Pigotry

I had read the three little pigs to my children a million times when they were young. For me the story of the three little pigs represented the best analogy of why hard work was important. Earning one’s way in life, was a value I continue to teach my now grown children. After my medical arrest, I found myself not being able to read and write for a period of time. I had gotten home from the hospital with the new, very fragile baby, wanting to continue to try and have some kind “normalcy”. When bedtime came, the older kids pulled books for me to read. Determined, I open the pages and began to stammer and struggle my way through it. My memory was toast, but I could remember some of the stories by heart, so instead of actually reading the written words, I would tell the story, prompted by the pictures, as my anxious audience sat at the foot of the bed. One of the first nights I was home from the hospital, I was tucking my wee ones into bed. One of the boys pulled the story about the three little pigs from the pile of books in the corner of the room. I could remember the basics of the story, but the words in front of me seemed blurred, unrecognizable. I wanted to break down and cry. I wanted to curl into a ball and fall spectacularly apart, but my wee ones, so dependent on me, sat there in anticipation of having the mama they had known read to them. There is no way to explain that the mama they had known didn’t exist anymore, and might not ever come back. I had been altered. My brain didn’t work the way it used to. My thoughts at that time were a jumbled mess, and my memory had become an escape artist, leaving and reappearing on a whim. I sat holding the book in my hands. Looking at the first page trying desperately to find any word I knew. My oldest child, Christy, a girl with striking blond hair and eyes so big and blue they held the sky, was watching me. I continued to struggle to start the story. I could not find the words in my mind or on the pages. I began to tremble, fearful that I would never recover, and that my days of reading to my children were over. Christy came up to me on her knees, and gently laid her hands on mine. “Mama, I have been practicing reading. Can I read the story tonight? I know all the words.” I looked at my child, her face so sincere, so wanting to help me out my perplexing situation. Her face offered no judgment; just some much needed and appreciated help. “Sure”, I said and handed my little girl the book. She took my seat on the bed and I proceeded to kneel on the floor at her feet. The boys and I sat as she opened the book and began to read. Christy told us the story of the three little pigs that night and when she finished, I hugged her so tight, she needed to break for air. She looked deep into my face, holding my cheeks in her tiny hands. “It’s going to be O.K., Mama. You are just tired. I can help.” I nodded and walked her to her room and tucked her in. As I kissed her, I realized how lucky I was to just be there, in the flesh, putting her to bed. I had not felt so lucky earlier. I had felt frustrated and angry at my inability to be the person I once was. I had no way of knowing when I conceived my last child things were going to be so hard. Birthing a child had seemed like the least of my worries, right up until I got my diagnosis that nearly ended my life. Years later when their father was diagnosed with cancer, there was no way of knowing that, either. We had started out as a nice middle class family, building a life, having children, creating home together. As a single mother I continued to live like the little pig with the brick house, working as many jobs as my body could stand, making what I could not buy, building what we needed, trying as hard as I could to do as much as I could for the wee ones I loved so very much. I had pushed myself to the brink, just so we could survive. My children had encountered people who judged them severely for being poor, for not having a father around, for being heartbroken and grieving. They had seen what I like to refer to as the fourth little pig, Pigotry. Pigotry is the pig who selfishly condescends to those who are in need. Pigotry demands the best of everything, and insults anything less. Pigotry is judgmental, mean spirited, and entirely selfish. Pigotry is the person who thinks because they have never encountered such hardships that those who have, deserve to be treated badly. Pigotry is evil. I had never wanted my children to see those Pigotry people so early in their lives. Parents try their level best to keep that dirty little secret to themselves until their children are older, but I had no choice but make the introduction, so my children didn’t think what Pigotry did was acceptable behavior. Pigotry could appear in the form of someone once considered safe. Pigotry showed up in the shape of a mom who refused to enter my house because we were poor, and then went about telling others how we lived. Pigotry came to a soccer meet in the form a dad, who bullied my son, until I stepped in. I could see in his eyes, the pure contempt for me and my son. Pigotry came to open houses at school, children parties, charity events for the school, and even church, sitting right next to us in the pew. Pigotry seemed to crop up when we felt most exposed. Recently, my oldest girl, the one who continues to have her flowing blond hair and deep blue eyes, encountered Pigotry again. While debating politics someone wrote that people, who could not afford to have four children, shouldn’t have them. It made her so angry. I saw the fury in face; I saw her wheels turn, as her mind searched for how she would respond. Believe me, I am not fighting her battle for her. She can handle herself quite well, thank you very much. There is no need for me to step in for my children anymore. They are wicked smart, and if you underestimate them, well, God help you, because the rest of us will be stepping away for our own safety. My children have seen the best and worst in people. They now fight for those who need help and have no voice. They are caring, compassionate, empathetic people who lead with their heart. Pigotry, taught them how to treat people with kindness. That was the take away from the horrible experiences of meeting Pigotry early in life that it never has to be that way. Pigotry took a big hit yesterday from my oldest child. About once a week a child calls home to tell the story of battling Pigotry in the name of creating a better world. While I will always hold the original three little pigs close to my heart, the fourth pig, Pigotry, would be better served as a ham sandwich.