Blue Eyes and Bruises

Trigger Warning: child physical abuse

They were the biggest set of blue eyes I'd ever seen. I'm watching him closely, but giving him his space as we sit across from each other on the unpadded brown carpet. His tiny pudgy hands push two cars around; one red, the other green. He's nearly three and according to my communities word-of-mouth rules, too old to be in the nursery. But here we are, me in my last teen months eyeing him like a hawk and him, going about quietly playing. He doesn't look odd and for the life of me I don't understand the rumors. There's no way this semi-quiet little boy, making tracks on the floor with matchbox cars is demon possessed. 

Suddenly, without a second thought, I chuckle and those big blue eyes find mine again. Caught. This time I just smile when I'm unexpectedly handed a monster truck that was just fished out of a wooden toy box nearby. I remember that play bin. It's been around since I was a child, but rarely I see it. I'm never on nursery duty. Today is the exception, since I'm doing a favor for a youth volunteer on a restroom break. 

"Well, thank you," I remark, adding that purple, the color of this truck, is my favorite. I begin pushing it around the carpet. This is nothing new for me, growing up with a huge number of siblings and having a ton of nephews and nieces. Besides, tending to children will eventually be my own job as a mother. It's the expected path in my community. That's when I notice it. A little green nickel sized bruise. It's a bit faded, but still visible and my throat tightens at what that means. The child's depiction of cars crashing into each other, followed by a dramatic rollover event takes place, ending with the red one coming to a stop after colliding into my purple themed monster truck. I can't help but grin at that, the simple innocence of a child's make believe world coming alive right in front of me. But there's also this gnawing knowing that those kind of worlds are often visited for other heartbreaking reasons; one being, that their reality is beyond the scariest thing for a child to be expected to grasp. I've done the same, but I was a soldier, kicking in doors and saving kids like myself. This is different. I don't remember having those daydreams so young. 

They say he reacts weird with an "unfamiliar spirit" anytime the preacher mentions Jesus' name. That the reaction due to that is a demon sending his feet kicking, the biting to begin and his screams to start. That was the normal routine, so now he's to stay in the nursery and play while his parents take a break, listening to the sermon in the auditorium. 

Out of nowhere, our leader's voice booms over the speaker, startling the both of us. There's loud shouts and praising of "Amen," "Preach it," "Glory," and my least favorite, "Hallelujah, that's right!" How many times can a person be right? is a constant thought in my mind. But I push all of that aside and concentrate on the little boy going about his game again. That's when I spot another one and this time it's taking every ounce of self control not to breakdown right then and there, but I hold myself together, knowing that would only make a child scared of me and that's not going to help anyone, especially him. 

                                 
I'm baffled at what to do. It never enters my mind to call a hotline, speak to law enforcement, or share this with the church leadership. No one seems to see this type of thing like I do. It's standard for children to show up at church with bruises. Sometimes they occur here. Parents dragging their kids out into a back Sunday school class room to "correct" them. There's many different methods: wooden spoons and paddles, hangers and extension chords, leather belts like I vividly recall, even the soles of shoes, or the old fashioned way of literally breaking off a branch and whipping minors on the buttocks. I've witnessed hymn books and yes, even Bibles used to accomplish this. Sometimes it was a swift kick to the bottom of a toddler walking too slow and at other times their very hand used to deliver the painful blow. Bare bottom spankings are usually standard. If they squirm, that's an extra swat or lash. If they refuse to cry, you keep at it till their will is broken and you have won. Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft and babies come out of the womb lying with their screams. The parents are supposed to quote Scripture, point out exactly where their disobedient child has erred. This was taught from the pulpit. It was demonstrated in every Independent Fundamental Baptist household I have been in. It's in IFB handbooks and parenting manuals, such as To Train Up a Child by Michael and Debi Pearl. As a young fundamentalist woman, again, I knew one day it would be expected of me to discipline my own children accordingly, after all, it is in teaching them they are sinners and they need a powerful and sinless God to swoop in and save their soul from a fiery hell. The fear of your child's eternal damnation must be a large bargaining chip. I'm going to guess most parents would never gamble with those odds. 

So whether or not from fear of losing their child eternally or out of pure frustration, maybe it was downright hate of an abuser—one of those reasons explained the bruises on this little boy's upper arms. No one would stop it though and that was one thing I new beyond a shadow of a doubt. This type of abuse is symbolic in IFB and other such fundamentalist sects. Women and children are always lowest on the totem pole. It's never changed; sadly, it probably never will. 

Corporal punishment is one of the most egregious acts committed in these isolated communities. Think about it. How common is this belief? How often do you hear someone remark about a child's need for a "good ass whipping"? That kind of remark is common place. Now, imagine that mindset, but with the theology of good versus evil, heaven versus hell, accepting and embracing beating a child until they see the "blueness" of a wound, taken from a perverse interpretation of a holy text. Then, factor in that many parents have experienced the same, never being shown compassion and have been taught pain equates love. "I'm doing this because I love you," was the phrase uttered and now they believe that if you love your child, you will spank that child. They take those unhealthy teachings into their parenting, impacting their children's lives forever.  Oceania allows no wiggle room after all. And if raised according to the rules, just like children influenced by Ingsoc and believing wholeheartedly in the lies Big Brother has woven, their dedication will be to leaders of their communities, often becoming aloof to their families' needs to see to them instead. At the end of the day, they're willing to do anything to further their calling. There's the appeasing of parents and the pleasing of leadership. 

Fundamentalist children were taught never to lie, but as a former one I can promise you, you learn how to bargain your way out of pain. If you're lucky. It's a survival technique, similar to those make believe worlds. 

Those little cars are now moving slowly one by one. Red, green, red, green. The purple monster truck quickly crushes them both and an enthusiastic laugh erupts from this carefree child in front of me. I take my chances, finding myself reaching for another toy nearby to replace the one I had been using moments earlier. We play like this quietly before I find myself repeating a quote I recalled from a movie I wasn't supposed to have watched on DVD. You are special. You are kind. Then, I add what I felt then and still feel now...it's not you. 

It's not you. It never was. 

There's nothing a child can do to warrant abuse of any kind. 

A child isn't only the value of their "lost" or "saved" soul. They're goodness, innocence, beauty of what life is all about. Still to this day, I can never understand punishing goodness, innocence, beauty of life. 

Oddly, alike 1984's plot, a common denominator in My Oceania and Winston Smith's is that sex was for reproduction only, procreating more life to serve Big Brother, to work from the beginning for their community's twisted and misguided goals. It's only natural to bring forth children into this world to multiply and replenish it. The problem is nurturing isn't displayed properly. What takes place is anything but natural. To cause pain is to be a parent. Repeat that sentence and then ask yourself why people, the public outside of Oceania, stay silent under the guise of freedom of religion? We on the outside, we have the facts. We shouldn't be being played. Why are we going along with Big Brother? Playing by his rules? We're safe by being on the outside, which means our words have no self repercussions, only our silence speaking on behalf of our inaction. And what is that inaction saying, what is it screaming from the top of its lungs? That Oceanian kids don't matter. While those on the outside have the possibility to be safe, they aren't afforded that human right. And how messed up is that? 

I can never see matchbox cars—or big blue eyes for that matter—and not think of that child. In those days, I did share my concerns and trusted when I was told an "investigation" did happen. But as of today, I have no idea if that little boy is healthy, safe, and loved. What I do know is that cases like this are common and certainly, they happen everywhere, all the time. But in these communities and groups where law enforcement and child protective services are viewed as mostly evils and dangerous there are no hotline callers, there are no options. Leadership preaches this particular form of abuse by labeling it "godly discipline" and if they don't, sadly, it's also common that they fail to report. In some situations even the law allows them that right, to not care, and to not act in order to protect at risk children. 

A few years after leaving my community, I got a phone call from a current member on behalf of another such member. There were pleas to help and report the abuse of three minors. I hadn't seen this family in a long time, but unfortunately wasn't surprised by this request. The church's leadership was asked to step in, it wouldn't. The kids were still in an abusive home and at this point I and the family member seated next to me knew it wasn't going to change. After over twenty years in a system of going about certain things, and spending more than half that in one place, you learn the predictable patterns. So, we sat there, me across from this family member, them on the phone, I offering moral support and then just like that, it was reported. 

If you don't live in an isolated group such as these, I'll be honest, you have no excuse in not protecting a child. We pick up our phones every day. We know how to report abuse and if we don't, we have resources to help us to do so. It's our choice to pretend we don't see the bruises, that's all. Which is a sad thing, because kids have no choice but to pretend and go to their make believe worlds all the time because they are the ones feeling the pain, the fear, the worthlessness, believing the lies that a powerful being demands they endure this, that because of love, they are to hurt. 

So this is my plea to those of you reading this...if you suspect abuse, report it. If you are somehow a fundamentalist parent reading this simple nobody blog post, if you are feeling conflicted feelings on what you should do when it comes to your children or a church member's child, side on the emotion of seeing the goodness, innocence, and beauty of life. Don't taint such a priceless gift. 

You may be in an Oceania, it doesn't mean you have to act like it.



U.S. National Child Abuse Hotline: 
1-800-422-4453

To read an original poem about another such story, please check out, The Boy With The Vacant Stare in Meaningful Poetry.

Photo courtesy: Shutterstock, No Greater Joy Ministries; Video: CNN's Ungodly Discipline: Part One