How to raise a boy and other quandaries…
There was a time when I thought it would be easy for me to raise a boy. I had walked out of an abusive marriage; I was armed with the strength of a tree bent after punishing storms. I believed that since I’d survived the demands of a boy-man twisted out of kindness into all sorts of violence, I of all people would know how to shape my little boy into a man who was kind yet strong. ‘Not like his father at all’; that was the background score to all my early motherly endeavors.
We had pink and blue teacups and a plastic kitchen set, we played with both colors not preferring one over the other. We learned not to push and pinch playmates (especially if they were girls), and to say sorry often. We learned about body safety and consent; we learned to express big feelings. We learned that Amma would listen when spoken to with respect and that this respect extended to everyone in the household, family and staff alike. We learned that Amma’s work was as important as Naanu’s and sometimes we had to wait to play.
Human hope is a stubborn thing. It feels betrayed despite a thousand signs that declare the same thing- life can go wrong even when we feel we’re doing everything right. I thought I was doing everything right. I learned to silence my own qualms and shift to make room for every frightening question my son brought to me. I learned to talk about pornography, sex, abuse and relationships with ease. I learned to use story and song to reach my little boy’s imagination when words felt inadequate. I learned to listen to all the unnamed fears that sometimes turn sweet boys into angry young men. I even wrote a book about it all. I was on the right path until I was lost.
My mother swears by this adage from Imam Ali, ‘maine khuda ko apne iraadon ki nakaami se pehchana hai’. I have known God through the failure of my plans. I can now safely say that God and I are on talking terms. We could even be friends. My plans to raise a boy who seemed as woke as possible, said and did only the right things, used his words more than his fists, shared more and sulked less, played more and stared at screens less were all derailed one after the other.
At first there was religious bullying in school. We tried to talk about things, we tried turning the other cheek, and we tried complaining and counseling. And then one day, my son came home with a warning from school. I still wonder if there’s any easy answer to bullying and what it does to kids. Sometimes it leaves children with the knowledge that in this world, power is everything. My male friends used to tell me that teaching boys to be non violent can also leave them very vulnerable and alone. I refused to believe them till I saw my son use his hurt like a weapon after all his gentle efforts were defeated.
Then there was the pandemic coupled with teenage for my son and a crippling illness for me. I could no longer be vigilant for a young boy who needed all the vigilance in this world. When a single parent is confined in pain, shadows step in to lead a lost child- shadows that resemble absent fathers and popular portrayals of what being a man looks like, shadows that seem attractive because they promise thrill and freedom; both paths that have defined manhood for millennia. I had believed my plan would supersede the pull of blood and evolution. I know now that parenting is very little about what parents do and so much more about what happens to them and their children. At best parents are the soil children take root in. The universe decides what shape they take.
So how do I raise my son knowing that this I is very small compared to everything else that also raises my son? Do I become a watchdog and hover over everything he watches, texts and shares? Do I ban the gym and boxing knowing that even as they help him cope with the angry child within, they can be hypermasculine spaces? Do I exact strict punishments when teenage rips through him like a monster and all I can hear in my head is ‘just like his father’ on repeat? Do I ban friends from the house when they break rules knowing that his friends are the only siblings he has in a house full of old and sick people? Do I keep being gentle when I know in my bones that a mother’s love sometimes falls short in the absence of men who can show young boys how to be accountable?
I don’t know. What I do know is that answers often fall somewhere in the middle of what we think we should do and what we can actually do.
So I keep doing what I can. I muster up all my courage and fill up my body to be as big as him when his tall frame frightens me. I try and remember that beneath all that teen bravado, he is still a child who is becoming. I remind us both that I am still his mother and that while there will always be love, there is also consequence. That while he may like to pump his fists and fantasize about fighting everything that hurts him; he is also the beautiful young man who keeps trying to ‘be better’. That even as he relentlessly challenges me; he also celebrates his mother’s new life and dreams about being a good dad someday.
When I feel like I am in danger of becoming emotionally indifferent like my father or harsh like my mother, I remind myself to choose repair because the only way out of pain is forgiveness and effort. We have our past, it cannot be changed. And we have our future. Sons will always have something of their fathers but they will also grow into men very different from their fathers. When I am afraid of losing everything we have strived for, I pray over my fear and remember that life is simple and dangerous when understood in labels. Beyond the labels, where confusion abounds, possibility also takes shape in the muck.
So after a particularly painful week, when my son asks for a hug, placing his cheek next to mine, I hold him close. As our tears mingle softly and he whispers in my ear,
“ Amma please don’t give up on me”, I say,” Never ever, never ever meri Jaan. I will never give up on you.”
This article first appeared in the op ed section of The Indian Express as a part of a series titled How To Raise A Boy. Please explore it to read heartfelt stories from parents of boys. You can read my article here- How To Raise A Boy.
I took my son’s permission to write this piece because this is his journey too and he is now a nearly there young man.
My tribe of friends and writers
continues to be the well spring of courage I draw from. Head over to them if you’re feeling lonely with your writing.
beautiful, courageous and honest writing! always so easy to read you Reema.
Your courage, and that of your son, are both heartbreaking and heartwarming. Love and all good wishes to both of you on this amazing journey called Life.