I was never punished as a child.
Today’s story is from Bridget Meager.
Dad punished others. Fines. Imprisonment. That was his job. Just not me. For me he used the power of silence.
The Honorable Charles William Bradley,
Bridget’s father
My name is Bridget. I am the proud daughter of the Honorable Charles William Bradley, Louisiana District Court Judge for 25 years.
As a soldier, my father was a Dachau concentration camp liberator. As a lawyer, he interviewed Holocaust survivors. He later became a war crimes tribunal judge.
Firsthand, he’s seen the worst on this earth. It showed in the look in his eyes. You watched yourself around Dad.
Father had punished many. He’d seen the result. With children, he thought it was not the best way. He preferred the power of silence.
My rules were clear. What was expected at home, at school, in each part of my life.
Dad’s lessons were deeply ingrained. When I got out of line, dad said not a thing. He didn’t have to. Dad’s silence said everything. It lingered. There was no end.
Don’t get me wrong. “The Judge” had a warm, humorous way. He didn’t get upset. He didn’t have to. His look was enough.
My friend, Nancy, told me a story about Dad.
We were 14. Nancy was at our house for the weekend. She sneaked out to buy cigarettes. Dad walked in the store. It was too late to run or pretend. A pack was visible right in her hand.“Good morning,” said Dad, glancing down at the pack.
“Good morning, Judge Bradley,” Nancy, replied.Nancy’s face grew so red, she thought she might bleed. She stuffed the smokes in her skirt (what else could she do?) and returned to our house. We played the rest of the day. Dad said not a word.
My dad was biding his time, she thought. Cigarettes were bad enough. Bringing them into his house—to me, his daughter—very bad, indeed.
Time to go home. Dad offered Nancy a ride. She was terrified. In the car, light chitchat. Setting her up for the kill, she thought.
Nancy and Dad pulled up to her house. “Good night, Judge Bradley,” Nancy said, as she quickly climbed out. “Wait, let me walk you to the door,” the judge promptly replied.
This is it, Nancy thought as they walked up the walk. It was the gangplank. The ocean door.Nancy’s parents answered. “What a pleasure having your daughter this weekend,” Dad began. To Nancy’s astonishment, that’s all my dad said. The judge smiled, turned, and bid them goodbye. He walked to the car and drove slowly away.
My father never said a word. Not to me. Not to Nancy. How did Dad’s silence impact my friend? It’s 30 years later. Nancy never touched a cigarette again.
Dad’s lesson to me? Silence speaks more — it exists — the power of silence.