Letters to My Daughter: Come
Sep 23, 2022
Dear D,
A friend recently told me about spanking their little girl, who is around your age. At one particular point in the story, I felt my throat constrict and I noticed a tingly feeling in the top of my head. Once alone, I played the scene over and over in my head.
“I asked her to pick up her clothes, and she said, ‘no,’” he recounted, “so I told her, ‘Come here.’ And when she came, I bent her over my knee and spanked her.”
A slight feeling of nausea sometimes comes over me when I witness or imagine a spanking, but this story hit me so hard I sobbed myself to sleep that night. I knew this picture had touched something deep within me, but nothing specific came into focus. My brain must have continued processing while I slept, though, because this morning a memory sat next to me as I woke, patiently awaiting my attention.
I am standing in front of a man I know and admire, dimpled hands extended and eyes lifted toward his face. My sister and I have been out climbing around on the hills alongside a logging road and my hands are stacked to the brim with tiny wild strawberries I’ve laboriously gathered. I don’t know now if he called me over or if I was nudged forward by my own drive for connection and approval. What I do know is that the memory still carries the burning shock of betrayal.
As I approach him, extending my small, cupped hands full of juicy berries, he reaches out instantly, instinctually, and pops my hand from underneath, chuckling as the treasured berries fly out of my hand and land in the dirty gravel. My throat constricts and my chest feels tight; I notice a tingling in my upper forehead—part of my attempt to hold back tears. I’m looking away now, trying to act nonchalant. I want to make sure he knows his rejection didn’t affect me—at least not that much.
Sitting with that memory, I realized that part of what I was grieving with my heaving sobs the other night was the inescapable reality that you will experience betrayal; and not just the kind of betrayal that involves me cutting your honey and butter toast in half when you wanted it whole. You will turn toward others with all your heart, and there will be times your openhearted love will be rebuffed, or even outright rejected and thrown back on you as an insult.
I want you to know two things: 1) that when this happens, it’s about them, not you; and 2) that no matter what life brings for you, I will always remember the image of you running toward me with arms thrown wide, hair whipping behind you, and eyes sparkling with joy. Ever since you could run, you’ve broken out into a full throttle dash when you see someone you love coming toward you on the sidewalk.
Cole Arthur Riley wisely points out that “if you’ve known the sting of betrayal, you can end up manufacturing an identity from your alienation.” You can begin creating distance in order “to protect yourself from the reminder and risk of exclusion.”[1] I certainly see myself doing this. You might, too.
My lips are lifting in a tiny smile now, as I realize I have a little girl inside me who still runs with arms thrown wide open, wind whipping through my hair, eyes glittering in anticipation of joyful reception and deep connection. The thing is, she usually hides behind a practiced aura of nonchalance and “if it’s convenient.” Thanks for introducing me to her again.
A blessing:
My dear one, on the cusp of the time in life when we internalize the hard truth that betrayal and broken trust are an inevitable part of life,
may you feel the ground holding you as your feet pound and the wind musses up your hair and you run, arms thrown wide, toward those you love.
When they can’t receive your love, for whatever reason, may you remember Zora Neale Hurston’s words: “No hour is ever eternity, but it has its right to weep.”[2]
May you have safe people to weep with, when you need your tears caught and held for a bit in a spacious heart.
And may you know deep down that no matter how your own armor might form, you are and always will be one who loves big.
By Jody Washburn
Read previous Letters to My Daughter:
Letters to my Daughter: Wishes
Letters to my Daughter: Sideways
[1] Cole Arthur Riley, This Here Flesh: Spirituality, Liberation, and the Stories That Make Us, page 77.
[2] Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God.
