Seen, loved, cherished

One weekday, my 9 year old son came home 20 minutes later than he usually did. He dumped his school things on the kitchen floor, and said angrily, “They didn’t wait for me. No one even noticed I was not there. I walked home all by myself.” 

Visibly upset, he told me this was not the first time he walked home alone. His good friends live on the other side of the school and turned right after they all crossed the overpass. My son turned left along with the kids who would ignore him and chat amongst themselves. “It’s like that’s 天国 (heaven)  over there with the nice kids and this is 地獄 (hell) where we live. I have to go to 地獄 with the mean kids.” 

“But you know how the best swords in the world are made right? They have to go through the hot, hot 地獄 fire. You…” and I pointed meaningfully to him, “… are the sword.” He smiled at the metaphor, but said, “But they’re so mean!”

“I know… it does sound very lonely,” I said. From my son’s description of what happened that day, it seemed that he, whether consciously or unconsciously, held himself back at school, slowly putting his things together because he knew what was coming.

This was perhaps the reason why he seemed to be more defiant than usual at home, acting out and being particularly disagreeable and uncharitable towards his siblings. Home was the only safe place he felt he could disperse all that anger at being excluded.

Philippa Perry, in her book The Book You Wish Your Parents Had Read wrote “whatever age your child is, they are liable to remind you, on a bodily level of the emotions you went through when you were at a similar stage.” And boy, oh boy, did my son’s loneliness remind me of my own at that age. If my son moved slowly and held himself back, 9 year old me pretended to be engrossed in some school work or library book or even feel a compulsion to say the rosary in the school chapel — anything to appear that I did not care about the company of my peers. I know deep in my bones how painful loneliness can feel.

My heart broke for my son. 

I felt helpless. All I could do was listen to him and contain his feelings.

The next morning, I watched him walk off to school. He hung back behind the other kids in his line, dragging his feet. The kids in front did not even glance back to see if he was following. My already broken heart broke some more. 

I thought and thought about him all day. 

Then a Wild Woman idea occurred to me. 

At exactly 3:50 in the afternoon, I went to the school yard and watched. Some kids clustered, waiting. Other kids walked off, some in groups, some in pairs.

I spotted my son walking fast with another boy. I ran up and caught up with them.

“Hey, what’s up?” I said.

“I’m chatting with S-kun right now. We usually chat until the overpass. His house is right beside the overpass,” my son said quite animatedly. It sounded like they were having a fun discussion.

“So, you wouldn’t want to walk with me to the bridge and stop by the festival and get some samosas?” I asked. There was a festival going on in our neighborhood and the route I was suggesting was not a school-approved route, unless the student was accompanied by a guardian.

The idea interested him.  “Okay.” He said goodbye to his friend and we walked off.

He seemed amused to be taking a unapproved route home. I asked what he and his friend S-kun were talking about. “Minecraft,” he said. And he proceeded to barrage me with everything he knew about Minecraft. The thing is, we do not own a Nintendo Switch. My son has, maybe, played with the device a total of two times. Ever. But he knew everything about Minecraft.

He told me how in Minecraft world, you have make your own glass from sand, and that his friend used glass to design a bathroom. “So people could see you when you sit down and poop?” I asked. We had a good laugh about that. 

As we approached the festival grounds and there were more people milling about, he let me hold his hand, something we haven’t done in a while, not the least because he is growing older and is embarrassed by a parent holding his hand. I suddenly felt a tinge of nostalgia and I told him so.

From istockphoto.com

“This is so 懐かしい. Remember when you were going to nursery school and I used to want to bike to get us there fast, but you insisted on walking slowly and we would walk together hand in hand?,” I said, fighting the lump in my throat.

“I remember that!” he said, laughing at the memory.

I held his hand even though there were fewer people and really had no reason to.

We caught the tail end of a monkey performance (pun intended), bought samosas, and then made our way home. He was still bubbling with all the things he wanted to share with me about Minecraft. For the first time in a long time, I really listened instead of hmm-hmm-ing my way out of his boyish chatter. I asked him loaded questions like whether in the Minecraft world, you can create friends, or whether you had to live with other people you might not like — the undertones of my questions were completely missed — but mostly I just listened. It was actually quite fascinating and I made a mental note to search if it was possible to play some free version of Minecraft online.

As we approached home, I said to him, “That was really nice. I am glad we did that.”

“Yeah, that was very nice,” he agreed. “We should do that again.”

When we got home, he seemed more generous and accommodating towards his sister. 

I cannot fix the meanness of the other kids, but I can hold his hand, walk with him, and remind him of this safe haven where he is seen, loved and cherished.