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By Any Name, It’s Still Abuse

Bill Tope

    A couple of days ago I read in the newspaper a story about a couple who were to be indicted for the murder of their young child. This was horrendous news, but abuse is not so unusual as one might expect. Some might say that such parents are “head cases” and that they are unbalanced. In fact, those who harm, threaten to harm, blackmail, humiliate, manipulate, otherwise misuse or abuse, even murder, their children, are, I believe, psychologically damaged. And it’s happened among my own circle of friends.
    Many years ago, when I was 15, an upper classman in my high school, a girl who was but one year older than I, was brutally murdered, shot to death in her own bed—by her mother, who then turned the shotgun on herself and snuffed out a second life.
    The newspaper carried the story and remarked that the woman had been “despondent” for some time. That was supposed to account for the double killing. The deaths were discussed around the water coolers and in the barbershops for a day or so, then largely forgotten. I lost my friend at the excruciatingly young age of 16. Her family used to drive my mom and me to church.
     And my best friend was a victim of abuse as well. I’ve seen his father in action, viciously kicking, slapping and punching his son, for little or no reason. He was clever: he only struck him where it wouldn’t show—until he was showering in gym class. Others would point at the black, blue and yellow marks on his legs and torso and shake their heads, but the boy was philosophical about the beatings. It was as though he believed he had it coming; he was no angel, but he didn’t deserve the systematic abuse he received.
    School officials are encumbered with reporting any “red flags” of abuse, both physical and psychological. That didn’t help my friends even a little bit. I had other friends, some student leaders, others outstanding athletes, still others just regular students, who were likewise abused; everybody knew who they were, these despicable parents, but nothing was done.
    This physical—as well as psychological (sometimes even worse)—violence,was especially repugnant to me because my brother and I were raised with great tenderness and love. I forever felt embraced by my parents’ loving arms and supportive characters. They were always on my side. One time, when I was in third grade, my first-year teacher hatched a hairbrained scheme: using construction paper, she fashioned a giant “crib” on one of the bulletin boards.
     If anyone were deemed to be acting inappropriately, she plumped down their name into the crib, showing how badly they had behaved. For most of the day I remained free of the shame of the hated crib, having done my homework, successfully tied my shoelaces and avoided all the other crimes for which I might be humliated. But, when she then asked what I’d had for breakfast, I admitted I’d had only toast, oatmeal and orange juice, which seems like a feast to me today. She tsk-tsked and added my name to the crib. In fact, as if to emphasize the permanence of the penalty, she stapled rather than pinned, my name in place. I was crestfallen.
    When I got home that night after school, I groused to my mom about the tyranny of “the crib.” In a flash she was on the phone to old lady Dinwiddie, who had been principal of Burbank School for perhaps 200 years, and she raised holy hell. What did that school mean by humiliating her son that way? She must have burned up the telephone line. Next day, the crib was history and my teacher took me aside and asked bleakly, “Why do you hate me?” Hurricane Katherine had worked its magic.
    But cruel teachers and parents made no sense to me. Were these people monsters, two-headed dragons who preyed on the minds and bodies—the souls—of their children? Well, basically, yeah. Seriously, though, they were just ordinary people, raised in the culture they inherited. They were your store clerks, your policemen, your letter carriers; they were us!
    When I was very young and at last able to comprehend social constructs, my mom told me: “One day, you’ll grow up and talk to other people, who were treated terribly by their parents. And you,” she added, “will be able to tell them that you were well-treated, by parents who loved you.” Truer words Mom never spoke.

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