I listened to them while I ate my breakfast, a young boy and a man, apparently father and son, on the other side of the wall in the smoking section of the restaurant. The boy's voice seemed small and quiet, in that awkward range between childhood and puberty. The man's voice boomed abnormally loud in contrast.

The man had done nothing during all that time but denigrate his son, belittling him for wanting to lift weights, for wanting to read his father's newspaper, for every thing he did and said. "Jerk," I thought, then was overwhelmed by a wash of pity for the boy, always seeking and never winning his father's approval. Couldn't this man see what he was doing to his son?

"I think I can do it," the boy mumbled in that dull, beaten-down tone. I could visualize him, looking down at the table, maybe blushing. His father laughed, cruelly it seemed to me. It was a laugh that told me that he had no confidence in his son's abilities as clearly as any words could have.

"You ain't smart enough," he told the boy disparagingly, and there was another peal of mocking laughter.

I wondered then what kind of life that boy would have. He must already have suffered enough disapproval for a lifetime. With so consistent a message that he was a failure, how could he ever be expected to succeed?

On an afternoon with nothing but sports on television, my mom and I had watched a documentary on one of the first students who'd shot up a high school, killing his parents beforehand. The documentary pointed out that he had consistently failed at everything he'd tried, but despite his shortcomings his parents had been unflaggingly supportive. He'd simply snapped when he lost his girlfriend, broken under the weight of his failures. In his own words, "I was tired of letting everyone down."

If that kid, from a loving, nurturing family could go berserk, what should we expect from boys like the one in the next room, constantly belittled by his father?

The boy said something else in a low voice. I couldn't distinguish the words, but his father began that cruel laughter again, saying "You'll never make it."

It made me angry, and I felt a fresh wave of some other emotion I couldn't easily identify. I wanted to confront the father, to tell him to give his son a chance, that the boy couldn't help but fail when all he heard was that he already had. I wanted to tell him to give his son some hope. To give him some possibility of pleasing his father.

But in our society, people don't do that. We mind our own business unless it gets bloody. Nobody says anything until a tragedy strikes. Then we all crowd in front of the camera to tell the world we'd seen it coming.

By the time I'd finished my breakfast, I was so depressed I wanted to cry. As youngsters, we recognize when our parents have treated us unfairly. We vow never to make the same mistakes with our children. Yet every one of us, when grown with children of our own can at one time or another identify our parents' voices emanating from our mouths. We become what we know.

This boy was doomed to relate to his children in the same abusive way his father was relating to him. I left money on the table for the bill and the tip, gathered my things and moved to leave through the main restaurant. I could have should have, probably left through the side door, which was much closer. But it was important to me to see this boy, this father. When I reached the doorway, I made a show of putting my jacket on and zipping it up, taking the time to look around the room for the pair I sought. Then I heard the laugh again.

He was an older man, pudgy and bald, dressed in what appeared to be a mechanic's uniform. The boy must have been thirteen or so, tall for his age and very thin, wearing glasses and slumped in his seat.

To my surprise, the father had his arm around his son's shoulder, and in contradiction to the harshness of his laugh, he smiled at the boy. His son smiled up at him self-deprecatingly. The love between them was obvious.

My depression lifted, and I smiled at them when they looked up at me. This boy would be fine, and when he had a son of his own, they'd joke with each other some Saturday morning, having breakfast before he had to go to work, in exactly this same way. It would be a good morning for both of them.

March 10, 2001
796 words