We sat quietly in the Chilliwack hotel room, staring at one another in stunned silence. It felt like I had just had the wind knocked out of me. My wife was seated on one of the queen beds, I was sitting on the other across from her. Between us my son was crouched on the awful shag carpet, his small head on my lap. Although he’d finally begun to calm down, he was still whimpering softly.
We’d always known he was a bit different from other children. He was quieter, more in his own head, and he had trouble relating to other children his age. We had always chalked up his eccentric behaviour to how sheltered my ex-wife (his biological mother) and her husband were raising him and his siblings. Truth be told, we were right, and the knowledge was horrifying.
“Tell me again,” I began, running my hand over his crew cut hair, “what did your step-father say?”
P. sniffled. “He said I wasn’t smart.”
Across from me, I saw my wife clench her jaw in disgust. “He says I can’t read because I’m not smart. Richie thinks I’m stupid.”
My eyes bulged from their sockets. My face turned to beat red. My blood boiled. Choking back the urge to scream, I gently lifted my son from the ground, placing him beside me on the bed. My arms wrapped around my boy so tight that I imagine he had trouble breathing. My heart pounded in my ears with such ferocity that it drowned out the noise from the air conditioner.
“I’m stupid, Daddy.” He told me, sobbing again. At that moment there were no words. There was no amount of preparing that I would do as a parent for a situation like that. Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20, and looking back, nine years later, I know how fast I should have responded verbally, but I didn’t. Instead, I cradled my son in my strong arms, and I held him close to me.
I knew then what I know now, I just couldn’t articulate it. I knew that words had power. I knew they had to ability to suppress, to hurt, to enslave, and arguably to kill. But I also knew they had to power to mend, lift up, and heal. With tears rolling down my face, I held my boy at arm’s length, looking him directly in the eyes.
“You listen to me, and you listen to me right now. Never forget what I’m about to tell you. You are not stupid. There is not a damn thing wrong with you. Do you understand me? You’re a smart, beautiful, kind little boy.”
My son reached up with his small, soft hand, and wiped the tears off my cheeks. “But Richie said-”
“Richie is an ignorant asshole, and he’s wrong.” I replied, cutting the boy off abruptly.
For a brief moment, my wife shot me an obligatory disapproving look, which promptly vanished.
“What’s ignerant mean?” P. asked innocently.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “It means that Richie is thoughtless and doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” I responded.
P. was now calmer than before, but he still hung his head low. Although he was not yet six years old he had a self-awareness to him that I had not seen in children three times his age. “I can’t do things other kids can…” He said, trailing his words off.
I nodded solemnly. “I know. But that’s right now. And that doesn’t mean you won’t be able to do the same things they can do, in time. Son, I know this is causing a big ouch for you right now. I know it hurts, buddy.”
“It does.” He responded, sniffling. “I don’t want to be stupid.”
Quickly I held him to me again. “Son, one day we’re going to talk about this again. One day, years from now, you’re going to remember how one mean, short-sighted person called you stupid once, and you’re going to laugh. You’ll laugh because he couldn’t have been more wrong. You’ll laugh because you’re going to do great things that no stupid person would ever do. You’re going to laugh because you’re amazing.”
My son smiled, and not another word was said.
Last year, after almost nine years of struggling with learning disorders, nearly being on the spectrum, and dealing with ADHD, my son tested two years above where his peers were in their reading levels. As he handed me a copy of his new favourite book, Stephen Kings “It”, he smiled at me.
“Guess I’m not stupid, after all.” He told me. This was the same boy. The word was the same. But the meaning, the message, was completely different. I was, and am, so proud of him. But more importantly, HE is proud of himself.