Young children especially don't have an appreciation for what their parents may say - even when there is no discipline going on.
On the way to school one morning in the early 1950s, my mother leaned over in the front seat of the car and whispered something to my father. My father, ever alert to opportunities to issue insults said, "Look at Frank's big ol' ears sticking out." I heard it even though he said it sotto voce. Why did he say that about me?
To my unsophisticated and literal mind, I believed that I did indeed have large, protruding ears. And I was embarrassed by them. On that day I walked into school with no books and so could cover my ears with my hands. I went straight to the boys restroom. When I was certain I was alone I removed my hands from my new found deformity. Well, perhaps they did stick out some, or perhaps I was just painfully self-conscious.
The next day I remembered to wear my backpack so I could put my books in it and leave my hands free. I'd need them, you see, to cover my unfortunate newly discovered birth defect. The other kids of course made fun of me walking along with my hands over my ears. "Just keeping 'em warm," I smiled at them bravely attempting to put them off the scent. And pretty much I was left alone.
I was terrified that my mother would discover that I had heard my father insult me about my huge ears and he would be angry. He had clearly told us that we were never to mention anyone's handicap to them or say anything abou it loudly enough for them to hear. I wasn't certain how I'd get in trouble for hearing what he said, I was just certain that I would. So I was very inventive, coming up with various ways of hiding my terrible affliction. But there were times when I couldn't, and these proved some of the most embarrassing moments of my entire life.
First grade is stressful enough without having to carry the heavy burden of a public deformity around all the time and trying to hide it to boot. I knew then after just a couple of days that I would never have a girlfriend. What girl would want to be with a boy who had huge ears and had to hide them all the time? I couldn't think of a one. I prayed for small, more natural ears. Every morning they were the same.
I took this huge, overwhelming question to my grandfather at the first opportunity. He gave me a kina funny sidelong look, "No, Cap'n, I don't see that you have ears bigger than anyone else." And I felt relieved for the first time in three weeks. However, later that night when I was thanking my lucky stars for the smaller ears, suddenly the thought occured to me, "What if Papa was just being nice? I knew he was like that: kind and gentle and loving. Now my misery was complete. I had huge ears and even my grandfather wouldn't talk to me about it. I began to consider suicide. There were guns of all sorts around my grandfather's farm. I decided to just carry my burden alone and unhelped in utter silence, sort of like the priest I'd seen in the movie on tv earlier that week who was wearing a hair shirt to prove himself to god. I'd make some sense of my affliction by telling myself that I was wearing big ears and a test from God. And even that didn't work for long.
This went on for over two years until finally my mother asked me why I was always covering my ears with my hands.
"'Cause I'm hiding them."
"Why are you hiding them?"
"Because they're way too big."
"What makes you think your ears are way too big," she wanted to know.
"I heard what daddy said to you on the way to school that time?"
"What time?"
"You know, the week before my sister had those dangerous measles and you had to stay with her in the hospital and I had to stay with Papa so I wouldn't catch 'em. Remember" And by now the hot tears of the shame of discovery were coursing down my cheeks; and added to them were the other tears of knowing I wasn't normal, would never have a girlfriend. I would probably just live on the farm with my grandparents; sort of hide myself out in the woods where they lived.
My mother gave me the oddest look. Now her eyes were brimming full about to spill over. "That was almost three years ago. Have you been hiding your ears for three years?" I could no longer let her look at me. I put my arms around her neck and hid my shame and my disformity in the crook of her neck. A muffled "yes" was all I could manage.
And now I could tell she was crying; her shoulders shaking, her voice unsteady. And then, when she felt better, she began to explain what my father had said and why. It sounded pretty thin to me at the time, and I made her promise never to tell my father about it, never. I had learned by then that I never wanted to be found guilty of telling my father something he didn't want to hear, and I figured he didn't want to hear this because it made him at fault for sorry ideas about myself. If he heard that story, he'd find a way to make it my fault, I knew that much, and I wasn't going to go there again ever.
I won't beat this story to death any more since I think my point's made. I lived through almost four years of embarrassing agony and fleeing self esteem because of what I'd overheard and misunderstood. And in the dysfunctionality of my family of origin, I dared not ask for an explanation like, "What do you mean I have big ears?" I'd never get away with that in a hundred years.
So think. Think before you say anything around your small children, especially if they are introverted and shy. They're just looking for reasons to justify their feelings of unworthiness and invalidity. And when they imagine they've found one, it becomes easier to justify feeling miserable about themselves all day one more time.
Think
francois
