It’s not her role to grin and maintain harmony.
By Jamie Lee
Updated: Feb. 20, 2024
Originally Published: March 7, 2022
I vividly remember being 7 years old, awkwardly balancing in oversized bowling shoes, when my cousin swiped my cherished ball — the one adorned with a mesmerizing purple galaxy. Tears welled up in my eyes, and my uncle chimed in with, “Did you think you were going to be a pro bowler? Only babies cry in public.” Laughter erupted around me, and I quickly wiped away my tears, ducking my head to hide my disappointment.
At 12, my photo was chosen by a local store for a promotional poster. An aunt pointed out a noticeable run in my stockings, magnified on the billboard, where my toe awkwardly peeked through. “Couldn’t they have picked a better picture of you? One where you don’t look homeless?” I attempted to join in the laughter, but inside, I felt crushed.
These instances are minor cruelties that many children endure, suppressing the rising shame to avoid ridicule from adults or peers. As kids, one of our biggest fears is being perceived as immature or overly sensitive. That initial sting of being singled out is often eclipsed by a deeper concern about rejection. So, we go along with it. Unfortunately, these experiences don’t vanish as we transition into adulthood, especially for those perceived as easy targets for social dynamics. Malicious intent often masquerades as lighthearted teasing, but such “harmless” jokes can inflict lasting pain.
Fast-forward to my early 30s: I’m at a work lunch, having one too many margaritas, when a colleague announces to the table that I remind him of Yoko Ono. Laughter ensues, and I offer a faint smile while sipping my drink. I play the good sport; I understand the unspoken rules. What are my options? To confront him and risk creating an uncomfortable atmosphere over a microaggression he’d rather forget? To jeopardize the camaraderie we’ve built?
Months later, while heavily pregnant, a stranger at a restaurant laughs and says, “What are you, carrying twins?” (I wasn’t, just nine months along.) I snapped back, calling him a jerk. He looked taken aback, muttering about how people are too sensitive these days.
These moments illustrate a recurring theme for many women: we’re conditioned to act as social lubricants, engaging in chit-chat that often comes at our own expense. Self-deprecation becomes second nature. Being the target of a joke isn’t enjoyable, but the fear of speaking up often outweighs the pain of remaining silent.
My 5-year-old daughter, brimming with empathy and insight, is easily hurt. Like most children, she hasn’t yet learned to filter what adults find amusing. When a relative laughed at something she said sincerely, I watched her lower lip quiver, signaling her distress. It felt as if something inside me shattered—an accumulation of all the moments I’ve held my tongue throughout my life. I told him, “Please stop laughing at her.” He replied, “Sorry, can’t. I laugh at everything. She’ll have to get over it.”
Those who are sensitive often receive implicit messages to “get over it.” They’re urged to be good sports for the sake of group dynamics, while those making the jokes rarely face repercussions for their words. What, then, does that group harmony represent if it conceals harmful behaviors like sexism, racism, and the marginalization of those who don’t fit societal norms?
Teasing only works when both parties agree to it. The best kind of teasing exists within a framework of trust and equal power dynamics. When adults tease children, the balance of power is rarely even. Yet, some adults view ribbing children as a form of entertainment, often excluding the child from the joke.
For instance, I once overheard a father tell his son, “I don’t think you really need another donut, do you, kiddo?” Everyone in the coffee shop took in the boy’s tight shirt and round cheeks. The boy’s face fell; he was not only the butt of the joke but also victimized by someone he trusted.
I’m not immune to this myself; I’ve found myself teasing my own daughter about trivial things like her inability to brush her teeth quickly or her habit of wearing clothes inside out. To me, it feels playful, an extension of the humor shared between my husband and me. But she perceives it differently. When she expresses, “That’s not nice. I don’t like being made fun of, Mama,” I’m reminded of my responsibility. She’s right, and I need to recalibrate my approach. My intent doesn’t negate the impact of my words.
A few years ago at a renaissance fair, a performer pulled me on stage as an unwilling participant. I resisted, feeling humiliated at being in the spotlight. But he dragged me up, and with the crowd watching, I didn’t want to cause a scene. He joked at my expense while I tried to laugh along. At one point, he made me hold a banana while he attempted to slice it with a whip from across the stage. To this day, I still wonder why I didn’t just throw the banana at him and walk off the stage. But I stayed.
The takeaway from this is simple: never allow someone to make a fool of you just to avoid being labeled a bad sport.
As I reflect on the lessons I want to impart to my daughter, I realize the importance of her finding her own voice. Yes, she should choose her battles wisely and refrain from calling everyone a jerk, but above all, she needs to recognize that her dignity is worth defending. I hope she can dismiss the societal definitions of being a good sport and instead cultivate her own understanding of compassion and boundaries, empowering her to stand up for herself and others when necessary.
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In summary, teaching my daughter to prioritize her dignity over conforming to societal expectations is essential. I want her to understand that it’s okay to challenge the norm and advocate for herself and others, fostering compassion and healthy boundaries in her interactions.
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