliest years, we begin to think of when and how we can leave the company of those who say they treasure us. In time, as children we decide the best defense is a good offense. Hence, we become equally odious, angry, and ambitious. Often adults, who were verbally abused as children, when they speak of their parents, state, "They did the best they could." Indeed, perfectionist parents do what they believe is best, and they expect their progeny to do better.
In ambitious middle-class families, one of the most common forms of emotional abuse is the denigration of any achievement that falls short of perfection, such as when a child is punished for bringing home a B instead of an A. Jeree Pawl, director of the Infant-Parent Program at San Francisco General Hospital, observes that "perfectionist" parents may display irrational expectations.
After a time, Mom and Dad no longer need to express what they expect; children know what is necessary. In fact, a young person will demand more of him or herself than either parent ever did. In our youth, we become self-critical. Our parents likely did not disparage us as well as we demean ourselves. Each day, we improve. We can deliver venom more vigorously than Mom or Dad ever did. Persons, who were the victims of verbal mistreatment in their youth, inflict the same sarcastic and sardonic on them selves as they age.
The use of hurtful declarations becomes a habit. Spoken stabs pull a person down. Those not stated aloud do us in with greater force. The voice within is perhaps more furious than the one separate from self. Our self-assessments are as a cancerous virus. Merciless messages kill. Yet, no one notices the cause or effects of the illness. Too many Americans share the symptoms; hence, the pain is standard.
Parental verbal abuse may wound children's psyches so deeply that the effects remain apparent in young adulthood. Such abuse may wreak psychological havoc greater than that caused by physical abuse.With an M.B.A. degree under her belt, 24-year-old "Jaime" (not her real name) should have glowing job prospects in Chicago. But she harbors memories that erode her self-confidence and make her bristle with anger—memories of her father shouting at her, during drunken rages, that she was ugly and of little value.
Indeed, verbal abuse during childhood can scar people deeply, a new study suggests. It was headed by Martin Teicher, M.D., Ph.D., director of the Developmental Biopsychiatry Research Program at McLean Hospital, which is affiliated with Harvard Medical School. Results were published in the June American Journal of Psychiatry.Although the injurious effects of child physical and sexual abuse have been the subject of considerable inquiry, not much attention has been paid to the possibly noxious effects of verbal abuse on children.
People attend to what they see. The battered hearts, the wounded souls are not visible to the eye; although the effects of these are apparent if we wish to see them. Researchers studied and discovered what lies just beneath the surface.
People who were verbally abused had 1.6 times as many symptoms of depression and anxiety as those who had not been verbally abused and were twice as likely to have suffered a mood or anxiety disorder over their lifetime, according to psychology Professor Natalie Sachs-Ericsson, the study's lead author."We must try to educate parents about the long-term effects of verbal abuse on their children," Sachs-Ericsson said. "The old saying about sticks and stones was wrong. Names will forever hurt you."
Moms and Dads wield words as weapons daily. An innocent and sweet child may be saddened by what is said to them. Frequently, a lad or a lass, who has come to expect the worse is fretful, frightened, or apprehensive when near those who vocally attack. After a time, a child turned teen, may appear angry, as an adult resigned, acquiescent when with Mom or Dad. Still, the pain seeps out. It spills onto all the injured individual encounters.
The cycle starts subtly. It is all so subterranean. How often is a child told, "You need to take responsibility"? Yet, how frequently does neither guardian seems to accept that they play a part in what occurred in their own lives. After a night on the town, too much food, and an abundance of alcoholic beverages, Dad may bellow, "Stay out of my way today if you know what's good for you." Then, as if to inform his brood, father would offer, "I'm in a bad mood." Daddy does not wish to be liable for his own limitations. Thus, if he was under duress, or hassled, surely, someone else must be to blame.
It is a "me against the world" mentality. Those who command and seek control, the power they did not feel they had in their youth, see themselves as separate from the others. Hence, the great divide.
Mom may be no different from Dad. This sweet, soft-spoken woman, a mother committed to her children often commented, "My life would have been perfect if it were not for you." She would then say, "Get out of my sight; you are a bad boy, a hateful, ungrateful girl." Then, moments later, Mommy would say how much she loved you, or I. Life and love, as a child, and later as an adult can be caustic, chaotic, and troublesome, even if we emerge confidently. Either parent can do the damage. Both can build the barriers that teach one of the brood to be boldly brazen.
Weeks ago, Americans watched an esteemed achiever, a Presidential aspirant, vent wrathful words. The statements made echoed in every American household. On television and radio airwaves we heard, "Shame on you. “It is time you (act in a manner) consistent with your messages in public. That is what I expect from you. (L)et's have a debate about your tactics and your behavior . . ." Only days prior, we, as a nation, were moved by the magnanimous words, "(Y)ou know, no matter what happens in this contest -- and I am honored, I am honored to be here with [the same person who was slammed two days later.] I am absolutely honored." Hours before the homage was delivered in a face-to-face encounter, the self-proclaimed "fighter" raged, she was ready. The person she humiliated after offering a sincere homage was not. Then, in a fit of anger, this eloquent and accomplished adult exclaimed to her audience, "Let's get real."
On an occasion or two, the New York Senator states if she and her adversary worked as one, all dreams would come true. Quickly, Hillary Rodham Clinton reminds us that the same individual who she thinks praiseworthy is incompetent. He cannot command; nor is he qualified. The waling wounded Clinton claims the man who might steal her win is but a "child." She demeans his experience while she exaggerates her own. In a breath, the scared child, now a grown Senator, cries out. The former First Lady, who continues to carry the weight of a world built on pain within her, tells us the man who angers her is eloquent, admirable, and yet, inadequate.
One day this wise woman is passive or polite; then in the next moment she is aggressive and antagonistic. As Hillary Clinton speaks of Uniting the States, creating a cohesive Democratic Party, she works to divide these entities. She loves her country, her challenger, and her community; yet . . .
The push-pull of these love-hate relationships may remind us of what too many of us as children and adults experience in our family homes. In the "United" States, division, derision, declarations that divide a union are natural. Most accept the conventions that have been familiar throughout their lives. Few are disturbed by the divisiveness a Presidential candidate puts forth. Perchance, the American people relate. Might we consider the climate that was the candidate's childhood, her history, and the truth that fashioned her family?
The couple fought. In 1926, Dorothy's father filed for divorce, claiming that his wife had hit him in the face and scratched him on three separate occasions, according to Cook County records. In a March 1927 court hearing, Della Howell's own sister accused her of abusing her husband and abandoning her two daughters."She had a violent temper and flew at him in a rage, and would fight him," testified the sister, Frances Czeslawski.
Della Howell did not show up to contest the divorce -- she could not be found by subpoena servers. Dorothy's father was given custody. But, either unwilling or unable to take care of his daughters, he put them on the train to California, where his parents, Edwin Howell Sr. and Emma Howell, had moved a few years previously. . . .
The grandparents were ill-prepared to raise Dorothy and her sister, Isabelle.
Edwin Howell Sr. had emigrated from Wales. He worked as a machinist in an auto plant and as a laborer for the Alhambra street department, according to Alhambra city directories from the time. He mostly left the girls' care to his wife.
Emma Howell was a strict woman who wore black Victorian dresses and discouraged visitors and parties. Once, discovering that Dorothy had gone trick-or-treating on Halloween, she ordered her confined to her room for a year except for school.
"Her grandmother was a severe and arbitrary disciplinarian who berated her constantly, and her grandfather all but ignored her," Clinton wrote. . .
"Once I asked my mother why she went back to Chicago," Clinton wrote in "Living History." The answer? "'I'd hoped so hard that my mother would love me that I had to take the chance and find out,' she told me. 'When she didn't, I had nowhere else to go.'
Too many of us can recall a time when we wanted to be appreciated, admired, accepted by those who brought us into the world, or taught us to be the best we could be. Even when those we care for harm us, we still crave their adoration. A child who feels less than cherished will try harder. Humans will do whatever they believe they must do in hopes that someday, they will be treasured by their first teachers, the people they call family.
Hillary was the best student among her siblings, the one who took her parents' lessons most seriously. . .Hugh Rodham, unlike many other fathers of his era, raised his daughter to be ambitious. When she brought home straight A's, Rodham would say, "Well, Hillary, that must be an easy school you go to," she [Presidential hopeful, Hillary Clinton] wrote. . .
Hugh Rodham took thrift to even greater heights than many survivors of the Depression. If Hillary, Hugh Jr., or Tony left the cap off the toothpaste, he would toss it out the window and send the child to search for it. An allowance was out of the question. "I feed you, don't I?" she remembers him saying.
Clinton speaks of her father admiringly, but . . . no one disputes his gruffness. "He was character building, like our winters in Chicago," Ebeling, Clinton's best friend, said. . . .
He was "highly opinionated, to put it mildly," [Hillary] Clinton wrote. "We all accommodated his pronouncements . . .
Hilary is as many warriors in society are. She expects the electorate to tolerate her brusque, sometimes demeaning, statements, just as she accepted much of what her father said. If the people wish to argue with the aspirant, as occasionally she did with her dear Dad, Clinton thinks that is fine. After all, she is a fighter. She knows how to win. Just as Hugh Rodham did when he felt his children were uncontrollable, the dictatorial, decidedly aggressive decider known as Dad escalated the argument. "You are with me or against me" is a common refrain among those who command cruelly.
Many progeny adapt to parents who can be punitive. After a time, offspring learn, the boundaries that divide them are best when they remain as invisible, just as the wounds on the heart are. Children convince themselves, they are strong. They are in control. As long as they go along to get along all will be well, and it will be, until the next emotional upheaval. Even then, those who scream and demean will be fine, for what they experience is familiar.
I offer a personal anecdote, one that helped me to understand the divide that exists among us in America. There are the "fighters" well-trained to battle, and the peacemakers, those who talk in tones that are more tranquil.
I realized this only in recent years. A time ago, after I had lived on this glorious green Earth for more than three decades I thought I understood people. I experienced much in my lifetime. As a child, I settled in the suburbs, the city, and the country. In my earliest years may family had all the fineries. We were exceptionally wealthy. Then, there was the divorce. My Mommy, new Daddy a sister, and I were extremely poor when I was in Elementary School. Eventually we evolved into Middle Class. I felt as though we were average.
At seventeen years of age, I declared my independence. I left home, lived on my own, and struggled to earn enough money to survive. I inhabited neighborhoods not thought to be safe. My knowledge of life and it's various styles, I believed was expansive.
Then, it occurred. I met a man. Immediately, I knew I loved him. I had never been easily impressed. Romantic relationships were not part of my repertoire. This person, I perceived as beyond special. I admired him, and I intensely appreciated him. This gentleman was brilliant. He was very successful. He smiled ever so warmly. Until . . . suddenly, he yelled. The wrath was intended for me. As Gary excitedly expressed his disgust, his face was flush. His eyes and veins were bulging. This cherished chap was agitated, accusatory, and exceptionally anxious. To this day, I know not why. I have asked. Yet, an explanation was not forthcoming.
As Gary ranted and raged, I stood frozen, as a deer in headlights. I was stunned. In my whole life, no one had ever yelled at me, or so I thought, previous to that day. There was one other occasion.
That narrative aside, as Gary and I stood face to face, as he screamed and shrieked, he articulated the assertion, "You are having a tantrum." I marveled. I am a calm person. As a child, I was just as serene. In my entire life, I did not recall being explosive. As I observed Gary and listened to his words, I was uncertain which aspect of this encounter was more amazing to me, his conduct, or his contention. After, the damn or dam broke, he seemed free of his agitation. I was anxious, although still silent. I knew not what to say or do. What had I witnessed? What did it mean? How did I feel about it?
In time, I did learn as Hillary Clinton, and others whose hearts are hurt by words, do. I could choose to tolerate the brusque and debasing language. I could choose to appease, to please, or to patronize. However, I also understood no matter what I decided to do, there would be consequences. There would always be a chasm between Gary and I. I would never fully feel comfortable, for I did not know what might bring on another brutal belch of bitterness.
I walked on eggshells, and he, with all his hollering, hoped to secure the impression that he walked on water. I came to discover that Gary had been challenged all his life. His parents were the purveyors of agenda after agenda. As a child he had felt as he now teaches others to feel, as though he was and is less than. Gary was told too often, he was not good enough, smart enough; he was wrong. If Gary received an excellent evaluation in class, he too was meet with the remark similar to the ones the New York Senator heard in her youth. "Well, that subject is just too simple." "An "A" grade is not good enough."
Dissect a heart. Dismember a sweet spirit. It is the American way, divide and conquer. In a competitive society, where cruelty is common, most everyone will suffer, so that the few spoiled souls can feel, even if only for a moment, that they have succeeded. Sadly, their triumph is our demise.
Gary, Hillary, and too many we encounter have become so familiar with belligerent behaviors they no longer think there are other ways to work with people.
I was raised in a family where no one yells. To say I am jarred by loud aggressive rants is to understate what I feel. For a time, I team-taught with an instructor deemed superior. This person won District-wide awards. I understood why when I assessed the curriculum this teacher originated. Yet, this individual chastised students vociferously and with ample abandon. When in a rage, this educator's voice traveled throughout the building. I literally jumped in fright on more than one occasion.
Even without the volume, this teacher's words could cut like a knife. When the venom was directed at me, I froze. I am extremely sensitive to the lexis. The phrases this instructor used were not part of my reality. Our philosophies on life were disparate. Yet, I truly enjoyed this individual when the conversation was amiable. When jovial, the professor was a delight. Indeed, this person often was happy and genuinely fun.
When a scream was heard through the walls, students and I would react. Some smiled. A few laughed nervously. Others and I were startled. We cringed. When the world was again calm, quietly, throughout the room, discussions emerged. The demeanor of this academic was the topic. Talk of the teacher was approached tenderly. As I listened, I learned. If a person grows up in a home where one particular approach to life is normal, they learn to accept and appreciate that manner of expression. People who were taught to expect verbal lashings, as Hillary Clinton noted, learn to accommodate or accept.
If cruel criticisms were common in a home; howls were considered to be a sign, someone cares, painful as that might be. Those never exposed to love that did not hurt could not imagine the possibility. Tis a sad state in this union, when those we treasure most are the ones we whip to a pulp with words. A country divided cannot stand.
Perchance it is time to truly discuss what divides America. Dollars and legal documents are not divisive. Paper does not have the power to pull us apart. Race cannot physically separate us. In nature, every hue is a significant part of the whole. Religion does not cause a rift between neighbors. A philosophy can only teach us. Principles do not reach into our souls and cause us to slice and dice. It is we who control the chaos that drives a wedge between our brethren and we.
Might Americans come together at home and on every avenue? From Wall Street to Main Street let us speak kindly to each other. Let us teach the children well.
Perhaps, it is time to tell those you share a life with that you revere them without reservations. If we choose to use words that consistently show we care for those we love, perhaps, peace will have a chance. If our words were to mirror our stated beliefs, possibly, money would have no power, color could do no harm, and religious principles would be evident in our every expression. Please, imagine and work to give birth to what for too long was thought impossible. Let us live in an America, united in more than name only.
Sources, Scars, Screams in a divided society . . .