Bad Words

Even though it was Friday, I decided to stay late at school and help the short-handed tutoring program. My tutee was a tiny girl with hair straight like a filly's mane and soft like a freshly baked gingersnap. Her smile was dear, and while it was over-burdened with her adult teeth pushing through, I could tell she would one day smile her way out of speeding tickets. Her name was Chaitali.

My task was simple: take her through her second-grade vocabulary book. And with words like 'badge' and 'tread,' it was going to be an easy session. I sat quietly in the undersized chair across from her and read her workbook upside-down. Her handwriting was bubbly like a child's, but one day, her curvaceous swoops and curls would write notes to break boy's hearts.

And then the word 'separate' came up. "What's this?" she asked. "It's when things come apart." I used my hands, increasing the distance between my palms. "Is it like divorce?" she asked.

The only way a girl who didn't know 'corner' would know 'divorce' is by experience. I could see her father and mother sitting her down on their pristine white couch. Chaitali on the far right, parents—with palpable distance between them—on the left. It's not your fault. We love you the same. It's a problem between us.

"My parents are getting a divorce," she said. It was like hearing her swear, only worse. Words like 'ass' and 'shit' and 'damn' all have a context. Kids will hear these words eventually, even internalize and personalize their meanings. But their lives don't change when they learn how to use 'fuck' as a noun, verb, or adjective. To be so young, to have a discussion with a second grader about divorce was the real bad word.

She swore using a socially acceptable word. She showed no disrespect, and yet her word showed a brutality of life and a loss of faith. Forever will Chaitali's comfort in the family unit and the undying power of love be separated from her childhood. With her smile and with her charm, I'm sure she'll regain the lost faith one day...but it's that much harder.

Most times a child cries, I know better than to humor them. I know a pinched finger in a door will heal, and the tears are magnified by naivete. But when she started to cry in front of me, her tears were salted by experience. I remembered my past and hugged Chaitali, my sister of divorced parents.