Spring Break
'The Decline of Mojo'
Kids baffle me again and again
Kris Anderson
Issue date: 4/7/08 Section: Opinion
|
They can stare in earnest at a completely foreign concept, scratch their heads and genuinely ask: Why?
And they can do so with a base sense of purity that, for most people, dissipates at the age of 12.
During spring break, I had the unfortunate dermatological condition known as the "pimple from hell."
It was a grotesque mound situated in the middle of my forehead just below the hairline.
I also had the unfortunate condition last week of having to work.
The problem is, I teach fourth and fifth graders English at a small tutoring center - a center where said honesty and innocent giggles are the only currency.
"Mr. Kris," one of my students asked, looking astonished at the growth on my forehead. "What's that on your head? Is that a owie?"
I stammered, blushed and agreed, "Yeah, I, umm … got hit while playing basketball."
Immediately after that class, I slinked into the restroom and quivered at the frightening tumor-like zit pulsing in the mirror.
The pimple from hell was, in fact, a glowing red bulls-eye on my face.
And, yes, children are the most honest beings on Earth. They also may be the most intelligent, if you go by "Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader?" standards.
And as children trumpet a simultaneous mix of innocence and honesty, so do they personify our greatest fears.
They are scared of the dark and things that go bump in the night. They shudder at the very thought of a stranger inhabiting the dark, cobwebbed confines under their beds. They fear the conjured image of snarling monsters anticipating the dangle of any fingers coming within biting distance. They are also scared of scraped knees, not enough TV and spinach.
But, on the other hand, children know joy better than any of us ever will. They live with it and for it. They want to dance, and they have not the slightest clue that they look ridiculous, nor are they hesitant in asking you to join them in looking ridiculous.
They want you to play with them, run with them and go down the slide with them.
And that baffles me.
These mini people, with the remnants of sugary cranberry juice still glued to their lips, want nothing more than for you to unite with them in a celebration of innocuous immaturity.
They sit at tiny Technicolor tables with paint on their jeans and grass stains on their shirttails. Their faces are sticky; but not enough so that a saliva-covered thumb could clean it.
Be the first to comment on this story