If you see something, say something.

We've all been there, right? In those public spaces, a mall or a supermarket browsing the aisles, when you notice a child severly misbehaving (because that's what children often do) and you see a parent smack or scream at their offspring in such a violent, uncontrolled, rage-filled manner that it leaves you slack-jawed. Mouth agape you wonder: what should I do? Should I say something? Should I call the police? Should I interfere? Sometimes there's another single, childless, adult in the supermarket with you who has seen this bit of domestic violence play itself out by the cereal boxes and you both catch each other's eye, all brows furrowing, wide-eyed, you silently acknowledge what you've just witnessed, reading each other's minds, both thinking: should I get involved in this shit or just grab my Grape Nuts and run?

I, sad to say, more often than not take the coward's way out. I walk by the parent who has just, visibly, lost it, glaring at them, passive-aggressively telegraphing that I do NOT approve of them pulling a Joan Crawford in the SuperFresh. But, I've seen too many incidences of people interferring in a parent-child moment and getting yelled at by the mother or father and being told, rightly or wrongly, to mind their own " goddamn fucking business." You could say I'm a little hesitant to get involved; afraid, I will get my ass kicked by this parent like their five year old just did.

This morning on the subway, a mother and daughter got on the 6 train going uptown, a very crowded rush-hour train. A good-natured passenger stood up and gave the child his seat and the mother pushed her daughter onto the plastic subway seat, a little more roughly than seemed... normal. Then the mother instead of protectively standing in front of her little munchkin, her baby, turned away and ignored the kid. I silently take stock of this scene because I am standing right next to this odd little family duo. I notice the other passengers have noticed that there is something slightly off about this little family. One other passenger, in particular, is rolling her eyes, and, passive-agressively staring at the mother in a way that I find all too familiar because I realize I am probably doing the same thing.

A few stops go by when the kid starts to yell "Mama, Mama, Mama" but, Mama, looks to be having some kind of minor breakdown and continues to ignore her child, covering her face with her arm, looking like she wants nothing more than to lay down and just give up.

The community on the train looks confused and the feeling that, obviously, prevails is: what should we do? I am spared the moral dillemma of "to get involved, or not to get involved" because the train has reached my stop and so I leave. I leave as most of us do, knowing we saw something that wasn't right, but didn't have the courage to say something, didn't have the time, couldn't because it was too inconvenient, or might get ugly and "really who am I to interfere?"

And, as I march to work, trying to shake off the image of this unremarkable but disturbing scene, I can't help but think of this Philip Larkin poem:

This Be the Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself