It was beautiful outside last Wednesday, with the warmest sun we’ve had since at least November. I took the morning off to go sit in the park. Left my phone at home, stopped in for two pastries and a cappuccino on the way, and laid out a blanket where I could soak it all in. The spot I picked faced south, with a view out over the river toward industrial chimneys with smoke and flame billowing out. To my right, on a high-up floor of an apartment building that used to be a tobacco warehouse, I noticed a person and their dog sitting out on a patio; I wondered if they noticed me, too. Birds skidded into landings in the water below, and beyond that cars sped along I-95 while the downtown skyline presided over a mounting weekday bustle.
There was maybe 30 feet of grass between me and the top of a staircase that runs down toward the river. It’s long and steep, a popular workout destination. Today, there was a skinny man in a 10k shirt and tights and a white hat; two firemen in shorts and t-shirts with oxygen packs on their backs and sandbags in their arms; and a mother with headphones on, all making their way up and down, up and down.
I knew she was a mother because after an ascent, she stood at the top and waved in my direction. I was confused at first—this wasn’t anyone I knew—but I understood when two small children toddled out of the field behind me and toward her waiting arms. They were the same size, no older than two-and-a-half. Their faces were identical too, with hair and clothes the only indicators that one was male and the other was female. Behind them strode another sibling, older by a couple years, along with a stout man in khaki shorts. Dad, by the looks of it, seeming content with kid duty while mom worked out.
The woman crouched down and the two smaller children pushed up into her body. After the embrace had run its course, the adults chatted briefly. Then mom started into another descent and dad and the kids walked back toward the field.
I turned back to my book, but before I did I noticed that the kids looked joyful, especially the twins. They smiled. They laughed. They shined, in the way that all but the most unlucky two-and-a-half-year-olds do.
.
A little while later, after another summit, mom looked out and waited. The whole clan was back in my periphery a few seconds later. One of the twins, the boy, was edging slightly ahead of the pack. His face held an excited grin, and his focus was narrowed. Only a playground’s length of sidewalk, angled just slightly downhill in its run alongside a grass-specked cobblestone road that I suspect has long been out of commission, stood between him and mom. All he needed to do to reach her was move. All he had to do to reach her fast was speed up.
He pushed toward high gear as quickly as he could, shifting from impending meander to jolly trot to his best attempt at full on sprint. As fast as his little legs could turn, his arms waving haphazardly in a manner that in no way served his desire for speed, he began to close the gap.
Twenty grown-up paces later, his legs still fumbling to find a stride, doubt crept into his grin. The tilt of his mass, the flail of his arms, the tug of gravity– it was all dropping, swelling, pulling with a force that was beyond him.
Suddenly, I was back in a memory. When I was a kid, I watched a friend wreck his bike on Reardon’s Ridge, a giant hill in the back of our neighborhood. Before he actually swerved off the road, flew over the handlebars, and skidded the width of the driveway, I could see his equilibrium unraveling— boy and machine careening downward, wheels shaking and pedals rattling, the nuts and bolts themselves on the verge of bursting loose.
Here at the park, knees and hands smacked the concrete. He nicked his chin, too.
The boy burst into tears. Loud ones. Wails, flowing from his legs and palms out into the world. The day had changed sounds.
.
Dad was there in a hurry, dutiful and ready for the job in front of him. He scooped the boy up, first onto his feet to dust him off and give him a once-over, then up into his arms. He brushed his son’s hair back, held him close, and rocked back and forth. The child shrunk against a backdrop of broad shoulders and barrel chest.
The boy continued to moan, his vocal chords giving shape to the sharp burning in his body. The energy of the fall—complete in its shock and pain, full in its volume—had not yet run its course.
And just like that, soothing took a back seat. The father’s objective evolved. There was a new end game, and it was clear, and it was to get his son to make less noise.
Shhh, he said.
Shhh, again and again.
The boy kept on though, his crying still wringing itself out. And with each moment, the dad’s efforts to make it stop grew more urgent.
Shhh, louder this time.
Shhh!
He was resolute. His focus, his aim, his intention—they were sharp. Fixed and unquestioning.
Shhhhhh!
Then, a different tactic: he lowered the boy down, drew him close, and said something into his ear. What, I have no idea. I could only see that it was stern.
I suppose it worked. The crying stopped. From somewhere deep inside himself, the child conjured a force of will, fired just the right muscle group, and wrestled himself into near-silent submission. Whatever exertion was needed to pin his feeling down and hold it in place, he found it. Only sniffles sneaked out. You could see that he was welling, brimming just below the surface. But he made no more noise.
.
Here’s my question–
and really,
I’m asking:
Can anyone tell me why that little boy needed to be quiet?
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A few notes
Once a month, I host a group of guys who gets together to chat about the definitions of masculinity we’ve inherited and how they affect our day to day. The aim is to grow in our understandings of ourselves and how we show up in the world. If you’d like to join the discussion, you’re welcome. Just shoot me an email.
Here are two other pieces of my writing that feel linked to the story above: The Truth About Me and The Crying Game.
I’ve got writing groups starting up next week: one on Mondays and one on Fridays. Personally, writing has revealed parts of me, big and small, that I wouldn’t otherwise know about. If that sounds like your cup of tea, I’d love to have you.
One more thing
Publishing my work takes time, energy, and dedication. I offer it freely, but I also hope to earn an income from it. If you’re able to support my effort, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.
Much love,
Jonathan
Learning how to cope with pain in a way that doesn't intrude on others is skill that we teach to our children. Also, proper assessment of the pain at hand is part of the equation. Yes it hurts, but really, the kid is going to be ok. Shit happens to all of us. If we all burst out in loud cries every time we bumped ourselves, the world would not be very quiet.
Such. Good. Writing.
Thank you again, Jonathan!