It’s not her responsibility to smile and keep the peace.
By Mia Chen
Updated: Feb. 20, 2024
Originally Published: March 7, 2022
I remember being seven, standing in a bowling alley wearing oversized shoes that smelled terrible. My cousin had taken my favorite ball, the one that sparkled like a purple galaxy. As I began to cry, my uncle remarked, “Did you think you were going to be a pro bowler? Only babies cry in public.” Laughter erupted around me, and I quickly wiped my tears away, ducking down to hide my disappointment.
At twelve, my photo was chosen by a local K-Mart to be featured as an advertisement for their photo department. An aunt pointed out the run in my stockings, which looked magnified tenfold on the huge sign. “Couldn’t they have picked a better picture of you? One where you don’t look homeless?” I feigned laughter, joining in with everyone else.
These seemingly small acts of cruelty are something many children experience, leading them to suppress their feelings to avoid ridicule from adults or peers. As kids, we’re often taught that one of the worst things is to be seen as sensitive or immature. The initial sting of being singled out is overshadowed by the fear of being left out. So we play along, but these moments don’t vanish in adulthood — especially for those perceived as easy targets for social jesting. The issue lies in how malice, often disguised as playful teasing, can leave lasting scars.
Fast forward a couple of decades, and I’m in my early thirties, enjoying a company-sponsored lunch with a few too many margaritas. A co-worker announces that I remind him of a famous figure, eliciting laughter from the group. I smile weakly into my drink, playing the role of the good sport. After all, what’s the alternative? To challenge him and risk creating awkwardness over a microaggression that everyone would prefer to forget? To jeopardize the camaraderie we’ve built?
Then, while pregnant, a stranger at a restaurant loudly quipped, “What are you, carrying twins?” I was nine months along and stunned. I called him out, and he looked taken aback. “People are too sensitive these days,” he muttered, retreating to his table, clearly unprepared for my response.
These moments form a familiar pattern for many women. We’re conditioned to act as social glue, engaging in small talk and laughter at the expense of our own dignity. Self-deprecation becomes our second language. It’s uncomfortable to be the target of a joke, but often the fear of backlash for speaking up keeps us silent.
My five-year-old daughter, with her remarkable empathy, is easily hurt. She hasn’t yet grasped what adults find amusing. Once, when a relative laughed at something she said sincerely, I watched her lower lip quiver, signaling her distress. I felt a deep ache within me, a culmination of all the times I had held back my own feelings. I asked the relative to stop laughing, and he replied, “Sorry, can’t. I laugh at everything. She’ll have to get over it.”
Sensitive individuals are often urged — perhaps not as bluntly as my relative — to suppress their emotions for the sake of others’ amusement. Meanwhile, those who make the jokes are seldom asked to restrain themselves. So once again, someone’s instinct gets buried in the quest to maintain social harmony. But what does that goodwill truly mean if it allows for sexism, racism, ableism, and the marginalization of those who don’t conform to societal norms?
Teasing is only acceptable if both parties consent to it. Harmless teasing can only happen within a framework of mutual trust and equal power dynamics. Yet, when adults tease children, that balance is rarely present. For many adults, ribbing kids becomes a pastime, often done in a way that leaves the child feeling excluded from the joke.
At a coffee shop, I overheard a boy ask for a donut. His father replied, “I don’t think you really need another donut, do you, kiddo? One’s plenty for you, yeah?” The boy’s face fell as everyone scrutinized his shirt stretched tight over his belly. Not only was he the target of the joke, but his trust had been betrayed by someone he relied on.
I’m not perfect; I’ve caught myself teasing my daughter over seemingly innocent things. I’ve laughed at how long it takes her to brush her teeth or her habit of wearing clothes inside out. To me, it feels playful, but I can see her withdraw. “That’s not nice. I don’t like being made fun of, Mama,” she tells me, and I’m humbled. She’s right; even if I don’t see harm in my words, she does. My intentions don’t negate the impact of my actions. I apologize and strive to be better.
At a renaissance fair a few years back, I was pulled on stage as an unwilling participant. I resisted, overwhelmed with embarrassment, but I didn’t want to make a scene. The performer made jokes at my expense while I tried to laugh along. He even forced me to hold a banana while he whipped it from across the stage. To this day, I’m baffled by why I didn’t just throw that banana at him and leave. If there’s a lesson to be learned, it’s that you should never allow someone to humiliate you just to avoid being labeled a bad sport.
As I think about what lessons I’ll impart to my daughter, I realize it’s essential for her to find her voice. Yes, she should choose her battles wisely, and perhaps not call everyone a “shithead,” but more importantly, she must know that her dignity is worth defending. I hope she can dismiss others’ definitions of being a good sport and instead cultivate her own understanding of compassion and healthy boundaries. I want her to feel empowered to speak up for herself and others when it truly matters.
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