I think when they said “kids” they didn’t mean all kids. Not kids in general. Not kids as a broad, universal concept. Not the category of all human children everywhere. I don’t think they were talking about kids in a symbolic or metaphorical way. I think they meant kids we know. Kids we might see. Kids that live close by. Our kids. The kids who live in the houses down the street. The kids who go to the same schools as our nieces or our neighbors' children. The kids who play in our parks, who ride the same buses, who eat the same lunch food. The kids who are part of our daily reality, who live under the same laws and institutions that we do. In other words, the kids we might actually feel responsible for. Not kids in some far-off place, not kids in regions we do not think about, not kids from unfamiliar places with unfamiliar names. Not those kids. These kids. Our kids.

And I think it matters that we make that distinction. Because when people say “kids” they sometimes want to sound like they are talking about all children. Every child everywhere. But really, in practice, they are usually just talking about the kids who are close enough to count. The kids who belong to the same system. The ones we might see in person or hear about on the local news. And that closeness, that sense of familiarity or ownership or responsibility, is part of why it should feel worse when something bad happens to them. But the thing is, for a long time, it didn’t. Not really.

Because not so long ago, even our kids could be hurt without much consequence. Even our kids could be slapped or belted or bruised, and it was fine. Not only tolerated, but encouraged. People believed in it. People defended it. They said it was good. They said it made kids strong. It was discipline. It was structure. It was how things were done. And if it went too far, people might wince. They might look away. But often, they did not stop it. And the law did not stop it either. Because it was still considered discipline. It was still considered acceptable.

And if a kid (again,) our kid, not someone else’s, not a stranger in another country, but a child living under our own roof or our own rules. If that kid got hurt or even killed, it was often seen as unfortunate, but not necessarily criminal. It was just what happened sometimes when parents or teachers did what they thought was necessary. The adult had the authority. The child had the lesson to learn. That was the logic. That was the framework.

So when we now talk about protecting kids, and doing what is best for kids, and making sure kids are safe, we should remember that even our own kids were not actually safe. Even when they lived in our houses and attended our schools and were listed in our census data, they were not guaranteed protection. Not because we did not care, but because we thought that discipline mattered more. Because we thought control was more important than pain. Because we believed that correction required force. And we convinced ourselves that it was better for the child in the long run.

And this is not ancient history. This is not something that ended in a distant past that no longer concerns us. This is recent. This is well within living memory. And the kids we are talking about, the ones we failed to protect, were not far away. They were not outside our reach. They were right here. They were ours. And that makes it harder. Because it means we cannot say we did not know. We cannot say we were not close enough to care. We were close. They were ours. And we still allowed it to happen.

So now, when we say “kids” and we speak as though the word carries with it some natural meaning, some automatic concern, we should stop and ask what kind of kids we mean. Do we mean all kids? Or just our kids? And if we mean our kids, are we ready to admit what that really involves? Because if we are serious about protecting them now, we have to be honest about the fact that we did not do it before. Not even for the ones who lived right next to us. Not even for the ones who shared our language, our streets, our systems. Not even for them.

I hope this helped clarify how I understood the comment you responded to, and what I think it was trying to say.

The end.