ListenStorytelling is essential for better engagement with young people. It affirms their dignity, validates their emotions, and fosters trusting and relational bonds. This story is not simply about a single incident of punishment, but about the lasting impact of power, silence, and emotional invalidation within a caregiving relationship.
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“AVERY JO!1 ALEXIA EVANGELINE!1 TARRA-BREE!1”
The yell could be heard across the street in the park where my younger sister played. Both names: they were angrier than usual. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. I emerged quietly from my bedroom, book in hand, index finger holding my place. My eyes shifted around the room, trying to sort out what had gone awry this time. My mind ran with questions. It couldn’t be something in my room, or we wouldn’t all have been called, plus I knew my room was up to scratch because it had been looked over after school. The kitchen seemed fine; I walked through it on my way to the living room. It wasn’t a question of hygiene because Avery was too young to leave a period mess in the bathroom, and mine wasn’t due yet.
“Sit. Down.” Their voices rumbled with fury; their eyes were hot with anger as they pointed at the couch. I had to walk past them to sit. I kept my book in my right hand and moved toward the love seat as my older sister walked in. The book was snatched from my hand and snapped shut. Great. Now my page was lost, and I was in trouble for who knows what. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. Avery ran in, breathless and red in the face and squeezed in with us. She didn’t know to worry yet. She was only seven. Our mum and Avery’s dad stood over us with crossed arms, glaring daggers and eyes glazed from the marijuana they smoked in “secret”. Had they already been drinking, too?
“Who did it? If you come clean now, no one will get into any trouble.” That was a lie. It was always a lie. Someone would get in trouble. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. I still didn’t know what was going on.
“Did what?” Tarra asked. Very brave. I couldn’t have done that. It never mattered how calm and nonconfrontational we tried to sound; we were always “talking back.” It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.
“You know every well ‘what’ and don’t talk back like that. Goddamnit! You’re always so disrespectful. Why are teenagers today so rude?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about?”
“DON’T talk back! The spray painted eff word in your new bathroom! We worked hard on that. It isn’t finished and one of you three has RUINED it with a swear word painted in blue across the wall!” It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.
We were traipsed down the steep, rickety stairs, and into Tarra’s private bathroom. I hated those stairs; they didn’t have a handrail. The bathroom had a toilet, a sink with a small cabinet, and a stand-up shower. My parents wrenched open the accordion door and there was the offending word. All capitals, about two inches wide, and in bright blue paint. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.
FUCK
I was fascinated, horrified, and terrified at the same time. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. Why would either of the other two? Did a parent do it and forget? Why? While my mind raced, the parents yelled at us for what felt like 15 minutes or more. I knew my face looked like I wasn’t listening and maybe I wasn’t. I was too busy trying to solve it. I got yelled at for not caring, too. I was just trying to be helpful as I stood there, tears streaming down my face. I did too care! I couldn’t very well say that out loud. I knew it would cause more trouble and be seen as back talk.
“That’s not all.” Cold voice. Angry faces. We were marched out to the garage. On the garage floor behind the motorcycle were flathead thumbtacks, points up. Would those pop the tire if no one noticed before the motorcycle backed up? I chanced a glance at my sisters. Avery looked cherubic, as always, a smile on her face, eyes wide in innocence. Tarra was fuming. If this were a cartoon she would have smoke coming out of her ears. We were taken out of the garage and across the road to the park. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. What was happening?
AVERY
Pressed into the tree and spelled out in the same thumbtacks as on the floor in the garage. The silver heads glinted in the sunlight against the wrinkled bark. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.
“Get. Back. On. The. Couch.” Quiet but furious. Whispered through clenched teeth. Not making a public scene but making sure we knew not to cause a fuss and get our butts in the house and get ready to be railed at. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.
Tears continued to well up in my eyes; I could barely see through the fog on my glasses and the wall of tears that struggled to fall to my cheeks. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. Stop crying. STOP crying! This would forever be to my detriment. Crying was a sign of guilt in my family.
They were still yelling at us and making promises that if we just gave ourselves up, then no one would be in trouble. It was decided that the three of us would be left alone to decide the guilty party and then come find them when we were through. I guess it was a peer court. In the end, nothing was decided by us. None of us knew who did it. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. We only knew, each in our hearts, that it wasn’t us.
When our parents returned, they informed us they had made an executive decision. My tears were still coming, and my breath kept catching. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. I couldn’t see anyway, so I put my glasses in my lap and waited.
“We know none of you will rat out the others, and if you don’t stop crying, we’ll really give you something to cry about! We’ve thought about it (probably while they were drinking or smoking) and made a decision. Avery is too young to even know what those words mean, and WHY would she put her own name in a tree?! And since she wouldn’t put her name, WHY would she put thumbtacks behind the motorcycle tire?! Tarra was away last night, and it wasn’t there yesterday.” It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.
They were screaming at me. They never seemed to need breath. It all came out at once. How-dare-you-and-the-disrespect-and-stop-crying-or-I’ll-give-you-something-to-cry-about-and- vandalism-and-why-is-it-always-you? It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It was never me, but I could never say it out loud. It’s disrespectful to talk back. My sisters were sent out of the room. Tarra stomped back down to her room, slamming doors on her way, and Avery, smiling ear to ear, ran across the road and back to play at the park.
I was grounded for two weeks. It wasn’t me. No TV. It wasn’t me. No friends. It wasn’t me. No phone. It wasn’t me. No books. It wasn’t me. The last one was torture. I lived for books. I didn’t really have friends; books were my escape from my life. It wasn’t me.
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“Hey do you remember the blue fuck? And the thumbtacks?” Avery, in her 20s, asked at a family dinner. We still call it the blue fuck. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. Everyone else chuckled. I just felt my face flush, and I got angry. A scowl spread across my face.
“It was me.” Laughter. They had figured it out years ago. They knew all along and never told me. No apologies, no guilt at punishing the wrong kid, no contrition from my sister. Just laughter and “oops.” My anger was considered an overreaction.
It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.
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I am intensely aware of how damaging silencing and blaming children without listening to them can be. I hope that sharing this experience allows practitioners to better understand how a past can inform empathy for young people who feel misunderstood, disbelieved, or unable to safely express themselves. Adults are not omniscient authorities; we need to be relational partners who model accountability and respect.
Reflective Questions
1. Names have been changed to protect the identities of the children involved in this situation.
