In the moments that follow the thumps and crashes of childhood, mothers stop to listen for the hurt, our ears stretching to catch the sounds like small satellite dishes. Is anything broken? Do I really need to get up to comfort her? Will this require a bandaid or a trip to Urgent Care?
Mothers are not unique in this talent. Baseball fans can hear a home run before they see the ball fly into the stands. A desperate screech of tires, and drivers brace themselves for impact, even though they’re idling safely at a stoplight. Sound is the first signal of what’s to come.
And so I waited for her scream, for the pounding of her feet carrying her wail closer and closer like a train towards an intersection, my arms the crossing guards coming down to stop her. Our pattern familiar, my ears seeking, I waited, but it was silent. There was no sound at all.
A few years ago, I took a swim class with my daughter and the lifeguard said we must always watch our kids in the pool because they will not cry out for help when they’re drowning. They will slip silently under the water, too afraid as they struggle to swim. So as I wait for the silence to end, I start to count. One second, two seconds, three…
I am up and moving.
The scene in the family room is different, somehow broken. My son stands over her, his anger dominating as she tries to make herself very, very small. I push him away and grab for her. When I ask, “What is going on in here?” everyone re-sets. My daughter wails while my son defends himself. I search her body and find a pink handprint on the back of her upper thigh, but that is not my concern.
I am horrified by the fear in her eyes.
“You do not hit your sister like that,” I hiss at him. “You do not hurt girls!” As I say this, I realize “hurt” means more than the physical pain of the slap. It means fear – the fear that you are not safe because someone bigger than you, someone stronger than you, is coming after you. It’s the fear that children know very well, but if they are girls, never outgrow. It’s the fear that makes them silent.
As he continues to defend himself, the rage awakens, cracking and bubbling in my chest, and I spit out, “If you ever do that again, I will kick your ass.” Like every parent, I make threats that I never intend to fulfill, so my son did not take this seriously and neither did I, really, until he did it again.
The slap, the silence followed by pleading sobs. She is terrified, desperately scrambling to get away as he follows her. He is a boy becoming a man, exploring his new body and the power it gives. She is a girl six years younger, dwarfed and afraid.
“I am going to kick your ass,” I say, hardly believing what I’m saying. He is incredulous, so I grab his t-shirt and push him against the door. His eyes wide, there is no sound.
One second, two seconds, three…
As he shrinks, I expand. I am a six year old girl standing up to the boy who grew up to be my father and terrified me with his drunken anger. I am a ten year old girl stopping the boy who grew up to be my babysitter, holding me down as he shoved his hands beneath my underwear. I am a twenty-four year old girl teaching the boy who grew up to be my husband that it is not okay to put his fist through a wall.
He is a boy who will grow up to be. I am the girl who grew up to be. And I’m going to teach him what I wish the mothers of my father and babysitter and husband had been able to teach their sons. You do not hurt girls.
I yank him towards me, and it is then that I realize he is taller than me, but before he can register this truth, I take him down to the floor. He stares at me with betrayed eyes, and I know he is starting to understand. But this is not over, not yet.
He retreats into the kitchen. I follow as he cowers, intimidating him with my physical presence. “What does it feel like to have someone come after you?” I yell. He is stunned. I see the spark of fear.
“You do not hurt girls,” I say, shaking with the knowing. It is a heavy weight and I tremble from the struggle of holding it in my heart. He is curled into a ball.
I repeat my question in a quieter voice, “What does it feel like to have someone come after you?”
He replies, “It feels awful.”
And I know he understands what I tried to explain with words but could not. I reach out to hold him, and he places his head on my shoulder. We breathe together quietly, forming ourselves back into mother and son.
There is no talking, no sound at all. And this time, the silence does not scare me.
About the author: Catherine Long is a forty-something Army brat, wife to Paul (15 years), working woman (20+ years), and mother to two children (14 years and 8 years). Besides being born with a vagina, the Army is the most defining aspect of her identity, and she really likes comparing them to teach other. You can find her at https://armybratparenting.com/.
1 Comment
Thank you for this. I am raising a boy who is exploring this as well and still has to learn this. You gave me the words I need. Thank you.
You did well.