My kids munched on chunks of chocolate at The Carnation Restaurant in Disneyland last Sunday night. My 12 year-old son has an incredible talent for getting chocolate on his ear. Of course my teenage daughter took a picture with her phone and threatened to text it to… He glared at her then wiped his face – and ear. At the next table a woman hauled off and slapped her already crying 3 year-old son’s face in front of about 20 people. Nobody moved.
The little boy with smudges of chocolate on his cheeks gulped big breaths and cried, “Mama!” She grabbed his shirt collar and wrestled him toward the door. Her right hand reached for the door –
Like the bullet in Anders’ brain, my mind reeled with a life before and after. Who will this little boy become? Will he be the kid who takes too long at the tetherball? There are thousands of kids who survive unthinkable atrocities every day in this world. I believe some – most – find a way to smile at the person behind the counter. And some of us who come from a supportive upbringing turn out to be complete assholes. It seems so random sometimes. And then I thought, what does my philosophy of “good manners and taking turns” look like in these circumstances? It’s easy for me to ask the bank teller how her day is going, or the waiter, or the nice husband and wife who own the dry cleaner – and their little schnauzer. But what about now? What was her life like? “Mama’s” life? How did she grow up? Did she take turns and hold the door? Did someone take her life away from her? Or has she always been a bully? Can I show kindness to such a woman who injured her child right in front of two-dozen people? Can I hold the door open for her? She reached for the door, struggling to keep a hold of her son’s shirt. He wriggled free then collapsed to the floor in the dead-weight move toddlers are famous for. This woman he calls Mama bent down, and my son stood up. The woman grabbed her son’s shirt, yanked him up to his feet, and reached for the door again. I quietly told my son to sit back down. He couldn’t do anything. None of us could do anything. Not really. Not really at all. My eyes returned to “Mama” as her right hand connected with the glass pane in the middle of the door. And I knew. I knew for sure that I should open the door for her. I naturally help the people I like, but I must show good manners to the people who create the hurt too. This turned my stomach when I thought of the rapist, the bully and the vicious girls in my life. How can I hold the door for them – for Mama? I blinked. Her hand pressed against the glass. Last chance I thought. Get up. Her son looks back our way. My daughter and son so upset. We need to talk. I look back toward the door. The woman had pushed the door ajar and was struggling to pull the little boy behind her. Just get up and go help her, I tell myself. It’s the right thing to do.
But I don’t.
And the worst part is that I don’t feel all that bad about it.
[Photo courtesy of Zen Cupcake]
