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Empowerment
It’s not her duty to smile and maintain harmony.
By Lila Chen
Updated: Feb. 20, 2024
Originally Published: March 7, 2022
I remember being seven years old, standing in a bowling alley with oversized shoes that smelled terrible. My cousin had taken my favorite ball, the one that sparkled like a purple galaxy. When tears began to flow, my uncle laughed and said, “Did you think you would become a pro bowler? Only babies cry in public.” As laughter erupted, I wiped my tears away and buried my face in my hands, trying to hide my disappointment.
Fast forward to my twelfth birthday, when my picture was chosen by a local store for a promotional poster. An aunt noticed the run in my stockings—magnified tenfold on the giant sign—where my big toe peeked through. “Couldn’t they have chosen a better picture? One where you don’t look homeless?” I forced a smile, joining the laughter around me, but felt a pang of shame.
These small, cutting remarks are experiences many children endure, stifling their emotions to avoid ridicule from adults or peers. As a child, the fear of being labeled as “too sensitive” often overshadows the initial sting of being mocked. So, we learn to go along with it. Unfortunately, this pattern persists into adulthood, especially for women who are often seen as easy targets for social dynamics. Malicious teasing can masquerade as harmless fun, yet it can have lasting effects.
In my early thirties, during a company lunch filled with margaritas, a colleague jokingly compared me to Yoko Ono. Everyone chuckled, and I offered a weak smile, knowing I was expected to play along. What choice did I have? To disrupt the moment by calling him out for a microaggression would only create tension among colleagues.
Months later, while pregnant, a stranger at a restaurant laughed and remarked, “What are you, carrying twins?” (I was not, just nine months along.) I snapped back, calling him a jerk. Surprised by my reaction, he returned to his table muttering about people being too sensitive these days.
These interactions form a familiar narrative for many women. We are often conditioned to act as social lubricants, engaging in banter that frequently undermines our own dignity. Self-deprecation becomes second nature, and though it’s painful to be the target of jokes, the fear of speaking out can feel much worse, both personally and professionally.
My five-year-old daughter, with her incredible empathy and insight, is easily hurt. Children like her don’t filter what they say based on adult expectations. Once, when a relative laughed at something she said sincerely, I noticed her lower lip tremble as she fought back tears. It was a moment that shattered something inside me—an accumulation of all the times I’d silenced my own voice. I pleaded, “Please stop laughing at her.” He responded, “Sorry, can’t. I laugh at everything. She’ll have to get over it.”
Sensitive individuals are often told—sometimes bluntly—to simply “get over it.” They are expected to be “good sports” for the sake of maintaining a jovial atmosphere. Meanwhile, those who make the jokes rarely face similar scrutiny. What does this camaraderie really mean if it permits behaviors like sexism, racism, and the marginalization of those who don’t fit conventional molds?
It’s crucial to remember that teasing can only be harmless if both parties consent to it. Genuine teasing implies a mutual understanding of power dynamics. However, when adults tease children, the balance of power is rarely even. For some, making fun of children becomes a sport, often meant to exclude them from the joke.
At a coffee shop, I overheard a boy ask for a donut. His father remarked, “I don’t think you really need another donut, do you, kiddo? One’s plenty for you, right?” Everyone noticed the boy’s shirt stretched tightly over his belly and the roundness of his cheeks. The boy’s face fell, revealing the hurt from being the butt of a joke crafted by someone he trusted.
I’m not exempt; I’ve found myself teasing my daughter over trivial matters—her inability to brush her teeth quickly or her habit of wearing clothes inside out. While I view this as light-hearted, she experiences it differently. I’ve watched her withdraw, saying, “That’s not nice. I don’t like being made fun of, Mama.” She’s right, and I’m reminded that my intentions don’t outweigh the impact of my words. I apologize and strive to improve.
A few years ago, I was pulled onto a stage at a renaissance fair as an unwilling volunteer. Despite my discomfort, I didn’t want to cause a scene. The performer made jokes at my expense while I feigned laughter, holding a banana as he whipped it from across the stage. To this day, I’m perplexed by my decision to stay; I should have asserted my boundaries and left the stage.
When considering the lessons I want to impart to my daughter, I realize the importance of her finding her voice. Yes, she should choose her battles wisely, and perhaps not call everyone a jerk, but above all, she must understand that her dignity is worth defending. I hope she can redefine what being a “good sport” means, learning to establish compassionate boundaries and advocating for herself and others when necessary.
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