Archive | writing out loud RSS feed for this section

Writing and Reading

18 Sep

Sharing your writing with someone in its nascent form is like carving open your womb for them to inspect: You hold your breath and pray.

That they won’t: poke about with a sodden stick.

Won’t: Touch the tender bits.

Will: Notice that you’re inflamed.

And that, when done, they’ll hurriedly close the gaping wound and not tell you in agonizing detail about the tumors, the polyps, the cysts and fibroids, the bleeding cells, the lacerations, and the festering gunk they saw.

Hope. You can only hope. For once it is opened, it is owned by the sky. And you can only peer hiddenly from the shrunken margins of your own verse.

Tags:

Trafficstopper

3 Sep

We should come with pre-installed status lights on our foreheads. Red for taken, green for available, amber for I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
That would make post break-up inquiries and meat-marketing so much easier.

Tags: ,

Dervish

12 Jun

After nearly 6 weeks, I click a Word document open. The whiteness blinds me and I shield my eyes from its accusatory glare. The knot in the pit of my stomach is baby-sized now and ‘WTF’ flashes in large neon letters to the beat of a funeral march. Loo-ser, loo-ser, left, right, left.

In a bid to escape, I jump paragraphs. As if leaving a line behind will usher a stampede of ideas, a veritable troupe of trapeze artists who will fling themselves onto the safety net of this page, then loll a while before swinging wildly onward to another.

I stand in the ring. And I stand alone. It’s awful quiet when you’re all gone, I say to nobody in particular. There is no echo. And the knot is now making its way up to my throat.

A peculiar freeze takes over this warm summer day. First a bird’s clatter, then an insect’s hum. But this page, it isn’t moving. I quake, to give the Valley company. Only the Valley’s tremors subside. Writing needs to be more like mowing a lawn. A precise patch of L-shaped tasks, and then you’re done. Trimmed, neat, rinse, repeat. The knot decides it prefers the ampleness of my stomach. It slides back gutward, suspiciously fuller.  I continue to flail, in a cycle of panic and ambiguity. I would be happiest in an assembly line. Concrete, solid, done when done.

Noticing two straight sentences beginning with ‘I’ brings up concerns of ego injection. A lifelong aversion to navel-gazers jumps into the pool party that all my baggage decided to throw when I wasn’t looking. The knot’s moving heartward and the constriction hurts. I should wring the curtains and howl. Let me switch on the iron in preparation. And Purell my palms so the drapes stay white.

I can’t fathom potters or painters. Wash those hands, people. And eat with a fork. Ickiness makes me squirm.  So I sit myself down, after nearly 6 weeks, and click open a Word document. Its whiteness blinds me and I shield my eyes from the accusatory glare. But then I think of the options and soothe myself that at least writing is clean. The knot yawns demurely, cups its chin, and waits for me to begin.

Tags: ,

Here Goes Nothing

11 Apr

So I have this friend. Who, being staid and risk-averse and most things Good Indian Girl, went from degree to higher degree, job to better job to business to management position, through life and across continents, not missing a beat. Sometimes, she worked two jobs at once. At others, she ran two businesses and found time to volunteer and consult. This was the way it was meant to be, and she plodded on safely, her life busy and full.

All was well until, one day, something began to tug at her. Take another path, It whispered, poking her side until she noticed. But being who she was, she ignored the Voice and went right back to doing what she did. The Voice waited, then reappeared. How about we think differently for a bit, it asked, standing next to her and making her jump. You again, she said, and eyed it suspiciously. What if, what if, what if, it began chanting, bouncing up and down like a 6-year-old on one too many sugar pops. Go ‘way, she grunted and turned her back, you’re irrational and I don’t succumb to mere feeling.

So the Voice, now visibly chubbier, took up a post at a corner and picketed silently. Each time she’d stride past, her hands and mind full of Things To Do Next, it would grin cheerfully and raise a placard. Coward, it said once. Quit your job and assess your options, it ventured another time. My friend battled each suggestion with admirable logic. Took her adversary by the horns and pumped a powerful dose of reality into its veins. I’ve never been one of those flighty people, she said with pride, and her life’s work bore testament to her claim.

But she wasn’t prepared for what came next. The Voice was joined by a comrade. Then, another one. Then one more, until solitary sentences burgeoned into a choral cacophony, beseeching her to peep out of her walled courtyard and listen. My friend turned to her spouse. He was her sounding board and her voice of reason. He would validate her beliefs. Do it, he said, quicker than a heartbeat. This is your time. And with that, her resolve began to falter. If I leap, will the net appear, she worried, flipping the idea in her head over and over, like a cerebral version of the mushroom turnovers you find at Trader Joe’s. What is my path, she wondered another time, and agonized over being indecisive. It will come to you, said her confident spouse, and she wondered if she should believe him.

And so it went on, in shuffling, halting steps, until she bit the bullet and turned in her notice. The gasps at work could be heard echoing across the Palo Alto foothills, and she berated herself for being the Fool Without a Plan. Less than a year ago, she had been lucky enough to snap up a job in barely any time, in an economy that still showed signs of struggle. Yet here she was, tossing away sense and stability. Enough already, she told herself. It’s done, so suck it up and look ahead. And, in her usual optimism, she began to open her heart, ferret around for possible desires, and put together a Plan.

First, there would be travel. To places old and new. A visit Home, some exploration of new lands, and the soaking up of experiences would kick-start her journey. Several weeks later, she would return to the homestead, poorer but wiser, and consider next steps. Some volunteering, perhaps. A little writing, maybe. The Plan allowed for loose, fluid boundaries, and she would go where a path appeared. And if all the ambiguity ended up driving her batty, she would shoot the Voices with her secret weapon and skip straight back onto the narrow again. And that reassured her considerably.
***
How did you guess this was not about my friend? You, gentle reader, never fail to impress me. Wish me luck and safe travels, won’t you, as I embark upon a trajectory of unknowns, still somewhat questioning my mental equilibrium and newfound “taking time off to travel” American-ness. I board a flight tomorrow. The first of various modes of transport that will have me in 3 continents and 5 countries just this month. I take with me a quivering heart, a buzzing brain and a sore back that will miss the darling bed the Boy and I adore. And no, he will not be with me (that’s alright, I’m not panicking or anything, that lump in my throat is just phlegm). This journey is mine alone. If he joins me later, I will graze my knees on the ground with gratitude, but for now, I’ll have to reacquaint myself with OJ and hope she is satisfactory company. Will you come along for the ride?

 

Tags: , ,

Another Year, Another April: CSAAM 2012

31 Mar

Last year, in an outpouring of stories, recollections, support and awareness-building, a very successful and necessary movement was established across the Indian blogosphere: Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month 2011 brought survivors, parents, bloggers, readers, professionals and responsible citizens together, in a bid to spread awareness about child sexual abuse–the existence, the denial, the impact and the knowledge about how to prevent it and/or heal those already scarred.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why people–survivors as well as those fortunate enough to have been spared–were so impassioned about protecting the most vulnerable demographic in society–our children. And unless you’ve hibernated in a cave all your life, you will know/know of someone who has been through an experience of forced sexual interaction even before they reached adulthood.

Presenting:

Another year, another reminder that the movement needs to push on, networks need building, children need protection, survivors need to know they are not alone. The www, where we share some pretty intimate details of our lives, couched in the relative anonymity it offers, is a wonderful tool for sending these narratives into the world, for us to support, learn, prevent and heal–and, simply, offer a virtual hand that says “I have/ may not have been there, but I will walk with you.”

So how will you join us? Here are the ways you can:

1. Share a story on the CSAAM blog. It could be yours, it could be a friend’s–it just has to be true and requests for anonymity will be honored.

2. Share tips for survival, prevention and awareness-building. Your two cents could help someone immensely.

3. Pass around a video, a link, an article or an e-book.

4. Offer professional expertise if you are a mental health therapist / educator / psychiatrist / doctor/ lawyer /allied health professional.

5. Spread the word on your blog, if you have one, with the words “CSAAM April 2012” in the title. Put up the logo (you can copy the image above), link back to the CSAAM blog.

6. Tweet!  @CSAawareness is the Twitter handle, #CSAAM is the hashtag.

7. Put up FB notes linking to the Facebook page.

8. Write to csa.awareness.april@gmail.com and tell the folks working so hard behind the scenes what a great job they’re doing. Nothing like a line of appreciation to make someone’s day.

9. Show support by displaying the Picsquare badge on your site/page/profile. Here is the code:

<br></p><p><div data-badge-id=”2528851″ data-orientation=”right” data-hover=”false” class=”pb-badge-widget”></div><br><script type=”text/javascript” src=”http://static.picbadges.com/static/widgets/w.js”></script>

10.Participate/ask questions/ just listen in to tweetchats and podcasts by professionals and parents. Details will be shared on the CSAAM blog. I will be taking questions during a tweet chat in my capacity as a former mental health therapist for sexually abused children. Now how many of you knew that about me? Drop by, say hi, let’s talk.

11. Bring up the subject with your friends and family–the topic in general, this effort in particular. You may be surprised by what comes up when you share.

 

The movement this year will introduce a CSAAM app and sensitization workshops (Dilliwalas, first one’s for you!) that aim to take it offline and reach out to a wider audience.

Thank you for reading this.

Now, are you ready for April 2012?

Tags: , ,

She Shall Have Music Wherever She Goes

16 Feb

I awoke on Monday morning to the blinking light on my phone, telling me an email had arrived. Groggily, I reached out, half-knowing what to expect. “She’s dead,” I said to the Boy, and buried my face in his chest.

It was another email that had arrived the previous Wednesday that started it all. Noorjehan, said the subject, and I wondered what Mum had to say about our maid of a few years. “You remember her, don’t you,” she asked rather unnecessarily, for Noor had shared the story of her young life with me while she swept the floors of my parents’ home. In the blur of lines that followed, Mum wrote that Noor had been set on fire and was in a trauma ward with 92% burns. She had visited her and Noor acknowledged her presence by moving her lips, though no sound emerged. The prognosis was poor and her fastest relief, according to the doctor (whom we know personally) would be through death.

What followed was an interminable week of communication, police statements, counter allegations, accusations of murder vs. self-immolation, testimonies supporting both sides, and a veritable he said-she said circus as a charred woman lay in agony, waiting for death to claim her. I will not go into the details of the case here. They have made headlines in the Times of India, the Mumbai Mirror , the Indian Express,  the DNA, and the Hindustan Times already.  What I will state is how wretched and helpless and horrified I felt and still feel that a woman no older than 27, a mother of four children who was married when she was a mere child herself, lived a life of subjugation and want that ended in this ghastly fashion.

I prayed with a doggedness I am surprised to discover I possess. I resented my comfortable Californian existence that has me so far away from being any use. I sobbed at the memory of that frail, dark woman in the burkha she was forced to wear, even as I waltzed out of my home showing bare legs and open tresses. I am startled at how gutted I feel. How shaken to the core. Most of all, I am angry at myself for making this about me. And I ask you to turn your attention to her and think of her kindly—Noorjehan: self-immolator/burns victim, tired mother, unhappy wife, polite domestic, half-hearted duster of furniture, occupant of a small life few will notice has evanesced.

Rest in peace now, Noor.

Your death has brought me one degree closer to life as it can be.

Tags: ,

Peace, Joy & Other Fuzzy Stories

29 Dec

2011. The Year of the Happening. The year of Arab Spring and the royal wedding, the death of Bin Laden and the end of the war. A pack of famous and notorious names passed on, the U.S. clambered out of recession, Lokpal became a household buzzword in India and the great wheel of life churned on. With this hum of world events in the backdrop, I commenced the year wrapping up my work and life in Bombay and doling out bear hugs to the precious people I wouldn’t see for a while. Valentine’s Day landed me in San Francisco (and yes, that was totally planned) and into the arms of my patiently waiting Boy. In the months that followed, we set about making a home, fashioning a life and enjoying the many pleasures of the area.

2011. The Year of Beginnings. The year of a new home, new job, new life and new friends. World events swirled outside our little bubble as the Boy and I delighted in our time together, savoring the joy of basic couch-and-movie time, cooking delicious meals, exploring parks in the brilliant sunshine, reconnecting with old friends and establishing new relationships. We introduced each other to our family here and were warmly embraced, developed a circle of friends, and settled into the area quickly and comfortably. We rediscovered home in each other (go ahead, barf at the cliché), in the fabricated rituals that emerge from non-religious, bi-cultural cohabitation, and I even found a desi waxing lady and this was the high point of my year. Just kidding. :mrgreen:

2011. The Year of Exhaling. The year when my screeching train wreck of an existence finally became a gentle chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-chug-a. Last year was hard and in saying that I’ve made the most understated remark I ever will. It was a year filled with memories that would torture me if I let them, but uh-uh, I’m Dalai Lama-ing instead, bubbling over as I am, with contentment and gratitude. This year was for lying on my buttery soft couch and breathing. For listening to the icemaker go clack. For straightening the bows on the back of my dining chairs. And for chucking all that meandering  for 12-hour workdays involving kiddie poo.

2011. The Year of Review. The year I stand amidst its final days and marvel at how far we’ve come. How loved we feel. How thankful we are. How blessed. Our family is mostly well, we’ve traveled and socialized, lived it up and loved it, we’ve been healthy, at peace and have new lace curtains on the living room window (What? I had to share that with you!) and this beautiful respite has provided us with strength to grapple with the curveballs that life will eventually throw. Some folks I know can’t wait for 2011 to be over. It’s been the worst year, they complain. I can’t either. But only because I’m greedy and want to see how much better this life thingy can get.

Happy New Year, lovely people. Thank you for sharing this one with me.

Tags: , ,

Life in California…

14 Jun

….revolves around an ivory leather couch. And a dutifully vacuumed beige carpet. Around a sweet-smelling fruit basket and an oven bubbling with cheese. Around a shared silver car and welcome home kisses. Sherlock Holmes episodes at night and the polite chirping of robins by day.

Life in California revolves around rattan chairs and a white table. Scented candles and sunflowers in a blue vase. Around the warmth of family, a clutch of friends and a cat that eyes me with minimal interest.

Life in California is the goodness of home cooking, lavender in a yellow planter, mildly scented laundry and red Netflix envelopes. French coconut pie, lemons in iced water, shimmering peach gloss and aroma oils. A merging of rhythms, the strains of Sinatra, wide open spaces and Mexican dancing.

Life in California is the technology buzz, swirls of innovation, the thick of things. The beautiful Valley and Mt. Diablo and sting of the cold Pacific on browning skin. Sareed aunties and baby booms and fresh bhel, bhature, bhungra around the nook. Sunshine and summer and chilly evenings; poolside and wifi and stacks of free books.

Life in California is an exhaled breath, a winding down, that feeling of calm. Cherishing people, valuing life, savoring a hard-fought way of being. Counting one’s blessings, praying daily and dangling an evil eye talisman in every reader’s face.

Then comes one downpour in the city of my heart and the fickle spirit turns traitor again.

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

The Lady Rules

10 Jun

Nana worked in the admin office of a South Bombay girls school for 40 years. With her clipped boarding school accent, strong sense of discipline and not a hair out of place, she held court from behind a large desk, stepping out only to silence high-decibel schoolgirl chatter with her mere presence during Assembly. At least two generations of schoolgirls quaked in their shoes as a hush swept over the room, and I, on my rare visits to her workplace, would wonder how they couldn’t see the person whose love of laughter and good times I have inherited.

Knowing her extreme honesty and loyalty to her employers, traits historically associated with our community (but certainly not exclusive to the Parsees), the school board entrusted her with the annual fee collection. “If I had taken only a hundred rupees from each of the families who came seeking admission, we’d have a bungalow on Altamount Road today,” she was fond of saying. But for Nana, Altamount Road bungalows held little attraction if they came with dishonor, and so we continued living, as had 3 generations before us, in a humbler locality down the road, where the prices of homes run into only single digit crores versus the doubles Peddar , Carmichael and Altamount Roads command.

But this post isn’t about Nana’s honesty. It is about the rules she lived her life and ran her home by. The etiquette that made her every bit of the lady she was—straight-backed, well-mannered and house-proud.  And it is now, in the setting of my own home, that I realize how tremendous her influence has been.  How grateful I am for it. And how I have consciously and unconsciously modeled my home living on her ways.

This post isn’t to toot my/her horn or uphold a certain way of life over others as much as it is a documentation of the lines I grew up hearing. The practices that insidiously crept under my skin and now hold me very willingly captive. This is a collection of my grandmother’s hostessing, housekeeping  and daily living beliefs, but they are certainly not the only things she held dear.  I write this so that someday I may pass on to my children a way of life that they are tied to by blood. Whether they choose to follow or reject it will be up to them.  Some or none of these may apply to you, but bear with me, I do this for myself. Without further ado, here are The Lady Rules:

  • A home must be, at the very least, clean and organized. Beauty is not optional. As much as you can afford it, take the trouble to tastefully design and maintain your nest. Make it a joy to live in.
  • Don’t confuse simplicity and frumpiness. Worse, don’t use the former as an excuse for the latter. Decorating a home needn’t be expensive or bury you under the effort.
  • Maintenance is key. Polish the furniture, use dust covers and moth balls where necessary, rotate the crockery and linens, nip signs of wear and tear in the bud. Antique furniture requires devotion. There’s a reason why Parsi-owned cars sell at a premium.
  • When playing hostess, do not ignore rooms you think your guests won’t see. Lay on the embroidered bedcovers, tidy your desk, have potpourri/perfume and extra hand towels in the bathrooms.
  • Take the trouble to look presentable when you have guests over. It’s disrespectful to be sloppily dressed and for heaven’s sake, don’t run around in your slippers just because it’s your home. Wear shoes, like everyone else.  <Note: Parsis do not remove shoes at the door.>
  • Stepping over the threshold necessitates a switch from house slippers to shoes. Yes, even to buy bread. <House slippers are a non-negotiable, by the way.>
  • Slippers are what you wear at home. A sandal must have a strap at the back and at least a low heel, or you can’t wear it with a saree.
  • A handbag. Never go without. And please carry one to suit the occasion and your outfit.
  • Coordinate your handbag and footwear. And always carry a handkerchief, preferably with a dab of perfume on it.
  • Dress appropriately. Be event-specific. Wear your family jewelry proudly but elegantly. Never pile on all the pieces. Bling looks best on Christmas trees. Don’t go around clinking and jangling like a bag of coins.
  • When in doubt, pearls and baby pink always work.
  • Manicures and pedicures are a good idea. Even if you just cut your nails short, your hands and feet are visible signs of grooming.
  • Learn to lay the cutlery when you are young, so you know which fork to begin with when you’re older.
  • Practice eating with a fork and knife in front of the mirror when you’re about 6, so you can be taken to the Taj and won’t embarrass your ancestors.
  • Always “pardon?”, never “hanh?”
  • Excuse me when you sneeze, God bless you when someone else does.
  • Mind your Ps and Qs.
  • Zip that mouth when there’s food in it and zip it good. And may Ahura Mazda help you if chomping sounds emanate.
  • Clean the toilet seat each time you’re done. Especially in another’s home.
  • Use “tameh” (the Gujarati version of the Hindi “aap”) for all older people, even the domestic help.
  • Pick up after yourself and thank the household help. You’re not the boss of anybody.
  • When sitting on a chair, your feet stay down, down, down. If you want to cross your legs, go join a yoga class.
  • When visiting someone’s home for the first time, take a little token—flowers, a box of chocolate, something they would appreciate.
  • Never give back an empty container. Not even to your mother. Put just sugar in it if you have to, but don’t leave it empty.
  • Cash, cheques, letters are all handed over in envelopes. If you think it’s a waste of paper, don’t write on the cover and ask the person to reuse it.
  • Write a note or call to say thank you for having me over.
  • Apologize for rude windy sounds that emanate from your body. Burping after eating is for neanderthals in the hinterlands.
  • Use napkins at mealtimes. Light a candle or have a pretty centerpiece at the table. Play soft, soothing music if possible. It aids in conversation and digestion.
  • Do not display personal pictures in the public areas of the home. Portraits are acceptable. Photographs can be put up in the inner rooms that are not typically meant for guest use.
  • Unless the guest is a close friend or relative and will be living with you, a house tour is an unnecessary Indian ritual. It is a home, not a museum. Unless you live in Buckingham Palace, a walk-through isn’t necessary.
  • If you have been eating, wipe your mouth on a napkin before taking a sip of your drink.
  • At a table, seating must be so arranged that a person from the opposite sex sits across from as well as next to you.
  • Cutlery is to be laid so you use it from the farthest piece from the plate to the nearest.
  • Have a basic knowledge of drinks that go with specific foods, even if you do not imbibe.
  • If you are not comfortable with a guest smoking in your home, inform them politely and lead them to the balcony. Politely is the key word.
  • Don’t confuse formality with courtesy. Many folks don’t know the difference, there is no reason for you to be one of them.
  • When hostessing, ensure there is adequate seating for everyone. And extra crockery. The same goes for beds and sleep-over guests. We do not throw down mattresses and flop onto them, or, heaven forbid, sit on the floor and eat. <insert dramatic shudder>
  • Do a weekly nail and hair check. Does either need a trim? Banish chipped nail paint. And oil your hair. Just don’t gad all over town without washing it off first.
  • Iron your pillow covers and bedsheets. Or let the help/dhobi do it. Live genteelly, even if no one’s watching.
  • Whites are always washed separately. They live longer that way. Refer earlier point on maintenance.
  • Put washed linen and crockery at the bottom of the pile so the unused ones get a chance/an airing.
  • Do not encourage latecomer guests. Do not be a latecomer guest. It isn’t fair to those who made the effort to arrive on time.
  • Be warm and welcoming to family and friends. Even if you have leftovers, gather around, make them comfortable and enjoy life’s blessings together.
  • Ensure your granddaughter is around, learning and imbibing these ways, so that someday she may write of the gray-eyed, pepper-haired grand dame with a heart larger than the vast home she lived and loved in.

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

April for Abuse Awareness

8 Apr

All through April, Indian bloggers from several countries have come together to raise awareness about child sexual abuse on the blogosphere; sharing survivor stories, debunking myths, listing red flags, answering questions and providing guidance from parents and individuals/organizations who work in the fields of mental health, child development and media.  

Since we began 9 days ago, many, many stories and insights have been shared, along with pointers on how to shield future victims. If you hop over to the CSA-Awareness blog  (and I strongly encourage you to do so), you’ll notice a large chunk of the material consists of survivor stories. CSA, you see, isn’t just about children who were/are abused. It is as much about children who grow into adults, carrying the scars and trauma with them for a lifetime. There’s guilt, there is anger, confusion, pain, vulnerability and shame. Some move past it and cope the best they can, others struggle with their emotions every day. But everyone, with the exception of those who have entirely repressed the experience or those not old enough to consciously remember, can recollect the denuding of themselves in meticulous detail. And I say this not as a victim/survivor, (for I am blessed to have been spared that horror), but as a therapist who has worked with sexually abused children. Therapy can help retrospectively, but prevention, without a doubt, is the option we’re looking to exercise.

Here are a few home truths that can help us all:

When it comes to child sexual abuse, there is no stereotype. Not for victims, not for perpetrators. You cannot look at a person and know. Destiny experienced vaginal penetration at 9 months from her mother’s then boyfriend. Christina at age 3, from her own mother, who in turn had been shared by her father’s friends at 13. A much-loved uncle groped his 12-year-old niece at family lunches every Sunday. A teenage cousin experimenting with his sexuality, the household help who saw his wife annually, the mother of an affluent classmate. It is true, however, that in a majority of CSA cases, the child/adolescent knows and trusts the perpetrator.

Abolish the culture of shame surrounding the victim. If a friend’s home were burgled, would you be ashamed and think s/he should hide the fact? Admittedly, sex is more complex than robbery. Which is why the sense of violation is that much deeper. This is a crime, a very serious one, and it’s terrible enough that a child has to be at the receiving end of it without having to process additional feelings of shame, mortification and blame. No child invites sexual abuse, no child asks for it, no matter how “well-developed” or “mature” s/he looks. I will interject with a disclaimer here: it is not unnatural for children to express curiosity about their bodies and feel flattered when showered with the physical attentions of an older person they like. That still does not justify touching their bodies inappropriately or making gestures, suggestions and/or remarks that are graphic and sexually inappropriate.

Children need to be given a sense of personal boundaries, even in a casual, everyone-is-an-uncle/aunty culture such as ours. Talking about good touch-bad touch, naming body parts appropriately and keeping channels of communication open without showing embarrassment or disgust will go a long way in helping your child say no or tell you if someone is making him/her uncomfortable. If this means you need to get comfortable with your own body and learn to talk about touching and anatomy, please do that right away. You don’t have to launch into the how-precisely-you-were-born spiel. Keep it simple, age-appropriate and positive. Your child needs to know you’re willing to listen and that s/he is strong and important enough to say no and have his/her decision respected. In the event that the abuse has already occurred and you are in the know, don’t gloss over it, ignore it or disregard your child’s feelings. Some children will talk. Others will act out. Some will wet their bed and still others will show you through play. Don’t expect them to spell it out. It may be as subtle as “Can X drop me to music practice today instead of Y? Y laughs at me/is mean/doesn’t listen.”  

Pedophilia is typically not a one-off instance. People who use their power over children to gratify themselves sexually don’t do it just once for a lark. If it has happened to you or your child and even if you are absolutely certain you’ve done all you can to ensure your own/ child’s safety, remember the world has other vulnerable children and we’re responsible for each other to some degree. Raise an alarm, get help from appropriate authorities, but do not shove such an instance under the carpet no matter how much you want to forget about it and move on. Survivor stories frequently mention childhood victims confronting their abusers once they had children of their own to protect.

Know where your child is and with whom. If you feel more comfortable calling your child’s friends over rather than have him/her go to their home, go ahead and do that. Better paranoid than sorry in this case. Taking him/her with you is a better option if you don’t have a trusted person you can leave him/her home with. Even when your child is older (late childhood and adolescence), you still need to know the people in his/her orbit.  

The fact that you’re reading this online should tell you what’s coming next. Predators don’t just come in the guise of sweet neighbors and favorite teachers.  Monitor your child’s online activity and know what sites s/he is spending time on, the friends s/he is making via the internet and whether there is offline contact.

If you’re not sure, don’t ignore your doubts. Get professional help. Consult your pediatrician, ask for a referral to a therapist working with children, read up on the subject.  (If you want a culture-relevant book, try ‘My Personal Safety Workbook’ by Tulir Publications. It costs Rs. 25 and is interactive and informative.) Share your suspicions and information with your partner/family and remain watchful. Even if an episode of abuse has occurred, if you deal with it appropriately, it will not hamper your child from having a full, happy and healthy life.

Yes, this is a murky topic, but know that there are many well-meaning folks out there, committed to keeping a watchful eye and spreading awareness. It’s not all bad, there is much love in this world and may you and/or your child be at its receiving end.

***

If you wish to discuss this subject further, I will be taking questions from readers/parents/anyone interested at CSA-Awareness’ tweetchat site:   http://tweetchat.com/room/csaam   on Wednesday, April  13, 10.30—11.30 pm Pacific Standard Time, which is Thursday, April 14th, 11 am—12 noon Indian Standard Time.  You will need a twitter ID to log in. See you there.

Tags: , , , ,

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →