Easy way, harsh way
Blogger's warning: don’t read this if you want to feel good – it’s too depressing.
This morning a thought came percolating back into my consciousness, still swimming around looking for more comprehension inside of me. It was something that I talked about with my dad back in November. My dad, who was brought up in the Great Depression under grave circumstances, still believes at the age of 80 that the best way to raise kids is harshly.
From my own experience of harshness at his hands, this included a lot of things that would be reportable child abuse in our era, but was considered to be normal then. A spanking was done with a razor strap or a belt, on a bare bottom. Or at least theoretically on the hind end. In actual practice, hands and arms got in the way and we wiggled around so much that large welts persisted for days on our arms and legs as well. And then there was the occasional backhand to the ground, the whack with the buggy whip, the kick in the pants … you get the idea.
But even harsher was the verbal and emotional abuse. Kids were to be seen and not heard. When we screwed up, we were addressed in a string of adjectives that would euphemistically be translated like this: "You are a person who God has damned to hell. You were born out of wedlock and your mother was a female dog. You have no value. You are liar by nature, filthy to the core, lazy, and currently performing crass sexual activity."
But the abuse didn’t stop there. Kids were there to serve the parents. It was my job to give my parents a good night kiss. It was expected that I would go to school, do my homework, help around the house, do chores (shoveling manure, feeding animals, grinding feed, etc.) before and after school during the school year. In the summer, long hours of bailing hay, hauling silage, plowing, mowing, raking hay, etc. were the standard fare.
But the one that got me thinking about all this was that my dad would set me up to fail. Intentionally vague instruction was given so that yelling, shaming, blaming, and defaming could occur later. More work was assigned so that punishment could be meted out. I suppose the reason for all of this was to get me so scared that I would obey without question, much as soldiers are conditioned for battle at boot camp. Scott Adams, in his comic strip "Dilbert," once pointed out in humorous way that evil Human Resource directors intentionally hire shame-based employees so that they can get them to work long hours without questioning it. Perhaps that’s why my dad thought I should be raised harshly.
So now I find myself being harsh with myself, and I’m sure I was harsh with my kids (Gloria and Justin: if you’re reading this, please forgive my sin in this).
But it still blows my mind to think that my dad still believes that this is how kids should be raised: harshly. Astonishing. I just can’t wrap my mind around the fact that anyone in this millennium still believes that.
This morning a thought came percolating back into my consciousness, still swimming around looking for more comprehension inside of me. It was something that I talked about with my dad back in November. My dad, who was brought up in the Great Depression under grave circumstances, still believes at the age of 80 that the best way to raise kids is harshly.
From my own experience of harshness at his hands, this included a lot of things that would be reportable child abuse in our era, but was considered to be normal then. A spanking was done with a razor strap or a belt, on a bare bottom. Or at least theoretically on the hind end. In actual practice, hands and arms got in the way and we wiggled around so much that large welts persisted for days on our arms and legs as well. And then there was the occasional backhand to the ground, the whack with the buggy whip, the kick in the pants … you get the idea.
But even harsher was the verbal and emotional abuse. Kids were to be seen and not heard. When we screwed up, we were addressed in a string of adjectives that would euphemistically be translated like this: "You are a person who God has damned to hell. You were born out of wedlock and your mother was a female dog. You have no value. You are liar by nature, filthy to the core, lazy, and currently performing crass sexual activity."
But the abuse didn’t stop there. Kids were there to serve the parents. It was my job to give my parents a good night kiss. It was expected that I would go to school, do my homework, help around the house, do chores (shoveling manure, feeding animals, grinding feed, etc.) before and after school during the school year. In the summer, long hours of bailing hay, hauling silage, plowing, mowing, raking hay, etc. were the standard fare.
But the one that got me thinking about all this was that my dad would set me up to fail. Intentionally vague instruction was given so that yelling, shaming, blaming, and defaming could occur later. More work was assigned so that punishment could be meted out. I suppose the reason for all of this was to get me so scared that I would obey without question, much as soldiers are conditioned for battle at boot camp. Scott Adams, in his comic strip "Dilbert," once pointed out in humorous way that evil Human Resource directors intentionally hire shame-based employees so that they can get them to work long hours without questioning it. Perhaps that’s why my dad thought I should be raised harshly.
So now I find myself being harsh with myself, and I’m sure I was harsh with my kids (Gloria and Justin: if you’re reading this, please forgive my sin in this).
But it still blows my mind to think that my dad still believes that this is how kids should be raised: harshly. Astonishing. I just can’t wrap my mind around the fact that anyone in this millennium still believes that.
posted by Ted at 12:52 PM
3 Comments:
It just proves that time and education are not the healers of the sinful soul.
Ted, I hurt as I read this. I didn't know it was like this for you, and it makes me appreciate even more how God used you in my daughter's life. You may not be able to go back and live your childhood over and stand up to the terrorist in it ~ but God can certainly place you in situations where you help others do so, and perhaps there is healing in that for you, as well as for others.
That's why God gives me breath. My wounds empower me to co-create a world of love and safety by living in and through my heart.
Dad, I forgive you. Thank you for doing so much work in this area and for not repeating so many of the mistakes your dad made. Thanks for being open and continuing to receive forgiveness - I think that it makes all the difference in our family, and my future family.
Love,
Justin
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