Her name, let's say, is Jenny. Now, let me tell you right now, that's not her actual name, but I can't tell you her actual name, out of respect to her privacy. I met her in middle school, in sixth grade. She seemed to be nice, but one of those people with too much energy, and annoyed the heck out of a relentless chain of people. She didn't seem to care about anything from schoolwork to what people thought of her. She hardly ever did her homework, and she didn't listen in class. She would play with those Tomagotchi things in the middle of class, which caused the teacher to be exasperated with her, and not really treat her with affection, naturally. One might assume that she just didn't care about anything, after all these interesting displays of the lack thereof (of care or concern). But when people made fun of her, and many did, and you'd look at her face, at her eyes, you could see the discreet hurt. Jenny wasn't happy. She didn't really know who she was. Typical preteen years, right?
Wrong.
I became friends with Jenny. Not that many people were actually true friends to her, and I can't say I'm proud of myself for anything, including giving her support. I didn't do that enough. But as I got to know her, I learned a lot about her. She didn't have a real father, as her biological father was a horrible man that her mom had to kick out when she was young. Her mother had a boyfriend who acted as her father, but wasn't very nice to her. Her mother wasn't apparently nice to her, either. Jenny could have written a book listing all the verbally abusive statements her mother made. One might say that she was making it up. She was just saying it, trying to get attention. But when you can look at someone and see that their hurting, you know better.
The situation exacerbated from there, too. One day, Jenny wasn't looking too happy. I asked her what was wrong, and the fear in her eyes was haunting. Her report card wasn't good. Perhaps she didn't seem to care; that's what everybody thought. Did they know that when she walked home with a report card that she would get beaten with a paddle? Did they know that every time Jenny screwed up, she had bruises to bear on her back, and on her soul? When her mother hit her, she didn't just hurt her physically. Children, while growing up, seek approval from their parents. They need to feel that they are loved, and that their parent(s) are proud of them. Jenny's mom, I'm sure, loved her to some extent. But she didn't know how to show it. I felt a wave of antipathy for her when she told me of her fear of going home, because she would be beaten.
"Jenny, that is illegal. It's child-abuse. You know what? Your mom could lose custody of you for that. It’s not right.”
She sighed. “So? She doesn’t care.”
I thought a moment. “Jenny, what if you told her? What if you said ‘Mom, I really don’t like it when you hit me and think it’s going to do something. It doesn’t. It hurts me, inside and out. And it’s against the law. If you hit me ever again, I’m going to turn you in.”
Jenny looked at me uneasily. “She’d kill me, Jessica. She’d kill me!”
I thought a moment. Jenny had a point. Did I really know what I was dealing with? Jenny knew her mom, knew what it was like to have a hand raised against her in violence. I didn’t. I didn’t know what it was like to live with that fear, to live with the bruises on my back. I also didn’t know her mother personally, and what actions or words elicited a coercive response.
“Jenny, you know your mother better than I do by far. But I’m assuming it would be pretty stupid to hit you after you threatened to turn her in.”
She looked troubled. The fact that a kid had to worry about such things knotted a rope of morbid reality in my stomach. Why did she have to deal with things like this, and I didn’t? Was that right? Many people didn’t like Jenny. They thought she was annoying, and ditzy. What they didn’t realize was that Jenny would never hurt a fly, and they obviously would smash a vulnerable fly when given the chance. Jenny was vulnerable. She wasn’t privileged to have a loving, supportive family like most kids at my school were. How much we take for granted! So many of the kids in our class were the people who avoided their parents when they showed to their choir concerts, or ordered them to stay away from them when they were with their friends because they were embarrassed to be seen with their parents, their loving, supportive parents. Why on Earth were they born to be privileged, spoiled rotten kids, when Jenny wasn’t? Why was I born to my amazing, supportive, intelligent, compassionate parents, when Jenny wasn’t born into a childhood so serene as mine? Love and support make one strong, give them a strong head-start into life. Those who do not have that are behind, are vulnerable, and easily hurt. That was Jenny. Jenny was vulnerable. She didn’t have any self-confidence, because self-confidence is rooted in the parental support and unconditional love. It is easy to put someone down who doesn’t have much of a self esteem to begin with. When people see others like Jenny walk into a room, the back of their minds note the slouching posture, the indirect eye contact, and the uneasy fidgeting. They become the targets, and the scapegoats. What I wanted to and still want to know is why people like Jenny, who would never hurt anyone are so unlucky, and people like the brats in the popular crowd who have nothing better to do than stomp on the innocent and helpless to keep their pathetic self-esteems up are so lucky.
Looking at Jenny, I could see just how much she was hurting. It wasn’t just the particular situation, but she was not happy. How could she be? She weighed what I’d told her, thought about it. “I don’t know if I can do that. I can try, and I will. Thank you so much for being there for me. You’re such a good friend.”
One thing I’ve noticed is that the people like Jenny are so grateful when you do the smallest of things for them. They aren’t used to people doing nice things for them, for helping them in minute ways. It’s so sad that they don’t expect people to be nice to them. I wasn’t even doing that much for Jenny, yet to her it seemed I was doing everything.
A couple weeks later, I didn’t even think much of what I’d said anymore. Why should Jenny do as I’d suggested? I probably wouldn’t have had the courage to, either. You don’t threaten a woman with a stick. It’s common sense. But Jenny approached me in Language Arts class again, and she looked triumphant.
“I told my mom, Jessica. I told her that if she hit me ever again, I would turn her in. At first, she was really mad at me. She screamed at me and told me that I was the worst daughter in the world to even suggest that, after all the things she’d done for me, and blah blah blah. But she came to me later and told me that if that was the way I felt, so be it. She didn’t want to go to prison, and she would stop. End of story. Thank you!”
I smiled. Wow! “Jenny, that’s great! I can’t believe you did it! That is so awesome!”
Was it over? Not likely. There is no law that says mothers can’t verbally abuse their children. Judging by Jenny’s self-confidence, even after that day for the rest of the school year, I was pretty sure that the verbal abuse did not cease. When we went to highschool, Jenny learned how to seem confident. You could see, though, that it was all an act. She was learning that she was accepted when she at least didn’t reveal her self-esteem level. Perhaps I was insane. Perhaps her mother had stopped, and Jenny had her self esteem. I was just seeing things.
It was schedule pickup for school year 2001-2002. We were to be sophomores, and Jenny and I saw each other at school just a week or so before it started. I saw a woman standing beside Jenny. Though they showed little resemblance, I knew from the fact that she looked very much the same as Jenny’s older sister, that it was her mother. Jenny was acting like her true amiable self, talking to her friends, and being very nice and introducing her mother. When we got to the front of the line, and parent signatures were needed, the lady at the desk asked her, “Is that your daughter? Are you Mrs. Roepke?” (NOTE: That is not her last name)
She nodded, bitterly. “Unfortunately. Jenny, will you please shut up? You’re embarrassing me!” What shocked me beyond words was that she was oblivious to the fact that she was being cruel. She didn’t even realize that it was not something she should say in front of other people, too. She really was embarrassed. Her self-esteem had more than one gap in it as well.
That wasn’t the last time I saw her. The other day, actually, last Thursday, she was the substitute teacher for Mr. Hardy, my math teacher. She came in, and introduced herself as Mrs. Roepke. She seemed amiable enough, and friendly. Then, someone asked her if she was Jenny’s mom. She looked at the floor. “Yes.”
“Wow, that is so awesome!”
“Yeah, that’s what you think,” she said sarcastically.
I watched Mrs. Roepke throughout the class. Her mannerisms reflected that of someone who was very unhappy, with her life and who she was. She was a bright woman, very witty. But she used it in ways to put people down. I noticed that a lot of what she did was kind of like she was setting up an image for herself, trying to impress people, trying to be accepted. When she helped us with our review math problems, and people put them on the board, whenever they got anything wrong, she didn’t handle it like a teacher should. “I don’t know why on Earth you thought it was that. What happened to all your brains?! Did you leave them in San Francisco?!” Then, she would brilliantly reveal the correct answers.
I could hate her. I could say “You know what, bitch? You have thoroughly screwed up your kids. You kicked out Kelly before she even graduated from highschool, and she ended up running away to Florida to get the hell away from you, get a job, and attempt to finish highschool. She was hurting even before you kicked her out. I saw her in the halls, and I saw how lonely she was. Heck, I wasn’t even her friend, but she’d always ask for a hug, and cling to me like her life depended on it. Did you ever offer her your open arms? No, you didn’t. She needed love, and you kicked her out, made her feel worthless. Now she’s gone. Your daughter Jenny has a self esteem at sea-level, and you’ve never taught her what she’s worth. You’ve flattened out her spirit, and now she walks uneasily through the world with no idea what she wants or even that she deserves to get it. Your son runs away from home periodically just so you’ll stop hurting him, even if it’s for a few short hours that he can have to himself to lick his deep wounds that will leave vicious scars. Who knows? One of these days, he might not come back. I don’t blame him. You’re a horrible mother. You lack compassion, and you lack strength. Go to hell.” I could say that. But you know what? After seeing her, after getting to know her a little bit, I just can’t.
It’s a cycle. Mrs. Roepke went through the same thing her children are going through now. Someone hurt her. Someone stomped on her self esteem, and obliterated any spirit she had. She went into the world just as helpless and vulnerable as Kelly is now. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to love, or what it’s like to be loved. “In order to love, you have to love yourself first.” She is suffering. I can’t imagine that the failure of raising her children has helped her self esteem at all. I wish I could help her. But I know very well that it’s too late for anyone to help her at this point. Her wounds are far too deep, and too much salt has been rubbed into them. She is a victim of the malicious cycle of abuse, and her children are the next victims.
Is there any hope for her kids? I think so. I think Jenny has more hope than any of her siblings, however. She still has that spirit. She is so sweet, and hopefully will attract some good people in her life. She needs to get the hell away from her mother when she grows up, just long enough to lick her wounds, and become strong, having developed a good self-esteem. She needs to get away from the bad influences, and she needs to learn from other people what it is like to love and be loved. I wish I could help her. Believe me, I will in every way that I can. I just hope the cycle stops...just stops...
