Where are the Bad Guys

So there I was hanging out with my favorite dining hall worker, killing some time. As a Binghamton University student life can get a bit boring waiting for your food to be ready. Therefore, I typically spend time talking to an assortment of dining hall workers. They never fail to share a fun and slightly illegal story with me.

Catching up on life, my favorite worker explained that she was having continued issues with her daughter. Apparently, this six-year-old squirt already learned the words “fat bitch”. And between punching holes in the walls of the house and stabbing her brother’s eye with a fork, the kid seemed like a true monster. But rather quickly I began to wonder how this monster came to be.

Following up on the shocking story with a few questions, I began to understand the source of all this chaos. As the worker answered my questions, it became clear that the mother was not a ‘mom’ for her daughter until the child’s grandmother passed away. Before the grandmother’s death, the child was essentially raised by her grandmother, not her mother. It was not until the grandmother’s death that the dining hall worker began the full-time career of raising her daughter. This, as you can probably imagine, led to a number of issues. In many respects, the child had lost her “adopted mom” and was replaced by her biological mother.

Once that was established, I assumed the portrait was complete, but I quickly found out there was more to be painted. After asking if the worker ever disciplined her daughter, I was baffled to hear her response. She responded with, “Hell yeah I do! I beat the shit out of her! I hit her with a belt, but the belt may not be hard enough because she still doesn’t listen to me.”

It took me a second to collect my thoughts. I had always admired this dining hall worker. Yeah, she had a short temper, but you could tell she had a big heart. She cares for the students, each and every one of them. Between the special meals she would optionally make to add to our choices, and the happy face that she seemed to always wear, I found her to be a great worker. But on top of that, I found her to be a great person. She just made me happy and I enjoyed talking to her. Anyone who can do that deserves at least a little recognition.

But there I was, stuck between two worlds. Was she the hero worker who always brightened my dinners or the evil beater of her child? I concluded at that moment she was in fact both, and in better words, she was neither. She was no hero and she was no villain. She was just a confused parent. One that wanted the best for her kid, but had no idea what she was doing.

I looked at her for a little bit and offered an alternative. I don’t know if it is the best one, and I didn’t know if it would work. But what I do know is that I had to offer some alternative, some other way for her to raise her child.

I asked if she loved her child, and she looked at me, almost hurt, and said of course. Then I asked if she wanted the best for her daughter, and again, she said of course. Taking a moment before responding, I said, “Then show it, show her”. I told her to hug her daughter when she screamed. I told her to hold her child with care as she attempted to blow another hole in the wall. And most of all, I told her to never hit her child again.

Sometimes all we need to do is show a little love. It was obvious that the worker’s child was hurting inside. And it was even more obvious that the worker had no idea what to do about it. The worker later admitted that she was in fact beaten as a child, and therefore knew nothing else. It worked for her, so it only made sense to her that it would work on her daughter. But in reality, it wasn’t working, it was just hurting.

Ever since our talk, she has stopped beating her six-year-old daughter. She did what I asked, and both she and her husband decided together to try this new idea. They replaced their fists with hugs and held her just tight enough as their daughter misbehaved. They showed her that they loved her in a healthy, kind way. One that they had not experienced from their parents, but a better one nonetheless.

The last time I talked to the worker she explained that her daughter was doing great. She wasn’t lashing out like she used to. She stopped punching and hurting through her pain. The worker explained that she was just overall happier. The worker’s daughter was still hurting, but now, for the first time in her life, she had a healthy outlet. And with that outlet will hopefully come a mostly functional and restored family.

My friend, the dining hall worker, is not a bad person. Beating her child with a belt is a bad thing to do, but sometimes people do bad things with the best intentions. For the most part, there are no bad people, just misinformed people. They are just people who think they know what is best because the worst is all they were taught. Because the worst is what made them themselves, and now they act as they know how.

There is a way to change this, but judging is not one of them. I could have judged my friend and ended the conversation. I could have walked away, or yelled at her, or maybe even try to get her fired. But I did none of that. I just showed her compassion and care. I don’t think this method works for everyone, which is what makes this a bit tricky, but just because it doesn’t work every time doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be attempted when the time feels right.

Sometimes we just need to show others the way, not in a belittling way, but in a caring way. In a way where their struggle is partially yours as well. Most of the bad people are instead hurt people, and no different than someone with a broken arm, we should help them heal.