The Teachable Moment
Today at a local store, Schuyler encountered two exceptionally mean-spirited young teenaged girls who were mocking her behind her back as she played a video game, completely oblivious to what was going on. As I walked up behind them, I heard one of the girls say, “I’ll bet she’s retarded.” Then they saw me standing there.
I have a confession to make. I am terrible at teachable moments.
This certainly isn’t breaking news, or even a recent epiphany. Schuyler has had a diagnosed disability for over nine years, and an identifiable one for longer than that. Her behavior can be odd; her speech can sound Martian. While in many ways hers is an invisible disability, it does’t take much in the way of observation to come to the conclusion that she is a very unusual little girl. And human nature being what it is (ie. dependably horrible), we have never had a dearth of condescending looks and snotty remarks to deal with. We live in a North Dallas community that probably prizes conformity more than most, so I’ve had plenty of opportunities to develop a thick skin and sensitive reply for the decided insensitive remarks that generally accompany Schuyler in her progress through this grand rough world.
But I’ve never gotten there. I’ve never reached the point where I could sigh, collect my thoughts and then patiently explain why Schuyler doesn’t talk, or why she behaves the way she does, or why hearing a term like “retard” can be so devastating to families like ours. I’ve never achieved the ability to transcend “protective father” and embrace the teachable moment.
I wish I could say that when faced with rudeness or even abuse directed towards my daughter, even in the absence of patience and an appreciation for the opportunity to shine a little light into a dark world, I at the very least will wield my authorly wit (a dubious thing to begin with) and eviscerate the insulting party with a cutting barb of my own. But the sad truth is, I rarely even rise to the occasion that much. When faced with a hurtful world, my response is fast, confrontational and decidedly uncivilized. I can usually be counted on to provide a two-word response, and not “Happy Birthday.” I become Caveman Dad.
This is what happened today. My response to the girls wasn’t constructive. It wasn’t kind, or educational, and it wasn’t appropriate. When they returned several minutes later with their grandmother, my responses to her were similarly unimpressive, unless perhaps you’re a casting agent for a basic cable reality tv program. Fortunately for me, the grandmother seemed to know her grandkids well enough not to be surprised by their behavior, and the whole thing was defused quickly. There were no apologies, but no one called the cops, either. I’ll take that.
Any time I mention incidents like this on Twitter or Facebook, I inevitably get lots of “Go get ’em, Dad!” responses, and they certainly do make me feel better about my hot head, my short fuse and my harsh language. Well, in the short term, anyway. But the truth is, I’m not proud of my reactions. I’m not just a dad looking out for his little girl. I’m also an author and speaker on disability issues. And theoretically at least, I’m a role model for my daughter. (Stop snickering back there.) I’d like to be able to display a higher standard of behavior. I’d like to do better; I’d like to BE better.
I’m not sure what the answer is to this problem for me. The piece that I seem to be missing the most, patience, isn’t one that I come by easily. And every time someone says something horrible or insensitive to Schuyler in front of me, I can’t help but wonder how many nasty things she hears when no one is present on the scene except her classmates and peers. It doesn’t help that she’s becoming a touch paranoid about what people are saying about her. It’s clear she’s heard enough to fill in the blanks herself when she’s unsure. Shy of even her thirteenth birthday, Schuyler has become a little jaded about the people around her, particularly the ones she’s never met and who simply judge her on her shaky ability to conform to the world around her. She gets that from her own experiences with that world, and she no doubt gets it from me, despite my desire to teach her otherwise.
I’ll keep trying to do better at this, although I feel confident that I’ll probably continue to fail. That depresses me a little, but on some level, honestly? I can live with it if I must. I wish I could do better at the teachable moments. But I hope to never disappoint her when what she really needs is an protective father. Even if he’s just a caveman.
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About The Author
Rob
Robert Rummel-Hudson is the author of "Schuyler’s Monster: A Father’s Journey with His Wordless Daughter", which tells the story of raising a little girl with a disability and learning to become the father she needs. It was published in February 2008 by St. Martin’s Press.
When your child is verbally attacked (whether she hears it or not), it is still an assault. One should be expected to react, and it’s hard not to do it in full force, especially when that child cannot clearly express herself.
I wish I could offer good advice, as I struggle with this myself. Our daughters have the same diagnosis, and it’s eerie how similar their laugh and speech patterns are, although my daughter, Anne, is only 4. I know that’s where I’ll be during those cruel teenage years. For now, I defend her against her father.
I have an ex who is emotionally abusive (mostly towards me) during his visits with our children. It’s a struggle not to react, as I know I shouldn’t since he feeds off of it. The one advice that echoes through my mind is, “smell the pizza, blow out the candles.” (Similarly, it’s: Breathe. Reflect. React.)
Develop a canned response. Practice it at home. When the time comes, maybe you can do it reasonably. Or, maybe you’ll be a human with emotions. (My response, for people like those girls, is, “Not everyone’s disability is visible like my daughter’s. If you don’t understand what I mean, we’ve just discovered your disability.” You could say, “maybe you’re the one who’s the R word,” but that may be too inflammatory.)
It is hard to do. It is really hard to do when it’s your child who’s involved. One day, perhaps we can all be good examples as reasonable people…or maybe the example we’re trying to set is, “if you attack another person, expect a full-on assault from those who love them.” For me, I’ll try the reasonable response, but I won’t beat myself up if I lose it.
That’s a really tough situation, I really sympathize. That’s got to take the whole situation and raise the stakes exponentially.
I’m trying to develop a go-to response. I think that’s probably the best advice of all, although it’s also the easiest to discard when things get emotional, I suspect.
Thanks for your thoughts!
When you plan your response, I strongly recommend one that can be said quickly, bluntly. Your instinct is to approach these situations ‘caveman style’; work with it to snap out two more-relevant words, ones you’d prefer to have said instead. Even “hold it” – to give you a moment to breathe and then say what matters. And when you have your response prepared, you’ll want to practice using it, even if just going through memories and imagining how you’d wanted it to go instead.
Good luck – and luck will come, because you work hard for it and are ready to catch it when it shows up.
Maybe you could design a custom “calling card” to hand out to bullies like these girls, in addition to the others who are just insensitive or have questions? Something that would provide the “teachable moment” that they could take home with them to read/learn from after their encounter with Caveman Dad?
It IS hard! These are our kids we’re talking about. There are times where I’ve been able to hold my breath, then answer patiently, but I’ve had a few “caveman moments” myself. One actually happened where both my mother and I went off on the offending party and while we might have attracted some stares, I still don’t regret it. And it was nice to know my mom had my son’s (and my) back. I guess that’s the balance we have to strike, teaching our kids appropriate ways to respond to bullies while also showing them that we’re not afraid to defend them. The only suggestion I have, silly as it sounds, is to try to develop a short script and practice it over and over, maybe even with your wife and a close friend. When faced with a situation I’ve found it easier to respond somewhat calmly if I already know exactly what I’m going to say.
I agree. I need some programming, I think. And the patience not to abandon it when things get ugly.
I am bothered that “the grandmother seemed to know her grandkids well enough to not be surprised by their behavior”. Pfft. My thought is, if a person has reached teenhood (and good gracious, adulthood) and still hasn’t grasped some kind of empathy, or kindness, or proper behavior, or at the very least common courtesy in public, then the “teachable moment” would probably fly over their snotty little heads anyway. They would have rolled their eyeballs right out of their sockets. Showing a little tooth made more of an impression on them, I guarantee. I am working very hard to convey to my FOUR year old to not point out people’s differences, to not say anything mean about people’s appearances. Show kindness, accept differences, be respectful. I can only hope as a teen that he embodies these lessons, but he probably won’t, because teenagers are a mess. If I catch him acting like those girls did, there won’t be a teachable moment from me either, there will be a swift kick to his butt. So I guess I fail too. Meh.
I think a lot of kids Schuyler’s age react in part out of fear, the same as many adults. Disability can be frightening to the uninitiated, especially when it presents in a way that’s not obvious. I think young people in particular lash out at the things they don’t understand. If a little girl like Schuyler can have this, could they develop it, too? What’s the difference between her brain and theirs? Was she born like that, or did something happen to her, something that might just be waiting for them as well? It doesn’t excuse the lack or being “raised right”, but I think I get it on some level.
I completely understand what you are saying, but I am not sure I agree. I never acted like that when I was young? Even if I was scared, confused, unsure..whatever…I didn’t do that. I knew better. But I am not sure how I knew better. I guess I am just worried – how do I make sure MY children don’t act like that? Because it is not YOUR job to teach my children these lessons. It is mine.
I second the suggestions of a New Canned Response that you learn and practice. You could even roll play with Schuyler so she is part of the Comeback Team.
I say treat the kids like adults when they say something asinine. Speak to them forcefully but exactly like you would an adult that has stepped out of bounds. Shock. Disbelief. Anger. Unwillingness to accept their behavior. I’d say all of these are appropriate for anyone over age 10 or so. Try to keep the f-bomb underwraps but any other strong language seems appropriate to me. I imagine an attitude of “We both know you just did something wrong, that is not even up for discussion. You need to stand down and move on and seriously consider keeping your trap shut in the future because, as you can see, you know people are going to call you out.”
Short. Forceful. Loudish. Not a curseword. Something that can be said to anyone, in any situation, regarding any action or comment. Something that gets you fired up about saying it and feels satisfying to say to someone that has done something wrong.
“Dude, seriously???!!”
“Keep it to yourself!!”
“Shut it!!!!!!!”
“Not. Cool. ?!?!”
“That’s not gonna fly!”
“No!! Not ok!”
“Jesus, are you kidding me?!!”
Or you could watch tons of Robin Williams (Patch Adams seems appropriate) and learn his wonderful ways of dealing with those who are far less than enlightened.
Also, is there anything like a Gay Straight Alliance at Schuyler’s school? If there isn’t already, you could start up a similar group like: Special Needs Neurotypical Alliance. Doesn’t exactly roll right off the tongue but you get my meaning. 😀
But if your response is as horrible as their initial behavior, you really don’t teach anything except more of the same. Also, since you are left feeling bad for your reaction, then that’s your intuition telling you that what you have done is wrong so perhaps taking a different approach would be better. I understand flying off the handle, but your writing indicates that you have a high level of antagonism against your daughter’s peers as it is, so right off the bat you go into attack mode.
If it is a teachable moment you want for those girls who were being mean, try taking it down a notch. You are no better than they are if you behave just like they do.
Well, I’m not sure I agree that my writing indicates that I have “a high level of antagonism against [my] daughter’s peers as it is”, but that’s obviously your right to interpret how you see fit. Perhaps I’ve got blind spots regarding my own flaws like everyone else. As for the rest, I obviously agree with much of what you say, as my regret over my reaction was the whole point I was making.
Thanks for sharing your thoughts.
Funnily enough, I almost replied to your tweets yesterday with “not all teachable moments are teachable,” but then I worried that the point would be lost on everyone but me. I’ve had similar experiences–people staring at my sister, and me having to decide if I wanted to try and educate them or just get them to stop it because staring at people is rude–but I’m not confrontational so usually me and her just end up leaving.
But there’s a principle when it comes to anti-racist (and anti-heterosexist work) that I think is also true here: folk of color are not responsible for educating white folk about racism. Which is tricky, because they’re also exactly the folk we (me and other white people) should be listening to if we want to educate ourselves. But there’s a difference between putting a PoC on the spot and reading a PoC’s blog. People of color deal with the effects of racism and white privilege every day, and it’s a heavy burden, and doesn’t need to be made heavier by the expectation that they can be educators all day, every day, to any well-intentioned white person that happens by. Sometimes you just call people motherfucking racists and walk away.
To expect yourself to be the Disability Activist all day, every day, in every interaction, isn’t realistic. And even if you had been calm and measured and authoritative, there’s nothing saying that these girls would have heard you or felt bad. Sometimes “shut the fuck up, you are acting shitty” is the best you can do, and all that needs to be done for them to be more mindful of who they’re snickering at next time. You hope that there’s at least somebody in their lives who can take on the educator role and tell yourself that there’s plenty of ways for them to educate themselves, if they’re so inclined.
You know, that’s an excellent perspective, one that I hadn’t really considered very long. I do think I am a much better advocate in my writing (even when doing so on the fly when I’m in an emotionally challenging place) than when confronted directly.
I’ve read this perspective from disabled self-advocates before, and it really is a fair point. It’s complicated, because on one hand, as parents of kids with disabilities, we rightly feel that if we don’t stand up to educate people, who will? And yet, our emotional stakes are high enough (and the issues omnipresent enough) that it really does feel like an unfair burden sometimes, in a way that our child’s disability perhaps never does. Like, I can do the work of a disability parent, I am thrilled and honored to do this, it’s my life’s joy to do this, but I have to teach you how to be a decent human being, too?
It’s tricky.
I think part of it comes down to allowing yourself a break, and room to make mistakes.
Where is the Like Button. Well said, rebecca. 🙂
My (neurotypical) 4-year-old son has been repeatedly hit by two other boys during kindergarten. Wihle teachers and social workers go by the “we don’t hit each other” approach, cavemom (I) made it very clear to them that I go by the one-more-strike-and-you’ve-got-a-MASSIVE-problem rule.
“Go find someone in your own league/your own size” is less offensive but can work, too. I taught my daughter to say so in Spanish to ward off a hispanic bully and it worked just fine.
Caveparents of the world unite!
r
Oh, I think my reaction to physical bullying would be pretty cavemannish, and without much in the way of the teachable moment. I’m not sure that it should be, but I think it’s unreasonable to expect a parent’s fighting instinct to be moderated when someone is physically hurting their kid.
It’s hard… and I empathize, perhaps I can never really empathize fully without being in the situation. Yet, Rob, your post struck so much of a chord with me that I had to de-lurk. I’m in a course where we do all kinds of feedback exercises which sometimes result in un-tactful, hurtful comments being shared between the course members. Even learning to contain our tempers and stay on the high road in such instances is difficult and draining enough, not to mention in a situation such as this where your protective instincts kick in all the more. But don’t stop trying and even if it’ll never be perfect, the main thing is that you keep striving anyway. Striving to keep on the high road.
Heh. I strive to find that high road in a LOT of different parts of my life. And with varying levels of success.
I agree with Rebecca — despite your hot head, you have a discerning mind as well.
Thank you, Elizabeth.
Did Schuyler remain oblivious throughout all the reality TV going on behind her? How did she react afterwards?
I think the canned response is a good idea. May I suggest for your consideration “My daughter has dyspraxia of speech.” (beat) “What’s YOUR disability?”
I got the idea from Jean Little’s autobiography ‘Little by Little’. When a little boy taunted her on the playground by calling her “cross eyes”, she memorized the medical term then-in-use for this condition, (it was a long, polysyllabic phrase which included the term “eccentric pupils”), and coolly reeled it off at him the next time he accosted her. It worked; he was sufficiently daunted to leave her alone after that.
Little was born in 1932, and survived the playground politics of a far crueler era.
I’m with Rebecca, it’d be nice if we could confront all cruel and ignorant responses with a calm, collected, level-head, but maybe they need to realize their behavior is infuriating.
I’m not a parent, but i’ve been driven to mama bear mode. I had a blind friend in Jr. High. One day as i approached, i realized a group of boys was throwing rocks at her. I caught one and beat the ever-loving crap out of him. It never happened again. Plus, the school pardoned my deviation from civility which, right or not, was lucky for me.
I don’t condone harsh censure or physical violence necessarily, but i’ll bet those girls think twice before flapping their ignorant, malicious yaps.
You know you are right. I don’t know what you said but I trust you that it probably wasn’t constructive. You are a role model not just for your daughter but because of your profession, others in the community. However, I applaud you for sharing so honestly. For some odd reason, I usually manage to deal with such times in what society considers is appropriate but I’ve had my moments. And honestly, sometimes I think people just get what they deserve!
I don’t think it’s your responsibility to take the “teachable moment” every time one presents itself. I can give some leeway to little kids, but it sounds like these girls were old enough to know better. I think it’s absolutely important, actually, that you act disgusted with them and angry–people need to understand the consequences of what they say and do.
Coming up with some kind of canned response might be a good idea, but don’t feel guilty about reacting with anger. Anger is, in this case, the appropriate response! It can even be constructive, if you use the sort of deeper, calm anger rather than the immediate hot anger.
Appropriate, apparently not, but deserved? YES.
My favorite retort (thank you Daria) is the simple, all-purpose “Excuse me?” Gives you time to think… and them a chance to dig themselves in even deeper.
Teachable moments are nice, but certainly not always effective. I think in this case a good snarl and snap at those girls will, if not teach them to be nicer, at least get them to think twice and look over their shoulders before they commence mocking someone else. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll decide it’s not worth getting caught and not do it at all. Same outcome, different motivation. As long as it keeps their nasty little mouths shut, I think it’s all good.
A two-word response that almost rhymes with the one you’ve probably been giving is “That’s rude!”
Say it in the same tone as the other, with the same glare, and follow it up, if appropriate, with an explanation of why what was said is rude and wrong and hurtful.
Just my two cents, from having been on the recieving end of a lot of rude comments, not because of a disability but because of obesity. We’re conditioned to think it’s rude to point out other people’s rudeness, even if it’s not offensive comments but inappropriately personal questions.
But I think that even if all you ever do is lash out in response to idiotic comments, you’re showing Schuyler that she has a defender, and there’s a lot to be said for that.
These are typical kids who have not been taught to be considerate. It’s definitely more of an issue in America than in other countries I have been to. I talk to my kids all the time about the importance of being considerate and looking at life through others’ eyes.
I would say something like this.
“Hey girls, I just overheard what you said. She’s not retarded. She has a rare brain disorder that makes her speech sound strange. I assume that you girls don’t mean to be hurtful, but when you say that, it’s hurtful. You should think twice before saying that around people who are different. And be grateful that you don’t have to live with anything like this. It’s really hard” And then give them a smile, (even if it’s a sarcastic one), and a nod.
I’ll bet if you do this, you will feel good. You will teach people, and you will defend your girl.
I would practice this til I have it memorized and try to say it calmly. Look the kids in the eye.
Kids need to learn to be held accountable for their behavior. And a little shame is good for kids sometimes. And saying it in front of their parents, or grandparents is also not a bad idea.
Let me know what you think and if this works better for you.
I think about scenarios like this quite often. My son is almost 6, and is on the cusp of wanting more independence, which is accompanied by my overwhelming fear that he will be picked on as well. So far, he can hold his own, and to be honest, we’ve not yet encountered this kind of rudeness (typical 5 year old stuff like “why does he sound like that?” doesn’t count – that’s just how kids are). This is compounded by the fact that he is accutely aware of the fact that he IS different, and can’t speak or move like other kids, so he is very aware of what is going on around him.
I honestly doubt my ability to make these moments teachable – this is my baby. I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold my tongue when the time comes.
Maybe Schuyler will ultimately turn these into teachable moments? My son (who also has a disability) has incredible insight and passion about this type of ignorance, insensitivity and rudeness. He is 13 years old – he has a rare chromosome disorder – like Schuyler’s disability it is very unique and often misunderstood. He has speech difficulties and other motor disorders too. He signed the “Spread the word to end the word Campaign” and often talks to me about other kids insensitivity and ignorance about disability. He is outraged any time he hears the “R” word and typically these are not in situations applied to him – but I bet if they were, he might even be able to turn it into a teachable moment. Over the past year, he has been interested in reading books where there are main characters with disability. As my son gets older, roles that I have traditionally taken become his. He is becoming an amazing self-advocate and also even broader a disability advocate.
The girls went running to their grandmother to complain about you rebuking them for mocking your daughter, who has a disability? Dumbasses.
I am a Caucasian who adopted my daughters from China, so people upon seeing us for the first time often ask a lot of rude questions, sometimes using racial slurs. My family attended a workshop that suggests 4 different ways to deal with intrusive questions. It was specifically related to adoption, but I imagine there are similar programs focusing on disability.
In my daughters’ case, the workshop used the “W-I-S-E Up” approach – you can choose which approach to use based on how you feel at the time or which would be most helpful.
1. WALK away or
2. say IT’S personal or
3. SHARE or
4. EDUCATE
http://www.amazon.com/W-I-S-E-Up-Powerbook-Marilyn-Schoettle/dp/0971173206
I am still usually left sputtering and speechless when someone insults my daughters, so I do like the idea of having a catch phrase. If it’s a rude question, I can manage to say “Why do you ask?”, but when it’s a drive by insult, I’ve yet to respond with anything more articulate than an F bomb…
Hi Rob,
How about gritting out, with full controlled menace, “THAT’S MY DAUGHTER.” It’s likely the scariest thing you could say, it’s certainly educational — ONE reason we do not say things like that is because of family members — if causing people pain doesn’t make a person pause, maybe self-preservation will. You could follow it up with “I SUGGEST YOU NEVER USE THAT WORD AGAIN.”