A thread about cyclical hatred. I was recently in rural Virginia, which has historically been a solid red region of the country. The town I was visiting is overwhelmingly poor and white. Trump signs were on almost every lawn and casual racism is an everyday occurrence there.
I happened to meet a little girl of eight years old on my visit. Upon first glance, she was a badly behaved child. She was clearly rebellious, lied compulsively and was always in trouble for fighting with other kids. But I took some time to sit and talk with her.
She told me transparently made-up stories of how she beat up a teacher who was mean to her and declared dramatic martial victories over her schoolyard nemeses. It was clear to me that she was in a lot of pain and acting out, so I didn’t confront her about her lies.
I asked her why she wanted to hurt other people so much. “I won’t ever let anyone beat me down again,” she said. “I hurt them before they can hurt me.”
I asked her who beat her down. “My mom is a drug addict and my dad is a drug addict who used to beat us both down,” she answered quietly. I could tell she wasn’t lying about that. I said I was sorry that happened to her because it wasn’t fair and she deserved better.
“It must have felt awful to be beat down by your dad,” I said. “But you know, when you beat down other people, they feel awful just like you did.” She thought about that for a few seconds. “I guess that’s true,” she said. “If it hurt me, it must hurt them too.”
We played together for about an hour. She told me about her imaginary friends and continued to make up stories, but in a fantastical way I thought was healthy for a kid her age, so I played along, encouraging her imagination instead of telling her she was lying.
“Who’s your best friend?” I asked her at one point. “You are,” she said shyly. “I wish you could stay here with me.” “I wish I could too, sweetheart,” I replied. “But I have to be going soon. I hope we get to see each other again.”
We went back to the house where her grandparents were. “Get over here,” her grandmother yelled at her angrily. “I hope she wasn’t bothering you,” her grandfather told me. “She can be a lot of trouble.” I said no, that we had a lovely time. Then I left.
It occurred to me that I was probably the first person in a long time, maybe ever, to sit with that little girl and treat her with kindness, compassion and understanding instead of shouting, punishing or hitting her. I remembered something I told her as we were playing.
“I know you probably won’t remember this,” I said to her as we sat atop a bunk bed in the guest house. She was showing me a lamp that made stars dance across the ceiling when you turned off the lights. “But I just want to tell you something.”
“When you grow up and have kids of your own someday, try not to beat them down when you get mad, because they’ll feel just like you do now,” I said. She nodded solemnly. “I’ll remember,” she told me.
I don’t know if she will remember or not. Probably not. She’s only eight, after all. But in that moment, it really hit home that hatred is cyclical and hereditary. Children inherit it from their parents and pass it along to their kids. It’s not always a choice people make.
I want to look upon hateful people with compassion instead of living in a perpetual state of outrage that they aren’t better. Most of them are just in a great deal of pain and reflecting their hurt and inadequacy onto the world. I won’t always succeed, but I will do my best. End.
