As I was drifting in and out of sleep this morning, procrastinating on having to get up and face the stresses of work again, I found myself half dreaming an old Christmas memory, one that I've turned over and over again in my mind over the years. I was about seven years old and I had accompanied my parents to a Christmas party. It was a party for grown ups, but I tagged along because I was friends with the host family's two little girls. The party went late, but eventually most of the guests had left and the two little girls of the household fell asleep in their bedroom. I wandered out to the living room which adjoined the den, where several couples, including my parents, were still drinking and talking. As usual, it was my father who was holding forth in a lengthy monologue, louder than anyone and refusing to allow anyone else to get a word in.
Alone in the living room but able to hear every word of my father's speech, I sat back in an armchair, arranged my pretty party skirt over my knees, put my arms on the armrests, and prepared to wait out the adults. I was bored and tired and I wanted to go home, but I knew it could be a while. As I sat, I focused on what my father was saying and realized suddenly that he was talking about me.
He was dissecting my character. In detail. Every flaw. He talked about how disappointed he was in my report cards. My good grades he interpreted as the result of a lack of imagination and an overly docile and compliant disposition. He wondered at length why I seemed to have no curiosity, no spark, no zest for life. "Our child is a booooore," he chortled. "At her age, I was taking apart my transistor radio, getting into trouble, and asking my parents why the sky is blue." He speculated that my "eagerness to please," which my teachers had noted, was evidence of moral cowardice, that I had no guts or courage, that I would always be a follower and not a leader like him. Who would have thought, he asked rhetorically, that someone of his daring and strength, would have produced such a tepid speciman. Of course, he failed to mention the constant ridicule, verbal browbeating, threats, and physical violence (aka discipline) he inflicted on me at home, which, uh, gee, may have had a little something to do with the quiet and occasionally flat demeanor I adopted in my father's presence.
As my father continued to hold forth, one of the party guests, a man I had just met that night, crossed through the living room to use the bathroom. The man started when he saw me, paused for a moment, and said, "Uh, why aren't you asleep? I didn't know you were out here." He hesitated again, and then came over and sat down on the footstool in front of the arm chair where I was sitting, motionless, solemn and dry-eyed. The man said, "Look, your father doesn't mean anything he's saying. He just - he just doesn't know any better right now." I didn't make eye contact with the man. I remember just staring at the little wreaths on his Christmas tie. He paused again for a long time, and finally said," So, uh, don't feel bad, uh, okay?" Silence. "Okay?" It felt like it would be a huge effort to move my face or my eyes, but I slowly looked up at him and said, "Okay." The man patted my knee and went away.
I don't remember his face, or his name, but this man's kindness meant the world to me. It was a memory to which I would cling during the remaining years I spent in my parents' home. My mother, whom I put up on a pedestal in my mind, was blind to the evil and malevolence of my father's behavior to me. But this man had recognized and acknowledged it. That fact meant that I was not alone, that I was not overreacting to my father's behavior, that someone had seen how much pain I was in.
Many years later, while attending a course for prosecutors on domestic violence and child abuse, I learned about the concept of "the silent witness." The presence of an understanding witness in an abused child's life can have a tremendous positive imact on that child, even if that witness is unable to stop the abuse. While this man was only part of my life for about two minutes, he was my silent witness.
The funny thing is that this kind man with the Christmas wreaths on his tie probably felt terribly awkward and inadequate. I am sure he had no idea what to say to me. I am sure that he felt helpless to do anything for me. I know I was not able to give him to give him any kind of sign that he had gotten through to me in any way; in fact, I didn't even recognize at that moment how important he would become to me in memory. And since that time, he may well have forgotten his two minute encounter with a distressed little girl. But I have never forgotten him, and I have wished often, during the 27 years since then, that I could find him and tell him how grateful I am for what he did for me.