call me daddy — day one in the foster home

Malkah was two. Or maybe three. Or somewhere inbetween. I don't remember. I only remember one thing about that moment. And that would be the door.

The door was huge. And the adults who answered the door seemed huge as well. Malkah had been taught, I guess, her politesse. She was dressed as well as she could be. She was soft spoken and polite.

The door opened. And so she said,

"Hello Mr and Mrs S—" and the two of them loomed over her from inside.

The door opened wide enough for her to step inside.  I think she had a little bag of stuff with her. A change of clothes, probably.

The house smelled funny. Not bad, just funny. Unfamiliar.  Later Malkah would identify that smell as cooking smells. But I don't remember what.  So. Smells, the first impression. That's more the point.

The door closed with a decisive click.

And he smacked her one. Loud and hard, right across the face.

"That's for not calling me 'daddy,'" he said.

He glared down at her. His jowls had turned bright red.

Here's what I wonder.

I wonder if anyone had bothered to tell her what was about to happen.

I wonder if she had any idea of how long she would be staying.

I wonder if she had visitors.

And most of all—

I wonder what that first day must have felt like.

All I know, is that after dinner the whole extended 'family' went into the living room to watch TV.  Papa bear sat in his big overstuffed arm chair. That was the only thing that Malkah noticed. The only thing that mattered.

She found in her hand a giant pair of scissors.

Quietly, she slipped behind Mr. S's chair and sat on the floor behind him.  She grabbed a handful of her long dark hair.

And started cutting.

A memory.

The sound of cutting. Soothing and safe.

Until the yelling started all over again. And the smacking. And the burning.

suffer the little children—or something like that

The phrase just came to me tonight after a not-good phone call. And I realize that I have no idea what this phrase means. It has a bibley sound to it, but I wasn't familiar with it at all. It was a fragment, must be a fragment of something much larger. I wanted to know — so I turned to the Internet.

And I came upon a blog devoted to caring for infants in Malawi villages. Orphans gathered in an orphanage village called Mzuzu SOS. Children malnourished and alone no longer.

And I came upon a four part expose from 1968 of Pennhurst State School for Mentally Retarded Children. And there were kids in straightjackets, and kids with their hands or feet bound to the bars of their cribs. And children sitting cross-legged on the floor rocking back and forth with rhythmic repetition. And the children, said the narrator, happy to have something positive to say, "are no longer sterilized." Wow.

And I found a movie trailer of the same name that was unwatchable, and I couldn't hit delete fast enough for my own health and safety. And this film was apparently based upon a Stephen King short story of the same name, which was called in one description, "a delicious fright."

And I found a Stephen King disclaimer, stating that 'Suffer the Little Children' had, and I quote, "no redeeming social merit whatever" (King, 1993:801).

And I found a book on the murder of eleven year old Melissa Moody by her uncle, somewhere near Boswell, Oklahoma. And the point being made was that abuse in one generation raises the next generation of abusers. Details provided.

And I found The Smiths lyrics, of the same name, which sounded an awful lot like the case I'd just been reading.

And yes, I found Jesus.

And yes, I've always wanted to say that, if only on the page, or screen or whatever, just for fun to see what it feels like. But in saying it here — I mean it quite literally. I literally found Jesus. Or Jesus' words, anyway.

Which is really finding Matthew, I believe, not Jesus, right? And Mark. And Luke.

The key quote appears to be:

Suffer the little children to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God. (Mark 10:14)

Which, to my neophyte ears sounds a lot like someone proselytizing young vulnerables and not wanting to be restrained. You know, something Jim Jones would have said. And meant it.

But the website I found this on explained to me that this meant that Jesus loved children.

Ok, fine.

By the time I had spent more Search Function time than I should have on this little puzzle, I reflected on the phone call I had just received.

It wasn't about abuse.

It wasn't about malnourished, orphaned village babies.

It wasn't about psycho-killers.

It wasn't about social merit or the lack thereof.

And it wasn't a Stephen King horror show.

And my not-good phone call gained a 'suffer-the-little-children' context. And I realized that my kids are really alright. And that everyone suffers. And that our children suffer, even without the trauma-drama. And that maybe this phone call wasn't about suffering at all, but about life. And a moment that will pass.

Not earth-shattering.

Not horrifying.

Just a glitch in the matrix, and one that might possibly open new doors. And that maybe (just maybe) this moment is a turning point. And the turn may well lead to a much finer vista than the one being left behind. Or something like that.

caterpillar nightmares

Dear little caterpillar,

Stop all your bitching about what a tough childhood you had. Sure, now you're wound tight and left hanging there, but I'm tired of hearing about it.

'Bout how cruel your momma was.

Look what my poppa did to me. Look what they're making me go through! It's child abuse!

She this. He that. She oppressed me. He abused me, I just know he did.

Don't get me started.

I hear all this in Dustin Hoffman's voice, as Hook in 'Hook'. All the cruelty of parents spoken with bored realism, so so convincing. Unassailable.

They didn't listen to me. They didn't love me. They... They... They... ad nauseum. Here's what the sitter did. Here's what my sister did. What my brother did. Here's what the Father did. Uncle. Teacher. The government... It's always everyone else, isn't it? How terribly convenient.

They didn't value my essence, or my education. They didn't listen to me, believe me, support me, encourage me, nurture me...

Right. It's true. It's all true. They suck. You're fucked. Now get on with it.

More Hook voice, "Your parents were happier before you were born..."

And the wise child responds, "You're a bad, bad man!"

And I respond, "Who gives a shit? This is your life. Let yourself be. Check out what being is all about! Have fun with it. There's a pretty good view from your spot on that tree.

Caterpillar, I am so sick of hearing your resentments! Waiting for someone else to turn you into a butterfly.

"Just gimme an 'A' and I'll be fine.." Like I'm supposed to make your life happen?

Expect nothing from anybody. You've got to do this yourself.

You and you alone. Either you do, or you don't. This is your metamorphosis, after all. Of course, Bettelheim was right — in the scheme of things it really doesn't matter.

Go ahead. Don't transform. See how that works out.

You know, it's okay not to be a superstar, not to make a major splash, not to be famous. It's just fine to hang there, and not crawl out of your shell. You don't have to thrive if you don't want to.

I can hear Bettelheim telling all those parents the one thing they didn't want to hear:

"Your children are average. The law of averages demands that they be average."

They almost lynched him, but they might have ruffled a feather or two in the process. Better just to give him a scowl. Alotta people felt that way about Bettelheim. I think it's 'cause he was so threateningly right.

Those were the greedy demanding upper crust parents wanting achiever children after their years of investment of time and the big bucks.

But this is about you, at the other end of the stick. Given nothing, nothing at all, poor baby — except a very good brain, and talent, and potential. And you spend it raging against the past, seething over what's been done. You, there, hanging all the time off a little branch, wrapped too tight, fighting to get loose, wanting instant butterfly like it doesn't take a lifetime of work to make it.

hey little caterpillar, don't you cry
momma and poppa won't see you fly
they've flown off, they're long gone
all you gotta do is just hang on