Don’t Stare at a Dwarf (as taught by Dad)

Dad had a short fuse. Or so my elder siblings told me as they begrudged me their fact that he’d mellowed out by the time I came along. I don’t know about that. I can remember his fat hand against my butt cheeks when I’d done something out of line. Though for some reason now I can’t, conveniently, remember any of the reasons why.

He must have already begun to mellow out the day I took a straight pin I’d found on the floor and stuck it directly into his stomach. Perhaps the bourbon and coke in his hand kept him from reacting quickly. This isn’t my own memory. It’s another Older Sibling Myth told around the proverbial campfire. They like to tell the one about how I took a pot and hit my brother over the head with it when he wouldn’t turn the channel to Sesame Street. This is an untruth.

It was a skillet.

Dad may have “mellowed out” by the time I’d arrived singing “Surprise, surprise, surprise!” But he did discipline. He was a paper salesman (does anyone do that anymore?) and would take me to printing companies. I can still smell the oil of the printing presses.

Dad and Me

Dad had a colleague and friend called Jack. But everyone called him Little Jack. Because of just that. He was a Little Person.

Dad introduced me. I recall being approximately five at the time. And the exact same height as Little Jack.

Dad smiled, “Fleur, this is Little Jack.” I looked at this clearly full grown man and could not comprehend how he could be my height. Instead of saying, “hello”, I just stood there trying to figure this little guy out.

I cocked my head to the right.

And immediately felt my entire five year old body yanked into the air and around the nearest pillar.  (It was a pillar. I remember clearly there being a pillar.)

There was a gigantic pointer finger in my face.

Dad stared directly into my eyes.

“Don’t.   Ever.   Stare.”

The pointer finger froze. Just at the end of my five year old nose. Time stopped.

And then Dad was done.

Stare? I pretended I was legally blind for the next twenty-four hours.

Last week I babysat a little boy, Stevie, about four years old. We walked down the sidewalk in Queens.

We passed a dwarf.

Stevie stopped. Stevie stared.

I gently guided him forward, my hand on his shoulder, calmly explaining that there are all different shapes and sizes in the world.

He didn’t hear a thing I said. He was just trying to figure out how a grown man could be not much taller than himself. Or maybe he was just thinking, “different.” Or maybe,  “cookie,” as he thinks “cookie” a lot.

Stevie will stare again.

So … what? Am I to use Dad’s approach? Granted, Stevie is not my kid. But I can’t see myself putting my finger in any kid’s face, let alone one the ones that I know.

But I never stared again.

Is it me? Or a generational thing? Growing up in the South? Did I miss something and it’s okay to stare now? Or do we just pretend it’s not happening… what do we do when the head cocks to the right?

I may not remember why Dad’s hand ever crossed my ass but I do remember why that finger was in my face.

And frankly, I don’t begrudge him one bit.

Advertisements

5 thoughts on “Don’t Stare at a Dwarf (as taught by Dad)

  1. Pingback: Don’t Stare at a Dwarf – Lessons From My Dad — The Good Men Project

  2. I too was raised in the South and I got my share of ass whippings; I fully deserved 110% of them. I was not a bad kid, but I was definitely a kid who needed deft management, because my will and ego were both adult-sized.

    My mom hit for distance, while my dad hit for speed: With him, three swats and we were out. With mom, she knew she wasn’t as strong so she’d whale away until her arm was near falling off.

    The ratio of dad-to-mother spankings was roughly one to forty. I had a high pain threshold and bounced back quickly. Then when I was five they figured out the ‘talkin’-to’ and I was screwed. My dad required less words overall.

    I’m glad I found this website.

    • Thanks for your comment Jett. Yes there’s definitely a generational difference with the corporal punishment. Glad you survived. Even so, would you or do you discipline the same way or do you think it’s time to let go of the whippings?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s