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Debbie… and millions
like her
That’s My Opinion
By Bob Robinson
Two-year-old Debbie surveyed her surroundings with a sense of calm. It
was quiet... she was alone.
On the other side of the room was the box with the funny pictures on
it. It made her laugh. Sometimes. It had big people on it now...
grownups. She looked away. She couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Next to it is the couch Daddy lies on when he’s looking at the box.
Debbie liked the couch. Daddy’s always nice when he’s on it. He hugs
her and plays with her. Sometimes he even lets her sit with him if
she’s real quiet.
Yes, she liked the couch.
She didn’t like the chair so much, though. If Mommy sits there while
Daddy’s on the couch, they start yelling at each other.
Debbie didn’t like it when Mommy and Daddy yelled at each other. She’d
try to hide, hoping they would forget about her.
Debbie saw her doll in the corner of the room, by the door, where Daddy
had thrown it. He said she was a bad girl and took it from her.
But she’d stopped crying. She was a good girl now. She finally decided
it was all right if she got her dolly.
Debbie tried to stand, but the pain in her leg and back was so great
that she had to sit down again. She looked at the red stripe that
started on the calf of her leg and worked its way up, in stripes, to
her side. She couldn’t see the one on her back, where protective skin
had been torn in places from her backbone.
It hurt. She wanted to cry again, but she’d learned that it only made
Daddy mad, so she didn’t.
Instead, she crawled across the room to her doll.
Comforting the doll made Debbie feel better. Dolly was a good girl.
Just like Debbie. She sat quietly for a long time. She almost went to
sleep.
It was the dull ache in her stomach that kept her awake. She was
hungry. When the hunger pains finally overcame the discomfort of
moving, she managed to get to her feet.
She limped across the room to the refrigerator on the opposite wall,
not quite managing to hold back her tears.
She opened the door and pulled out an open can. Not wanting to make the
painful trip back into the living room, she sat on the floor and
started eating. It tasted awful but it stopped the ache in her stomach.
Debbie didn’t hear the front door of her apartment open. She didn’t
hear her name being called by the horrified officer who had come to get
her after a neighbor had reported that her parents hadn’t been home in
two days...
She didn’t hear him because she couldn’t.
The officer picked up a blanket from the floor and went over to the
little girl. He gently took the can of dog food out of her hands and
set it on the floor. He wrapped the blanket around her, carefully
trying not to rub against the welts on her body.
There was nothing he could do to cover the bruises on her face and
neck, the matted blood around her ears and in her hair.
He hoped the night air wouldn’t hurt too much…
I remember when I was in the fifth grade in a small community in New
York… occasionally a classmate would come to school and stand most of
the day. Because he couldn’t sit. That was in the fifties. Despite the
social mandate against corporal punishment, I still hear about “the
belt” and other instruments of pain to keep a child “in line.”
I’m not an opponent of spanking. I got a few and they didn’t hurt my
psyche, and I usually (but not always) learned from the experience.
Besides, Dad’s hand always hurt as much as my tail end, so the
punishment was used appropriately and judiciously. Fair’s fair.
We have declared war on physical abuse. Schools and health care
providers are more aware than they used to be, and state law now holds
them responsible to report incidents of suspected child abuse.
Regardless, it still happens. Far too many cases surface as parents or
others stand before a judge.
Sexual predators have also been given notice that their perversions are
not acceptable in today’s society. And we are slowly becoming more
aware of the predator within the family structure.
But the one area that goes almost unnoticed is neglect. When I did
research for a column a few years ago, the latest statistics I could
find noted that nearly a million children were victims of child abuse
in 2001. Neglect wasn’t mentioned. Research for this column yielded
different results. The U.S. Department of Health & Human Services
reports the number of “seriously injured” (abused) and “neglected”
children at nearly three million in the late 1990s. It also noted that
this number was double what it was seven years earlier.
Children go to school each day on an empty stomach. Sometimes teachers
notice a child’s sadness on Friday afternoon only to discover later
that he or she will get nothing to eat until the following Monday. Many
districts are now providing a “free” breakfast to as many as a third of
their elementary school populations. We have “latch key kids” and
millions of children get their entertainment and social growth through
the “boob” tube and video games.
I hold the general decline of the morals of our society responsible… in
particular babies having babies, absentee parents and the rampant
increases in alcohol and drug abuse.
I love to supply solutions; I know they exist… but this time I don’t
know where to start. I’m not smart enough. How do you stop a perpetual
chain of generations increasingly indifferent to their responsibilities
as parents and citizens?
Still, we as a society, have no choice. We must find that solution and
we must turn this epidemic around. We have to stop the cycle.
Debbie, and millions like her, are depending on us.
That’s My Opinion. What’s yours?
Editor’s Note: I
originally wrote about Debbie in 1975. She was based upon two case
studies I saw in California when I was the Information Specialist for
the San Bernardino County Department of Mental Health. I also included
her story, along with others, in my book, “God Don’t Make Junk, from
Ramblings of an Old Man.” Copies are still available at Bears Mill,
Garst Museum and the Brethren Retirement Community Gift Shop.
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