After some schooldays, my eight-year-old and ten-year old children burst into the house and wailed, “My teacher doesn’t like me,” or “My friends won’t eat with me,” or “Our class got into sooo much trouble for no reason!”
How do we respond when our hearts break for our children as they carry their young angst?
I didn’t know exactly, but I offered kind words. “Ugh, I’m sorry.” Or “That sounds hard.”
I couldn’t fix what felt wrong but I hoped, at least in those moments, those words—perhaps inadequate–comforted them.
Later I’d read them a much-loved children’s book, Judith Viorst’s, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. In the book, young Alexander has one of those days in which nothing goes right for him. He wakes up with gum in his hair. He trips and drops his sweater into the wet sink and says, “I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.”
His brothers find toy cars and tiny rings in their cereal boxes. Simple cereal pours out of his box. He says, “I think I’ll move to Australia.”
In the carpool to school, Alexander lands scrunched in a middle seat between two others and feels carsick. He says, “I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.”
At recess, his best friend plays only with two other boys. At lunch, he has no dessert in his bag. He says, “next week I’m moving to Australia.”
Finally in bed, forced to wear his hated pajamas with a railroad train design, he threatens again to move. His mom says, “Some days are like that. Even in Australia.”
We all know times when someone asks, “how are you?” And we answer, “It’s been a day!”
For example, one recent morning, a friend texted, “I’ll be at your house at 7:30 to help with heavy chores.” He called at 9 a.m. to say, “I’ve had a flat tire. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” He huffed in at 10:30, apologizing, “Sorry. Not only did I have a flat tire, but also a huge tree fell on my truck, destroyed the two ladders on top.”
“Terrible. Horrible. Not good,” I said.
As he started one of the big jobs, I heard his exhale, “Geez!”
I said, “That was a big ‘geez’ with your sigh!’”
He said, “This door I’m trying to move is stuck. It’s been a ‘geez’ kind of day.”
At the same time, we chorused, “Some days are like that.”
Another day, I called a friend, who didn’t answer, but texted, “I’ll call you back,” and didn’t. Then I lost my way and drove an extra hour in pouring rain to reach my weekend destination. Once there, I stood in a crowded line for two hours waiting to check in. Geez. And I thought of that book. I thought of bolting, of how I, how we, often want to leave, maybe move to Canada when living here hurts.
I thought of how immigrants have already relocated, maybe more than once, and now have little freedom to flee. How do we respond to human anguish? I don’t know exactly.
I do know that horrible days come in many forms and look different to each of us. We sigh a little when Alexander losesfriends on the playground. But pain runs deeper and broader when children and adults lose friends because they disappear. We cannot equate the chronic terror and survival challenges faced by immigrants in America with “having one of those days”. Many of our immigrant friends live very bad horrible times here now: Making phone calls, in English, with five jumbled instructions, never able to speak to a real person; The danger of bodily harm; Feeling slighted; Ongoing detaining; Seeing neighbors not allowed to apply for jobs or fail to get jobs or being fired from jobs or ICE’d away from jobs; Navigating systems impossible for those of us who have lived here our whole lives; Living with the uncertainty of what the results of upcoming elections might mean for immigrant communities.
And more.
Of course, we could think, “some days are like that, even in America.”
Yet for some people, not only some days are like that; many days are like that. And rather than, “even in America,” we could think, “especially in America.”
What do we do when terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days might become the norm for so many of our neighbors? What do we do when our hearts break and we feel hopeless and helpless to fix the angst so many carry? Maybe we realize that an Alexander lives inside all of us, that everyone we meet might be struggling, might be having a “geez” kind of day or living an unceasing geez kind of life here. Whether we suffer big or small difficulties, we all trudge through tough times. How do we respond?
When we can’t fix what feels wrong or broken, when stress and distress land as onslaught and assault our neighbors, friends and children, when ongoing despair won’t resolve soon, we might not know exactly how to help. Yet, maybe we offer compassion. Maybe we say something like, “I’m so sorry.” Or “This sounds so hard.” And may we hope that our—perhaps inadequate–words comfort, because when the burdens others carry seem unbearable, and we can’t fix the pain for them, at least we can be kind.
