What’s below is a story about, among other things, the hope that fuels my writing.
Katharine and I had just run to the park and back, which meant we had most certainly earned a pint of Cherry Garcia. As we finished at the check-out aisle, we heard what sounded like a stampede breaking out on the roof. Looking up, we saw a torrential rain pounding on the skylight.
We wanted to stay dry, so we joined a small group of others in that space between the actual store and the parking lot, where there isn’t AC and a bunch of carts and maybe a stand of cookies or a stacked boxes of soda sits between two sets of glass doors.
Next to us was a plump man in a brown shirt who looked like he was in his early 50s. Another guy, closer to our age, wore headphones and athletic clothes, and he had a build that suggested he tended to run farther and faster than us. There was also an elderly couple who, it heartened me to see, had a pack of Nestle Drumsticks in their cart.
There we were, strangers gathered together, waiting out the downpour.
Soon, the automatic doors slid open and three more people walked in from outside: a little boy, a little girl, and a father. They were soaked, and the dad held a small bag from the store across the street in one hand. The little girl just sat in her stroller and cooed.
The little boy, on the other hand, was sopping but unfazed.
He kept cycling through three behaviors:
First, he would dance in circles.
Next, he would shout with glee.
And finally, he would jump up and down, laughing.
Then he’d repeat.
Here he was, a victim of the very drenching the rest of us were so determined to avoid, but too busy with his own delight to care. “I’m alive and I like it!” That’s what I was hearing him say, just not with words.
Katharine and I smiled. Brown shirt guy did too, along with the runner and the older folks with the ice cream cones. Everyone seemed to appreciate levity.
Everyone except the boy’s dad, anyway.
He kept cycling through his own three behaviors:
First, he would look up yell. “Cut it out!” “Stop it!” “Quit playing, come here!”
Next, he would scowl, as if to let the child know that consequences lie in store.
And finally, he would stare into his phone, eyes glazed over as he scrolled.
Then he’d repeat.
The boy kept moving, shuffling around and waving his arms. But each time his dad came around to the yelling part, his motion deadened a bit. Happiness kept wanting to erupt, and he kept working to hold it back, and each time, a hurt frown would flash across his face.
How this child’s story ended, I can’t say. As soon as the rain let up, Katharine and I made a dash for it, and after we got home and grabbed towels and hung our clothes up to dry, the night faded into Ben & Jerry’s and a movie.
But I’ve been thinking about that kid for months.
He was so free, so full of life, so ready to express his zeal. The only thing he did to anyone else was make us smile. Why was his dad so convinced something needed to be tamped down? What was that kid doing that was so unacceptable?
Of course, the father had his reasons. Everyone does, even if nobody else gets to know them. Besides, no matter what was below the surface, the simple fact that this man had two young kids with him is enough to tell me that he was feeling taxed in some way or another. I’m eight weeks into fatherhood, and I’ve had more than my fill of moments that would be far harder if they were happening out in public. Can confirm: parenting is hard.
Still. If I’ve learned anything from the times I myself have mistreated others, it’s that a happy, healthy person is slow to squash another’s joy, especially a child’s. That father’s scorn may have been directed outward, but it was expressing something from inside. I imagine that what I saw there in the grocery store was a snapshot of a scar that stretches into both the past and the future.
Which brings me to the point of why I’ve written all this, and really, why I write at all:
What life are we preparing for our children? Will their inheritance be pain, or will it be love?
For that boy at the grocery store, and for my daughter, and for their children and all the children to come: I hope for a world where more kids are free to keep dancing…
…and, just maybe, where more dads feel free to join in.
Love this piece. I have 2 grown children, and I love to dance- in church, in the car, in line in stores. I’m thankful my parents raised us in an encouraging, positive, think for yourself, enjoy life and those around you, environment. I know you and Katharine will do the same.
I am so impressed with how observant you are. You have a way of understanding the thoughts, realities and the emotional process of peoples actions/feelings. Lets all DANCE a lot more frequently and freely.