The Mortification of a Child

Awhile back I was in the parking lot of Target putting shopping bags in the back of my car. My young child had already gotten into the car. A woman and a child came up to me. The child looked to be only a few years older than my own. The woman matter-of-factly asked me for money. She was polite, civil. She did not beg. She simply explained that she & her daughter were hungry & had no money - that she was hoping to get into a shelter later that day. If the woman was embarrassed to be begging in a Target parking lot – she did not show it. Not because she was arrogant or clueless about the dynamics of the situation but because, if anything, she seemed to be numb, necessarily detached. She had no money. She had a hungry child. She had no option but to beg – to request – a handout.

As she looked me steady in the eye I opened up my purse. I told her the truth – that I did not have much but that she could have what I had. I handed her the money. She thanked me with reserved, but genuine, gratitude in her voice. Then she & her daughter left.

Throughout my encounter with this woman – her daughter hung her head in shame, her face turned toward her mother – unable to face the reality, the meaning of my presence – her presence next to me as her mother was asking for help. The young girl’s body, her posture never moved. She was frozen in her mortification. Her mother’s hand resting gently, though not embracingly, across her shoulders. My heart broke for the child. So young to experience so much. How many times, I wondered, had the child been witness to her mother’s requesting of money from strangers? Would she ever forget the experience? Would it haunt her dreams, informing her sense of herself as she grew over the years?

These were my thoughts as I slowly got into my car. The child – whose face I never saw – broke my heart. I felt heavy inside. As I closed the car door behind me, my child asked – “Mommy, who were they? What did they want?” Another child about to learn a harsh life lesson. I told him the truth – or what I thought he could understand. I explained that there were people who had less than we did. I explained about homelessness. I explained that the mother was trying to care for her child as best she could. I hope he understood.

I hope the woman’s daughter understood. I hope the girl someday finds it in her heart to forgive her mother for so embarrassing her. I hope the girl finds it in her heart someday to be hopeful & happy and forgiving of her, our, harsh world.

The memory of the girl’s sense of shame, her lowered head and hidden face, is still etched in my mind, like a heavy scar.

I did not know then – I do not know now – the truth of the circumstances that led to my encounter with this woman and her child. Were they really on the streets? Was it because of a lost job? An abusive man? Drugs? Etc? Who knows. And I can not, will not bring myself to judge the “worthiness” of their victimhood – to look for accountability in their circumstances. Whatever the truth was, and still may be, it ultimately boiled down to the mortification of a young girl far too young to be blamed for anything.