Chapter 6: Children Are Seen, Not Heard

In my family, there was an unspoken rule that governed much of my childhood: children were to be seen, not heard. It was an old-world philosophy, passed down through generations and deeply ingrained in our daily lives. My parents, each with their own burdens, had little patience for the noise and messiness that naturally comes with raising kids.

My dad, with his strict upbringing in another country, believed in order and respect. He wasn’t a man of many words unless he had a drink in hand, and when he did speak, it was often about his hard life and his expectations. My sister and I knew better than to interrupt or question him. Any attempt to express our feelings or needs was met with a stern look or a dismissive wave of the hand. It was clear: our place was to listen, not to speak. We were lucky to just exist.

Mom, on the other hand, was a different kind of disciplinarian. She was the modern woman of the 80s—The power suits with shoulder pads, career-driven, always on the go, yet somehow still managing to keep the house spotless and meals on the table. She still brags about functioning on 3 hours sleep for 3 decades to make sure all of us had a perfect house, perfect clothes, and homecooked food. However; sometimes she neglects to remember she had us the kids constantly doing something productive and that at our house Saturday mornings were never for watching cartoons.

With her obsessive-compulsive tendencies, the house had to be immaculate, and that meant everyone had a role to play. Saturday mornings were reserved for cleaning, and me and my sister were never exempt. Saturday morning from about 9-noon we cleaned everything in our house—until the house gleamed. Even our clothes were perfectly ironed, jeans included.

There was little time for play or self-expression. Messy crafts or anything that got you or the house dirty, off limits. Our hair had to be just right, our clothes neat and pressed, and our behavior beyond meek. If we stepped out of line, there were consequences. Not the kind where you’re sent to your room to think about what you’ve done—no, that would have been a luxury. In our house, stepping out of line often meant physical punishment. A hard slap, a whack with the wooden spoon, or worse—the dreaded (but thankfully rare) kick with my dad’s steel-toe construction boot to the rear end. And then, of course, there was the belt, always looming as the ultimate threat if we didn’t toe the line.

As for my needs, including the need for down time, my Mom didn’t have that luxury; she was juggling her career as a carrier oriented working woman, trying to manage my sister’s struggles, and dealing with an alcoholic husband. The last thing she needed was a child whining about something insignificant. So, I learned to keep quiet, to bottle up my feelings, and to present myself as the well-behaved, well-groomed child that were expected me.

But every so often, the cracks in our family’s façade would show. Dad’s drinking would spiral out of control, and the tension in the house would reach a breaking point. Arguments would erupt, voices would be raised, and suddenly, the rule about children being seen and not heard was thrown out the window—because now, we were the focus of those raised voices. We were either being scolded for something minor or facing the sting of punishment.

And then there were the times when things got really bad where dads words started to progress into violence. Mom left dad several times, once, we ended up in a women’s shelter run by nuns, escaping one of my dad’s darker spirals. Other times, we’d move into a dingy apartment, far from the nice house we were used to. These were places where the crime rates were higher, and the food was scarce and unappealing—egg salad and tuna sandwiches that, to this day, I can’t stand.

Eventually, Dad would come around, full of apologies and promises to change. He’d say he missed us, that he was sorry for all the drinking, the yelling, the chaos. We’d pack up our things and move back into the big house, pretending like everything was fine. But the cycle would repeat—chaos, apology, return, and repeat.

Throughout it all, I learned to keep my thoughts and feelings to myself. Speaking up was pointless; it wouldn’t change anything. So, I perfected the art of silence, of blending into the background, of being seen and not heard. It was a survival mechanism, one that would stay with me long into adulthood, shaping the way I dealt with the world around me.