Go Back, Daughter

My little girl is out. She is crying on my sleeve. Bawling her eyes out, threatening to denude me with her sobbing. She's afraid of your little girl, who is crying on your sleeve, bawling her eyes out, drenching your Sunday's best. I look down at my little one, I massage her neck, pat her head, tell her, "Go back inside. Stop crying. The adults are speaking. Go back inside. Dry your eyes. Go to mother." She does not budge. It gets worse. Now she's screaming. Pointing at your little girl. And screaming. Tears streaming down her contorted face. Your little girl is also screaming. Pointing at my little girl. Their words are not words anymore. Only noise. It's so loud, we can't hear ourselves think. "Go back inside, daughter", you say, gently pushing your girl toward the front door. "Let daddy talk. This is daddy business. Go find your mother." I'm embarrassed. Embarrassed about my little crying girl. I will not have anyone thinking I mistreat my child. You're embarrassed. You also don't want to make a scene. Neither of our little girls leave. Neither of them stop screaming. They're ripping our shirt-sleeves off with their tugging, with their weeping, their primal howl. I start screaming at you. "Shut your little girl up," I scream, "She's making my girl cry." "Your girl's pointing at my girl!" you scream, "I will not stand for it!" "I will not have you terrorizing my family!" "Fuck your family!" "Fuck my family? Fuck yours!" "There, there little girl, go back inside." "Run to mama, girl." Both of us take a strained timeless breath and look up at the heavens. They are implacable. They are not our cheerleaders. We both, at the same time, silently, to ourselves, plead for guidance. There's no instructional manual for parents. We're all alone.

And then, Jane Elliott, 3rd grade teacher from Randall, Iowa, stops dead in the street. She looks at us, hears our little girls screaming, and advances her step. She approaches, at first cautiously, and then with purpose. Our little girls see her. Their crying stops instantly, as if a switch were flipped.

"You are only human," Jane says to you and I, "Your little girls are only human. This world is frightening, and we just continue to make it more and more frightening. That's what terrifies your little girls and launches them into uncontrollable fits of despair. We must listen to their screams. It is the only language left in this world - the scream, the discomfort, the gut-wrenching exhaustion. Listen to them, but do not console them. They will not be consoled. They hurt, they are in pain, and no amount of consolation will erase this. Listen to them. Teach them. Lead them by example. The example of love, of community. No little girl will respond to anything but. We are not altogether different, you and me, me and you, all of them, all the little girls in the world, all the would-be parents in the world. We share the common language of scream. In this, and only this, we build community. The only way we heal is if we all of us scream away the pain, scream it away together, the pain of being human, of not knowing, of never knowing how to parent our little children. Let's all raise our voices, every single person in the world. Let's dance and scream and raise our fists and belt our lungs out. The world will never be safe until every private lawn transforms into one great big scream, one great big lawn. There's only one lawn in this world. The lawn of scream."

Jane Elliott, 3rd grade teacher from Randall, Iowa, begins to walk away. She stops. Suddenly she turns around, blows us a kiss, then flips us the bird, laughing.

We look at each other. We look at our little girls. They are drying their eyes. I immediately think: "No cornfed broad from Nebraska or whereever is going to tell me how to raise my child." You also immediately think: "No cornfed broad from Nebraska or whereever is going to tell me how to raise my child." We each walk toward our private front porches, silently, pensive, a little hostile, darting back a look as if to say we're both of us in control. As we each enter our private homes, our little girls clutch at our sleeves, wiping their snotty noses on them.

That night we lie awake in bed until sunrise. The next night we don't sleep either. Now it's our 14th day of insomnia. Simultaneously, though apart, in separate beds, but with one thought, we wonder what led us so astray, and how long it will take for the world to end.

Our little girl can't sleep either. It's 11 pm. She opens the door cautiously. Mommy's soundly sleeping. Our little girl climbs gently into our side of the bed. She curls up in our arms, her tear-soaked face presses against our breast. "Daddy," she says, "I can't sleep." "It's alright, little one. You're alright. We're alright," we say. A tear rolls down our cheek. And then another.

3 part interview with the inestimable Jane Elliott:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3