“She knew that in a very real way, she controlled the world. At least, she controlled the way her students would see it.”

“That’s right, sweety—that’s a dog. Doggies are bad. They will always bite you, even if they look nice. Keep walking . . .”

That was the conversation I overheard between a mom and her three-year-old daughter yesterday. I was pushing my son in a stroller past them, and glanced over at the evil beast behind a massive fence.
It was a small, fluffy mixed breed dog, panting happily, not snapping at all.

Not that I’m a huge fan of dogs—I tolerate them, at best—but I worry when an adult passes along their fears, irrational or not, to their children.

I cringed, but the damage had been done.
The child shuddered obediently and gripped her mother’s hand as they rushed home. The girl had been indoctrinated.

The thing is, we all indoctrinate our children, in good ways and bad.
I’ve heard some adults argue that “religious nuts” brainwash their kids into believing in their faith, but it’s still propaganda when adults persuade children to not believe in anything at all.

As parents we literally present the world to our children—a view which they then spend the rest of their lives believing or disproving, or talking to a therapist about.
A difficult question then is, What view of the world have I given to my children?

My mother was a classic case of paranoia run amok. Suffering in Germany as a child during WWII, losing her parents, her grandmother, and several cousins to the war, seeing some of her family interred in concentration camps, then escaping from her home (now a part of Poland) to the west by herself as a 16-year-old, just one day ahead of the invading Russians, is going to leave some scars.

Unfortunately, she refused to have those scars looked at, insisting every time we tried to get her treatment for her Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that she had things under control.
She didn’t.
She feared the world. She was afraid of people in uniforms (she hated the Boy Scouts—just like Hitler Youth, she claimed), people in stores (you never know why they’re looking at you), and people just chatting in the halls at church (she knew they were gossiping about her). Every person was a potential threat to her happiness, as it were.

Sometimes she was fine, going for months being cheerful and even joining in the conversations with other women in our neighborhood.
Then suddenly something would snap again—we never knew what the trigger was—and for many months and even years she was sure everyone hated her for her German accent, and that someone was coming to get her.

All of that rubs off on a kid, and even though I learned to distance myself from her delusions and paranoia as a teenager, I still feel my chest tighten when I see a group of women and I think I’m supposed to talk to them.
But rhetoric courses I took in college demonstrated how each person views the world in a different way and, most importantly, those views can change.

In my mom’s later years, her paranoia blossomed—one of the lesser-common side effects of Parkinson’s disease is hallucinations. And she did them magnificently.

My 40th birthday will always be memorable because she called to wish me a happy birthday, then said, “Well, your father’s all but out of the family now since I discovered he’s been having affairs.” The man was 78 at the time. My mom also complained about the listening devices in the house, the person living in the attic demanding sugar, and the horrible statue garden my brother and his wife had put up in the backyard.

My older sister called me two hours later to say, “I just had Mom committed to the mental hospital to stabilize her. How’s that for a birthday present?”

Now, four years later, my mother barely knows where she is or who she is. As her life slips away, I mourn for her that she never fully knew just how wonderful it could be. The world held her hostage since she was a little girl. She never knew how to change her view of the world, nor did she fully realize that for the past sixty-plus years she had a very easy life. All she could focus on was her fear.

That’s why I cringed when I heard that mother yesterday telling her daughter to be afraid of dogs. Undoubtedly she’s had some trauma in her past that she never got over, but to pass those fears on to someone innocent?
To taint an entire collection of creatures with just one ugly color because of a bias?
To assume that we as adults truly know how everything is, and that we’re completely correct in all our assumptions?

I don’t know whether to call that prejudice, or arrogance, or ignorance.
Whatever it is, it needs to be resolved to give our kids a fair and fighting chance.
And that’s probably the toughest thing for a parent to do.

2 thoughts on ““She knew that in a very real way, she controlled the world. At least, she controlled the way her students would see it.”

  1. Well said. Thank you for the reminder. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that my babies are not me, and I can’t fetter them with my own issues, because the combination of deep-seated fear from my own experiences and my instinct to protect my little hellspawn from harm can sometimes overwhelm my knowledge that my kids will end up with plenty of issues of their own, without my help.
    My parents were hippies who believed a child should be allowed to gather their own impressions of life. Basically they fed, clothed, and housed us, taught us to read and write, then observed us growing and learning. If we had a question about a term or thing or event, we were redirected to the full set of Encyclopaedia Britannica and the 2,000+ page Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary. If we asked about something that happened to them, we got a basic explanation and then asked for our feelings on the matter at hand. I can honestly say that as an adult, EVERY fear I have is the result of personal experiences only.
    I have been trying to do the same for my children. It’s pretty easy with my son, who is autistic and has difficulty picking up on others’ emotions. He’s kind of like a PC with Windows trying to function in a world run by Macs. His OS works perfectly well, but the Macs don’t quite understand what he’s saying. My daughter is much like I was at her age: extremely empathetic and eager to please, although she is much more able to stand up for herself, thank goodness. She has developed an interest in becoming Christian, all on her own. I am not fond of organized religion, but she goes to a church-run after school program once per week, and I’m pleased that on her own she seems to pick up on the lessons that teach tolerance, respect, and forgiveness, and discards the bits that encourage discrimination, violence, and misogyny. The only thing I told her when these lessons began: “You’re a smart girl with a good heart already. Always keep it in the front of your mind that while the Bible is believed to be the Word of God, it’s still a book written by humans, and humans are not perfect or all-knowing, so just because the Bible says something doesn’t mean it’s right or wrong and you must do what it says. It means you need to use your own brain and decide whether what you’ve read agrees with your own Jiminy Cricket.”

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    • Absolutely listen to your own “Jiminy Cricket”! I worry that this is becoming a lost concept, though. The rising generation needs this reminder, or a tangible, symbolic representation such as this that we had growing up.
      I love that your parents had you read the encyclopedia. I suppose Wikipedia is an appropriate corollary, despite the fact that anyone can go in and edit it, and that kids seem more concerned about social media than social responsibility.

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