The kids across the road are screaming; for some that's the way it happens. They spat on my daughter once; only one of them. She walked back over to me, looking sad. I saw the globules on her pants and asked what had happened. After listening to her story I explained that maybe they didn't understand how much it would hurt her; that they come from a dispossessed culture and that they exist now under a set of rules which do not allow them to be who they were, and that this made some of them angry. Well... I didn't explain it quite like that but she knew what I meant. 

It was killing me to know that she'd had this experience. It was strange though. I thought of being angry but my daughter, in her pureness, was not. It was as if through her an instinct was telling me not to inflict the idea of anger. Yes, she was sad, but there didn't seem much point in adding anger to it. 

People have been horrified when I've told this story, coming out with comments like; "they did what!?" and; “but she's your only daughter!" And... she is my only daughter, who at the age of six, I felt did not need to be introduced to the notion of retaliation in order to solve a problem. I wasn't given the blessing of a healthy emotional maturity, but I certainly want it for my little girl – that's how she teaches me.

About ten minutes later a few of the Aboriginal children called out to her. “Hey, little girl, you can come over and play with us again.” Seemed they understood that the actions of just one was not appropriate. It touched me that these children - whom adults might consider to be immature - were able to show a collective empathy towards my daughter's feelings. 

No, as much as I've been maligned for being a uncaring father, anger was clearly not called for here. I told her she could go back and play but she told me she was still too sad. I said that was okay and I held her for a while longer. 

This happened over a year ago, and the kids across the road... they are still screaming.