Driving home from a quick trip to the bank last week, we stopped, as we always do, at a stop sign that guards the corner of a side street and our street, which is a busy “main drag.” As I looked back and forth in preparation for my left turn that would lead us home, Joshua piped up from the back seat, “Mom, why is there a word on the stop sign?” I hadn’t even really looked at the stop sign, I mean, I know it’s there, and I stopped without actually looking at it (’cause dudes, I cannot afford another ticket!) As I raised my eyes to see what Joshua was talking about, I saw that below the word “stop” someone had painted with white spray paint, a hate word. One that starts with an F and rhymes with bag and hag and rag.
“What is that word, mom?”
Cars were coming each direction. I couldn’t turn left. I was stuck with hateful graffiti and an inquisitive four-year-old.
“It’s not a nice word, honey. So I’m not going to tell you what it is.”
“F*g? F*g isn’t a nice word?”
Did I mention my inquisitive four-year-old can already read? Hearing him say that word made me want to vomit.
“No, honey, it’s not a nice word, and not something we should ever say.”
Finally, my chance to turn left came. I turned and then made a quick right into our driveway, half a block and yet worlds away from that stop sign.
“Why did someone write that word on the stop sign?”
“I don’t know, baby, but it wasn’t a nice thing to do. It was a wrong choice. And you may never say that word, okay?”
“Okay. I didn’t write it.”
“I know, honey.”
“Did Daddy do it?”
“No, baby, your daddy would never do something wrong or mean like that.”
With that, I got out of the car, got the kids out, and we headed inside. I went through the motions of a normal afternoon, but inside I was simmering with anger. Why did some idiot have to paint a word like that on our corner? We live in the city – but seriously – that corner is home to a house and a church on one side and a body shop on the other. So why? I don’t know, but I’d like to take that can of spray paint and shove it down their throat, nozzle engaged. No, that isn’t very Christian of me, but hearing the word “f*g” come out of your four-year-old’s mouth will do things to a woman. Even if it’s said in the most innocent of ways, just knowing that the word exists has taken some of that innocence away – my child’s innocence. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the existence of a kind of person that would do such a thing – Did Daddy do it?– he can’t even picture the perpetrator, and for that I am grateful. He doesn’t know anyone mean, or bad, or hateful. But I know it won’t always be that way and it just makes me want to build the child a cocoon, or go live in a holler (like the one from whence I came) or dag-nabbit, maybe just blindfold him whenever we leave the house. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Blindfold Joshua and make sure Sophie never learns how to read!
All right, I’m getting a little crazy here. But seriously, mommies, does that not just make you wince?
We stopped at that corner again yesterday, and the word had been painted over. “Look mommy, the bad word isn’t there anymore!” Joshua yelled triumphantly.
He was happy that it had been set right. He hadn’t forgotten that there was wrong done in that place, but I am hoping this incident fades from his memory soon.
I know it won’t soon fade from mine.
