A woman was eating dinner with her son and her daughter. Her husband was upstairs in bed. Her husband was sick. Very sick. He had been sick for over a month.
Dinner was a single can of baked beans. It was all they could afford. Times were tight.
“You guys know Mable across the street, right?” the woman said as she scooped up a spoonful of beans.
Both kids nodded.
“Her husband Frank beats her,” the woman said. She felt bad telling her children about it, but they needed to know what people are capable of. “And the worst part, he only does it when they’re alone and he always hits her in ways that don’t leave obvious bruises. Mable can’t afford to go to a doctor and because her husband is nice to her in front of other people, nobody really sees how much he beats her.”
“That’s awful,” the daughter said.
“I’m glad you think so, honey,” the woman said. “Yesterday, I took the last of our savings and hired a private investigator. He’s going to watch the house night and day until he can get proof that Frank beats Mable.”
“Wait a minute,” the son said. “Those savings were for dad’s doctor visit next week. It’s why we’re eating these beans. We’ve saved for months so he could go to the doctor. He’s really sick, Mom.”
“I know,” the mother said sadly. “And it upsets me that I had to use it on the private investigator, but we simply cannot tolerate domestic abuse like that. Frank has to be stopped. And he has to be punished.”
“But Mom,” the daughter said, “Daddy needs that doctor. He might die, mom.” The daughter then pointed to a piece of paper held to the fridge by a magnet. “And that electric bill is pink. Doesn’t that mean they’re about to turn off our electricity?”
“Yeah, it does,” the mother said. “We’ll just have to get by, honey. We have an obligation to help Mable. She’s suffering. A man who beats his wife can’t get away with that.”
“I agree that’s terrible,” the boy said. “Can’t we go to the other neighbors? If you know about the abuse, surely they do too.”
“I went to the other neighbors,” the mother explained. “They know it’s happening but they don’t want to get involved. It’s up to us, kids. We have to do the right thing here.”
“How is saving Daddy’s life not the right thing?” the boy asked.
“And how do you know the private investigator will even help?” the girl asked. “He might not get any pictures. Then the money was wasted.”
“Kids,” the mother said, “I’m ashamed of you both. This man beats his wife! How can you sit there and suggest we let him get away with that?”
“I’ve never seen him beat his wife,” the girl said.
“I’ve heard the arguments,” the mother said. “He does it.”
“Even if he does,” the son said, “Dad needs a doctor. Let’s take care of Dad first, then let’s pay the electric bill. Then we’ll put everything that’s left into helping Mable.”
“Mable is a human being,” the mother argued. “She deserves better than that.”
“Mable’s not my Daddy!” the girl said. “I don’t want to lose my Daddy.”
“Well, if we don’t stop Frank, you might lose your Daddy anyway,” the mother said. “If Frank gets away with beating his wife, what’s to stop him from coming over here and beating your Dad? Or me? Or you?”
“When he finds out you hired a private investigator, he might do that anyway!” the son said.
The mother sighed. “Look. We’re good people. We cannot sit here while that poor woman gets beaten!”
“So you’re willing to let our daddy die to help her?” the daughter said, tears in her eyes.
“We have to do the right thing,” the mother said. “This conversation is over.”
“I think we should have a say in this,” the son said. “It’s our daddy who could die!”
“The conversation is over!” the woman screamed. “You won’t decide to do the right thing, so I’ll decide for you.”
“But–”
“That’s enough!” the mother said. “Eat your dinner.”
The children finished their beans in silence. They both knew their relationship with their mother would never be the same…
And that, my friends, is the story of the current debate about Syria.
–Jerry
Your Face Is Politics 