“WHATEVER-NESS” MAY BE THE WORST FORM OF ABUSE

When you think about it, a “high-end outlet mall” is an oxymoron, or at least it attracts a clientele that defies categorization. Probably it is best for us to simply marvel, “What a country!” Newly arrived immigrants, compulsive bargain hunters and folks blue of collar or red of neck can purchase deeply discounted Armani suits and Gucci handbags, then stop right next door for a slurpy, Cinnabon and a gag gift at Spencer’s.

Moreover, attire is no indicator of class distinction. My own wardrobe on that Sunday, just north of Atlanta, is a grubby tee shirt and tattered jeans, while shoppers presumably of lesser socioeconomics are still dressed in their going-to-church finery.

I guess that the abuse I witnessed is also immune from class distinction.

As Linda continues her perusal of Neiman’s discount haute couture, I retreat to the food court for a Coke and mid-afternoon crash. Now, you and I have witnessed many a frustrated parent give a rambunctious child a yank or a scolding in a crowded mall. Maybe we are jaded, but we would hardly consider that abuse. One would hope, on the other hand, that even in our largely indifferent culture, someone(s) would come to defend a child being beaten senseless by his/her mother. Yet, I beheld an episode of equally heinous abuse while onlookers, including my own now guilt-ridden self, did nothing but keep to ourselves.

An older and younger woman (mother and daughter?) are arguing at 120 decibels. Cursing, in each other’s face, poking, shoving, screaming accusations and threats. As the battle rages one’s cell phone rings, they pause briefly, the younger woman answers, and then whoever is on the other end of the line is drawn into the battle, too. An ugly, ugly scene.

And, through it all, a little blond-haired girl, no more than seven, stands by helplessly. Oh, she begs her mother to stop. Then a moment of bewilderedness crosses her face, perhaps shame, as well. Then she tugs at her mother for attention. Finally she resigns to that half-blasé, half-frustrated look that says, “Whatever.” Clearly, she has seen it all before. And again. And again.

Meanwhile, I sit there like a sociologist, a detached observer, not a participant. Time and again, I almost step forward to intervene. What stops me? Perhaps an edge of fear that the rancor would be redirected toward me, or that I would exacerbate the situation, or turn a “scene” into a major conflagration. I cannot deny, however, that the larger measure of my reluctance is a product of the venerated ethos of not butting into other people’s business, looking on with slack-jawed indifference, not violating the privity of intra-family squabbles.

Before my ambivalence dissipates, the incident is over. The younger throws a package at the older, screams a final epithet, yanks her daughter and is on her way. The incident is over. The problem remains. It has festered in my head ever since. Someone should have intervened. I should have intervened. Not for the sake of the two foul-mouthed cat-fighting adults, but for the defenseless, once-innocent little child who had seen more than enough and had presumably seen it all before. She had had the inalienable right to an innocent childhood ripped from her, replaced by a model of base, violent adulthood, forced into a pitiful role reversal as parent to two miscreant children. And no one seemed to give a rip, much less from the womb that once swaddled her.

Had I gotten their ear, what would I have said? I would have told them to stop it for the sake of the child. I would have told them that they are searing indelible impressions in her delicate soul. I would have told them that their child deserves an unfettered childhood, or at least one not stamped out by people who are charged to nurture and protect her. I would have told them to look at her pathetic helplessness, the hollow eyes, as vacant as the eyes of a child starving in Ethiopia. I would have told them that whatever justifiable anger the two of them shared, the real harm was to their once pure, innocent child.

And, they would have probably told me to f*** off.

But, I should have told them anyway. We should have told them. For, if nothing rubbed off on them, perhaps for a critical nanosecond something would have rubbed off on that innocent little girl. Maybe she would unconsciously absorb that there is a different way, that some grownups protect children even at their own peril, that adults are to be their child’s safe haven, not their downfall, that kindness and gentleness might teach her not to replicate this horrific abuse toward her own children.

Her struggle with them to stop devastated me. Likewise her embarrassment and her frustration. But, I will beyond all never forget that resigned look of “Whatever” that crossed her face, as she bowed to a reality beyond her power to change. And I, as you, should tearfully confess that while the abusive language and posturing came from her kin, her benign expression of “Whatever” is simply a reflection of our own indifferent “whatever-ness,” the most heinous abuse of all.