After a very interesting discussion at work today about the discipline we received when we were younger (I am not quite sure how these conversations come about, but I attribute it to high levels of stress and a lack of sleep), we soon realized that we all had very different version of “fair” punishment.
We work in a very diverse team; of us 4, there is a brown person, a black person, a colored (caramel) person and a mix between brown and caramel (disclaimer: this was listed in no specific order and any accusations of racism would will not be entertained). We are also of different ages, we have 2 ladies who I like to call the “old as fucks” as they are over the age of 30 (I will never be accused of being PC).
When I was younger and contrary to my obvious prejudice against old people I am not as young as I pretend or like to thinkthat I am, my brother and I never really got “beaten” there was the odd smack here and there and my brother did get “belt hiding” about twice from what I recall, but it was all pretty legal, no threats of child line or some crazy Banshee type abuse that ever happened upon us. Emotional abuse was quite prevalent but my parents were smart enough to realize that those were the scars that can’t be seen and last far longer (wow that was pretty dark even for me).
The other participants in the conversation have a far darker tale of what they are convinced was discipline, I personally think that this not only borders on child abuse but is full blown lock them up and throw away the keys kind of actual beating.
They told stories of being hit with a shambok and belt. I only discovered what a shambok was when I was about 12 and this was only because my grandparents kept one to keep their dogs “in line” (animal abuse is a completely different kind of sadist action and one of the lesser reasons I kind of super hate my granny). My horror and shock of their tales of how they were disciplined were masked by my laughter as they told it in such a comedic tone. I have to wonder whether they laugh through it now so that they can still hold some semblance of affection fortheir parents, or if they are just now immune to abuse because of the excessive violence. It left a slightly bitter taste in my mouth and my disdain for children was suddenly overcome by the uncomfortable urge to protect them. It was an unwelcome feeling and made me think that if maybe we stopped fucking up our kids and taught them how to communicate with words we would probably have a much better functioning society and economy. (Although trips to Bellagio void of the obligatory brown boy trying to dance with someone else’s girl, and the “eyyou leave my stekkie alone” followed by an air punch, a lot of “hold me backs” and no one really getting hit before the bouncer gets involved and normally throws out the people who were in no way involved; would make my visits to filthy clubs even more pointless and less entertaining than they already are). This by no means is any sort of reflection or thoughts I have about the people I work with because they’re sometimes the only things that get me through the day. However I do hope that someday the generation that trails me would rather have round the cooler talk laughing about how their abuse when they were kids was a time out from Playstation or having to eat vegetables for dinner. I can hear it now.
Young Turk 1: Dude your mom revoked your PS4 access, my mom disconnected the wi-fi, I like couldn’t even tweet about the abuse. I had to send an sms to my friends, I missed out on all the group conversations. I was like a leper the next day at school.
Young Turk 2: Wow, that’s super harsh, you’re fucking with me right?
(The language used in this caption is more indicative of a pair of stoners than young professionals however as stated earlier I amneither as young nor as cool as I pretend to be, and in my mind this how the “kids” talk).
I am not all deep or emotional and am pretty much dead inside but something about the conversation, aside from the side splitting laughter left me with an uneasy feeling.
I like to think that I grew up in a “rough” neighborhood and am totally gangster, but the more I interact with real people the more I realize that maybe I am the big pansy that I am sometimes mockingly accused of being. My years of being an ass to my parents seem all of a sudden unwarranted or at least not as warranted as I thought it may have been.
There still is the time my mom lost the plot and broke all the dishes in the house, wow, ok I’m back to being comfortable with my aloofness towards my parents.
The world is right again and I successfully (kind off) made observations on a very serious issue without totally making light of it. With my birthday in a few months I feel like maybe I officially am becoming an adult. Go T.