When and how do we begin to experience shame? Toddlers don’t experience it I am sure. When you rely on someone else to wipe your bottom, and feed and clothe you, shame and pride are usually not traits that will best serve the purpose. Over time, around the time when mobility comes, I suspect, that is when shame checks in. At being caught with the hand in the cookie jar (no metaphors here. I am writing about the actual thing), at bed-wetting and being discovered, thats where it germinates. When you watch someone grow older, maturity markers like shame stand out like sore thumbs; like a thin Indian man eating a small salad at a bar called Dinosaur Barbecue.
We were at the ballet recital at our daughter’s school this past weekend. She had been practicing/playing her moves all over the house, and when guests came. She would raise her dainty little hands over her head, and raise her right leg, while balancing on her left toe. She is a graceful little creature indeed. Our floor is all wood, so she would slip and slide, since she had on her stockings. But she would always recover like it was all part of the routine. We found it funny, and she enjoyed the attention. She was super-excited on the day of her performance. I went with her to drop her off at her school, an hour before the performance. As she entered the classroom, she slipped and fell. The floor was well-polished wood also. No harm done though. She was sitting down to put her pretty little shoes on anyway, so she sat and did that, undaunted. I went away to a coffee shop to read a book, while the group prepared. Show began at noon sharp. It was a loving crowd of family and friends, armed with all kinds of sophisticated audio-visual equipment. Our little one came strutting out with her hair up in a bunch and her ballet costume, dressed like a butterfly. She was deliriously happy that she was able to put on a show for us. She executed all the moves flawlessly, until one point, when she had to pirouette. That is when she slipped and fell. There was an audible gasp from the crowd.
I looked over at her mother, who stood on the side row. Not a trace of pain registered in her face. She smiled, and kept nodding her head with the music, a nice classic from one of the maestros, while maintaining eye contact with the little one. Nothing showed in her face, that commiserated with the little girl's obvious moment of pain. I watched our daughter closely, through the viewfinder of my camera. She stood up, and looked at her mother. Her mother’s obvious nonchalance with the little tumble, only seemed to comfort her. Her face, long with the realization of a 3-year old that all world has ended, contemplated her next move. A lady standing behind me in the wings, remarked, “Oh that poor little thing. Look at her. She is going to cry!” But turns out the poor little thing has a resilient little mind too. Her face hardened and she continued on, and kept in tandem with the rest of the group. I watched with increasing pride, as she persisted and finished her routine. That little resolve broke as her part ended, and she walked off the stage toward her teacher, silently bawling her eyes out. I figured this is it. To expect her to come back for the 2nd act would amount to cruelty. But come back she did, her face ashen, and her steps a bit more purposeful. She finished her routine perfectly, and stood for her rightfully loud applause.
There were two things I realized that day about her. Shame in a 3-year old, guess that’s where the mile marker is for her. That she recovered and continued with the show, much to everyone’s admiration, was all her. She must have dug into the same resolve she uses to be adamant about her eating. She forgot everything by the end of the evening, a couple of hours, while she explored the recesses of her nose. That is still the playful 3-year old I know.
