Hazel’s hair has grown long enough for her to wear it in a pony tail, or after Jason was through with her last evening, in pig tails. She was so proud, admiring herself in the mirror. She came to the dining room to show me the new look. I took my phone out of my pocket and asked her if I could take her photo. (I always ask, believing that taking someone’s photo without permission, especially close-up, is aggressive and intrusive. When denied permission, I put my camera away.)
Except last night. I asked her again. And again she shook her head, “no.” I tried bargaining with her. “Hazel,” I said, “When you want to play My Little Ponies, I always play with you. I even take “Tempest Shadow,” (even though her unicorn is broken, and Tempest Shadow is, according to Hazel, always mean.) Still no luck. I kept at it for another minute or so before Jason, overhearing this one-sided discussion, admonished me to stop. I did, recognizing too late that permission means just that, and “no” cannot be construed to mean anything but “no.”
Hazel saw a printed piece of paper on the table. She said, “What’s that?” Jadyne replied, “That’s Granddad’s.” Hazel picked it up, crumpled the paper before I could say anything, then threw it in the garbage. The feelings and responses of three year olds are as palpable as those in the rest of us, and Hazel was expressing herself, her disappointment in my behavior in a way that we both understood.
Later in the evening Jason wanted to clarify his response to me. I said, “I get it. I should have respected her feelings the first time she said ‘no.’” He went further. “In a patriarchal society in which we both represent what it means to be a male, men believe that their words, actions, behaviors, can persuade women either to be the person that men want them to be, or to behave as men want them to behave. Even in an interaction as small and apparently insignificant as the one you had with her, she has to know that what she says counts, that her feelings, her responses are valid and not to be discounted or ignored.”
That was unexpected. I took it in a broader context, that we simply need to respect someone else’s feelings and words, no matter how old that someone is. That’s true, but Jason narrowed it down to a man-woman interchange, knowing that he was preparing to arm her with assurance and self-confidence, knowing that the male superior, male-dominated society was something she would be facing, and not just in kindergarten.
The Ides of March. Addendum. Last night Jason was downstairs helping Hawthorn with his math. Hazel had just emerged from the tub and was putting on her pajama bottoms. She ran around the house, laughing, as only she can do. She stood at the top of the stairs leading to Hawthorn’s room, then pulled her pajama bottoms down to her ankles, then began to make her way down the stairs. Her pajama bottoms were like a pair of cloth handcuffs. I saw her just as she was about to make her first step, and realizing that her first step could well be her last, I reached out to her, grabbing her arm. She began screaming, as I was preventing her from doing what she thought she wanted to do. When Jason heard the screams he came out of Hawthorn’s room and reminded Hazel that not only was I not the bogeyman, but I had possibly just saved her life. The image of her standing there has visited me a dozen times today, and as I’m now typing this, it’s still there.