One of my former colleagues told me about a habit she had instilled in her children and I decided to adopt it straightaway as it was sound. She told me that she always told her children to have a £5 bill folded and stashed away in one of the many compartments of their purses at all times. This money was strictly for emergency and if it was used, it must be replenished asap.
The daughter, who was also a mate, told me of this time at Uni when she went out on Saturday night with her new housemates. Typically, the girls got sloshed to the gills and except for my sensible mate, none of the inebriated had a penny to spare between them. So Sensible Mate called for a taxi and bundled all of them into it and they all made their way safely home – thanks to her emergency money of £5 tucked away in her purse.
It may seem like a matter of trivial importance but after following my colleague’s advice, I know personally the number of times the £5 had come to my rescue. Whether a teen out for a night out on the tiles or a young mum with a cranky child, safety is paramount and anything that helps you be on your way is worth it.
Why am I talking about it now? I just finished reading Deepti Lamba’s well-written article on the responsibility of parents, with special regard to the Scarlett Keeling case and thought of my old colleague. It isn’t easy being a parent and some people do a better job of it than others. But what sets apart a good parent from a not so good one is the fear – fear for their children’s safety. It is with your heart in your mouths that you let your child go into the world.
But that don’t mean that you hold on to them and stifle the life off them. The trick is in finding the middle ground. In Fiona MacKeown’s case, trusting your 15 year old daughter would be safe in the company of people you have known for a scant few months is nothing short of colossal stupidity. Her argument, that the Aunt who was to have kept an eye on Scarlett, was a church-going Catholic. That endorsement aside, I wonder if Ma MacKeown paused to think of the 25 year old red-blooded male, the nephew of the devout Auntie, who was also in the same house.
In Tamil, there’s a saying, “never put cotton and fire next to each other”. A simple sentiment and one the mum never thought of but 100% valid, nonetheless. You put a sexually active teen next to a man who probably thought of himself as a bit of a stud, with only an aged female as a chaperone, you are just begging for trouble.
I have heard many a time arguments from otherwise sound people who deride the Western society and flatly say that Western parents, as a rule, are a dead loss at this parenting lark. While the Eastern ones, especially Indians (as most of these loud mouths are, more often than not, our fellow brethren, sadly) are stellar examples of parenthood. Well, I don’t think that good parenting genes are passed into our bloodstream along with the smog and grime from the Indian atmosphere. As Amrita shows clearly, bad examples of parenthood can be found everywhere – even *gasp* in India. Maybe that mother thought she was being the perfect parent by devoting so much of herself to her daughter and her daughter’s education. But did she pause to think of what sort of future she was condemning the same daughter to, when she took her life so cheaply? I don’t think so.
Good parents, bad parents, examples can be found everywhere. Geography has nothing to do with it. At the end of the day, all we can do as parents is be there for our children – in every sense of the world. Everything else, as they say, is in the lap of the Gods.
In the meantime, rest in peace all you young ‘uns who have had your life snatched away cruelly. I dedicate this poem of Dylan Thomas’ to you all:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
