Cody reminds me a lot of myself as a child. He loves to read, gets a little thrill from anything remotely historical, has trouble getting to sleep due to his night-owl tendencies and he’s highly sensitive to unpleasant situations.

All of these factors came crashing together last night when Cody flung the door to my office open, on the verge of tears, clutching the book I had tucked him in with nearly an hour beforehand. The book was this:

Cody has become so fascinated with history, particularly ancient Egypt, I purchased this book for his birthday in August. It’s a really cool book, with tons of fast facts and illustrations about different ancient civilizations, designed for kids ages 8-12, though I spent a happy while flipping through it. (Incidentally, right now, Amazon also has it at a bargain price of $8.)

Back to the story, Cody silently brought the book to my desk, laid it in carefully in front of me, and pointed to the five sentences and the small picture that had given his night such a bad turn.

The section was titled, “Human Sacrifice,” and it described how the Incas sacrificed people to their gods. The picture was of the remains of a sacrificed girl found in 1999.

I scanned the paragraph, not completely realizing how shaken he was. “Yep, that stuff happened,” I confirmed, trying to figure out how old the girl might have been. She seemed young.

I heard a choked sound and looked up to see tears forming in Cody’s eyes. “How could people do that?” he said, and burst into sobs.

I comforted him the best I could, hugging him tightly and assuring him that he was safe. It wasn’t fear that gripped him though; it was anguish over the capability of human beings to engage in such a horrific act.

“How can I forget about this?” he pleaded with me. “How will I be able to not be creeped out by it ever again?”

I knew just what he meant.

As I held him close, I remembered the moment I really understood what people could do to each other. It was probably quite a bit less dramatic, but equally powerful and disturbing. It was the very late 70s or very early 80s (yes, I’m dating myself) and I was fairly young. My mom was watching something on TV and I happened to come in the room just as on the screen a jilted wife walked into the room where her husband and his lover were in bed and shot them both point blank.

It haunted me for days. I think it was mostly the fact that it was a woman that fired the gun that really got to me. I found the scene horrifying and reprehensible, maybe because at that young age I perceived all women as nurturing and caring. It was shocking and horrible to me that anyone, much less a woman, could shoot someone else in cold blood like that.

I remember the feeling of losing my blind faith in humanity well. It was like tiny pinpricks all over my skin, yet complete and utter silence and stillness inside, allowing for only a very slow thump of my heart, making my breath catch and hold every time I thought of the scene I had witnessed. The scene that represented the loss of my innocence.

How can I unlearn this? I remember feeling, and that’s just what Cody was asking me. How do I cope with this knowledge that humans can be so evil?

I sighed. “You can’t forget,” I told him. “But it’ll get better. It will fade in time and it’ll become less and less upsetting.”

I comforted him a while longer, until his tears had subsided and he had a different, much more upbeat, book in hand.

“I just never knew people could do that,” he said, his voice full of sorrow and resignation.

“I know,” I said softly. ”I’m sorry.” I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m sorry you found out. I’m sorry I don’t have anything more comforting to say. I’m so sorry for your loss.

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Is there a particular event in your and/or your child’s life that marks the time when you (or your child) understood what people could be capable of?

Tags: children, kids, parenting, parents, reading