A Cry in the Night

After being sick most of the week, I am still too drained to stand and clean, but I'm not tired enough to sleep. So, rather than help everyone cook and clean in preparation for the fundraiser tonight, I have retreated to my room.

Last night, I was awakened around 5am by a child crying. And crying. The sound tore my heart. I think I know who it was, too, and there's really nothing I can do for him or his family. I couldn't go back to sleep without processing it. It was loud, and consistent, but not the cry of physical pain or fear. It had an edge of anger. A child, determinedly crying, probably without tears, making a statement. But saying what? Maybe "I hate my life, and you've made it this way, so I hate you, so hear this. This is my bitterness and pain, in your face, ruining your sleep." Or it could have been desperation "I can't think of anything else that will get your attention, maybe make you listen to me, than this, so hear me crying and realize, please, that I'm miserable and need to to understand me and support me." Despair, desperation, anger.

Someone intelligent, quick, clever, but unappreciated and unsupported by his family or neighborhood; someone small and on the edges, who survives by wit and bravado and luck and who knows what else. We hear the family yelling sometimes, the parents screaming at each other, at him, and hear his tearful replies - there's nothing he says that ever makes them stop. During the summer, sometimes he'd come over here after, asking for one of the guys (who made friends with him), just looking for someone to affirm him, to hang out, listen, actual treat him like a person instead of an outcast. And it breaks my heart - this kid has so much potential. He's brighter than any of the kids I've met in this neighborhood. He notices things, and puts two and two together.

But. He's miserable. And that crying last night wasn't someone hiding tears in their pillow. It was loud enough and prolonged enough to wake me. I wish I could change that family; teach the parents to stop screaming at their kids and start loving and encouraging them instead; teach the kids to not yell at their parents, but respect (but how to respect parents like that?) and honor and serve them. I wish I could make them understand this kid's got potential, but they're ruining his chances of getting anywhere, of doing anything, of ever becoming whole and confident. He's angry, I know he is. Part of him hates them, but part of him can't stand hating them. He wants - and needs - someone to love and someone to be loved by, and underneath all the layers of wounds, scars, and armor, he knows that, even if he can't or wouldn't actually say that.

And I, living just around the corner, don't know how to respond. I don't understand: I have a wonderful family, loving parents and encouraging siblings. I never felt like I belonged, per se, but I was never actively or vocally shunned or put down. I wasn't consistently told I was stupid or useless, or any of the other names thrown his way. I went to a good elementary school, small, with caring teachers. We never wanted for anything; we ate well, were clothed, had many things we desired but didn't need. I didn't have to become iron-clad and cold just to survive. Looking at his family - at this whole neighborhood - I realize how insignificant my own problems and hurts and insecurities were. And are. I know, at the end of the day, if I screw up beyond repair, my family will take me in and love me. If he screws up too badly, he'll probably get kicked out and/or verbally and physically abused. And, relatively speaking, he's not as badly off as others around here, I'm sure. But I'm around the corner, in a different world, of a different generation and worldview, so all I can do is wish, and dream, and pray.

Maybe someday his life will change, and he won't cry like that in the middle of the night. But not today.