I suspect many of us are maintaining an emotional dam this week, trying to hold it together to work, or parent, as our country is falling apart. This morning, my dam was shattered by this story of a waitress in Florida who intervened to save a child’s life. She suspected a boy in her restaurant was being abused, based on her observation of his bruised face and body, his disturbing thinness, and the way he was treated by his parents, who refused him food while the rest of the family ate.
The waitress surreptitiously flashed the boy a note, asking if he needed help. He initially refused, as abused children often do, then, miraculously, changed his mind and signaled “yes”. She called the police, and the children were ultimately removed from the parents’ custody. They had been starving and beating the child for weeks. My breath was taken away by how easily this story could have gone the other way, if not for the courage of both the waitress and the boy himself. The family could have finished, left the restaurant, and this child would have certainly died without this one woman’s intervention.
This story resonated with me because decades ago, in Syracuse, NY, I lived in the top floor of a duplex with my then-fiancé. The bottom floor was occupied by people that I never saw, but often heard. The screams and crying of children, who were obviously locked in a room or closet, banging on the door to be released, often wafted upstairs. The sounds were both unmistakable and unbearable. I told my boyfriend that I was going to call the police. He urged me “not to get involved.” “They’ll know it was us who reported them. And what if you are mistaken?”, he said. He was a risk-averse person, raised by a seemingly kind, conservative, corporate “great guy” and a meticulous stay-at-home Mom. I had heard his father on many occasions advise his sons to “just keep their heads down, and do their job.” His family occupied a pristine home, with tight protocols for just about everything, and a horror of messiness in any form.
I couldn’t fathom pretending not to hear the cries from below, and, ignoring my fiancé’s advice, called the police. My own early experience with irrational violence had taught me the futility of engaging with them directly, but I was determined to do what I could. I have no idea what actually happened after…
