The accusations against an assistant football coach at Penn State, and now again with the dismissal yesterday of an associate head basketball coach at Syracuse, left parents wrestling with unanswerable questions:
What if my son were a victim of sexual abuse by someone so trusted? Or what if my son were one of those turning over vans in protest on the evening news? How to explain to my children that a football hero can disappoint them? How to begin to explain to children at all?
One question that has not gotten much attention, though, is the one Karina Giglio raises in a guest post she sent to Parentlode: What about the parents of the graduate student who witnessed a rape in the shower more than a decade ago, then turned and walked away?
"What would MY son do" if he were that young man? she wonders. And what would she tell him when, as happened at Penn State, he called his parents and asked for advice? -- Lisa Belkin, Parentlode
Long before we conceived our son, my husband and I discussed the attributes we wanted him to have, among them the drive, discipline, and focus with which we -- quite frankly -- sometimes struggle. As a sum of our parts, we wanted him to accomplish that which we did not; to become a better person than either one of us were individually.
For his first birthday, my husband gifted me with "The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom," a roadmap to raising successful kids by driving them harder, expecting more, and helping them to be the best they can be (which is usually better than they think). It was his not-so-subtle way of prodding me to be tougher in my child-rearing tactics in order to ensure that we provide the best possible foundation for Anthony to flourish.
It's certainly not an aspiration unique to us. My mother's groups debate everything from the rise of the Tiger Mom to how many hours of REM sleep best facilitate brain growth. How many hours a day should I speak in Russian to ensure that Anthony is bilingual? Montessori versus traditional preschool? Could watching just 20 minutes of Yo Gabba Gabba or Baby Einstein really lead to ADHD like the studies say? (We collectively hope not, since it's the only distraction we've found that affords us solo bathroom time.) Raising a well-rounded, well-adjusted child--and priming him or her for success--takes a lot of work.
But somewhere between Monday's music and swimming classes and Tuesday's Little Tykes, our unspoiled little world of flash cards and story time was tainted by the sludge of the Penn State scandal.
Since then, it's become increasingly difficult to look at Anthony without being overcome with a sense of anxiety: How will I protect him against a growing population of predators, including those whose complacency and silence is almost as monstrous as the physical abusers themselves?
Equally as paralyzing and painful is the question I never thought I'd find myself asking: What would my son do if he was the 28-year-old graduate assistant who walked in on the rape of an 11-year-old?
"There's only one right answer," my husband states emphatically. "He would do whatever he needed to do to remove the child from the situation, to protect him, even if it meant putting himself in harm's way. Then he'd call the police, and take every step to make sure it didn't happen again."
Of course, I'm sure that your child would do the same.
Just as I'm confident that if someone asked Mike McQueary's parents what their son -- a former quarterback who led the Nittany Lions for two seasons, setting several still-unbeaten records --would do in the face of one of the most heinous acts imaginable, their answer would most certainly not be, "I believe he'd make direct eye contact with the child -- and the rapist -- then turn around and walk out, without ever notifying anyone but Joe Paterno. And for almost a decade, he would never question why the rapist was still a part of the PSU community, or what ever became of that child."
Yet that is precisely what he did. We know from the indictment that McQueary called his father immediately following his "discovery". And while we'll never know what took place during that conversation, this much is clear: He chose to do what was right for his career instead of what was right for that child. And in doing so, facilitated the rapes of other children for the next nine years.
There is no ambiguity in what he saw--and what everyone involved in the cover-up knew; no possible question as to what the proper course of action should have been. No grey area; no discrepancies based on religious, cultural, or political differences. But as the countless reports tell us, McQueary was the low man on the totem pole, and he had a lot to lose.
I lament the fact that each of the men who enabled Sandusky is someone's son. A child who had "made it'; who, in all likelihood, was driven by his well-meaning, self-sacrificing parents to succeed in academics and athletics. I can hear the pride in their mother's voices as they beamed--"that's my son, the PSU athletic director", "my son, the VP of business and finance", " my son, the wide receivers coach". There's no question that to reach their professional levels, they had drive, discipline, and high expectations of themselves. But not high enough. Somewhere along that arduous climb up the totem pole, McQueary's, Paterno's, Curley's, and Schultz's definitions of success were lost in translation.
So I ask you again: What would your child do? What would mine?
In a perfect world, this is the part of the story where I'd outline the precise directives, admonishments, and rewards that will help us all raise the type of children who strive for success, but are willing to sacrifice everything they've worked so hard to achieve -- rank, stature, peer relationships, confidences and loyalties -- when faced with a situation that's more critical than anything they have to lose.
But I can't. Because, surprisingly, it's a more difficult formula than that which allows us to teach our children to achieve straight As. Maybe it's because we all assume that "my child" will do the right thing -- especially when that right thing is so clear -- that we don't drill them on it in the type of intense tutoring sessions reserved for calculus and AP English.
Perhaps the only true legacy of the Penn State tragedy -- for its heinous nature is better suited to that moniker than "scandal" -- is the birth of the Lion Mom: One who is driven by the understanding that our obligation as parents begins by instilling the basics of humanity, and working backwards from there. That courage is a good start--as are compassion, empathy, and self-confidence -- but it's not just the top-line knowledge of these traits, it's the ability to use them even if it means placing yourself in harm's way. That the fiercest form of discipline is not that which allows you to reach the highest levels of professional and athletic accomplishment, but rather that which provides you with the strength to take a stand. That there is no greater drive than that which steers your moral compass. That responsibility carries a heavier burden than simply doing what your superiors expect of you, or doing just enough to put a check mark in the "followed procedure" column. That, while success and humanity are far from being mutually exclusive, what should haunt them as they grow into adults, and parents themselves, is not the promotion they lost -- or the championship -- but the gravity of what, and whom, they would have been forced to sacrifice in order to win.
The Battle Hymn of the Lion Mom is one that Penn State's rioting students would have benefited from hearing. It's one that should be shared with the young men interviewed outside of their dorm rooms bemoaning the unjust ousting of the most winningest coach of all time. They're almost the same age as many of Sandusky's victims are now, and are still unable to see that if not for the choices made by their parents -- and maybe just plain luck -- their memories of Penn State could be considerably uglier than this.