Category: Kids
This is a true story. You may not believe it. I didn’t when I first heard it. Too absurd to be a true story, I thought. But sometimes the most absurd stories are the true ones.
Some details have been obfuscated for the privacy of those involved.
It starts with a mother and her young, developmentally-delayed grade-school son. The son is entirely enamored of all things mystical and medieval. Dungeons and dragons, wizards and warriors, swords and spells. He spends endless hours at his computer, conquering quests, earning treasures, and leveling up.
Every time he reaches some kind of monumental achievement, he enthusiastically shares the victory with his mother.
“Mom, mom, I just freed the city of Mithrendain!”
“Mom, mom, I just found the Dragonbone Staff!”
“Mom, mom, I just defeated Ser Cauthrien and his guards!”
To these exclamations, Mom always replies with a positive, “That’s great, that’s great. I’m so proud of you, honey.”
“Mom, mom, I just reached level 43!”
“That’s great, that’s great. I’m so proud of you, honey.”
Sometimes he’ll even call Mom during work, so strong is his excitement. She accepts them as any Mom would, with a calm cheer. It’s during one of these calls that our story begins.
“Mom, mom,” his little voice hollers. “I just captured a dwarf!”
Mom nods at the receiver. “That’s great, that’s great. I’m so proud of you, honey.” Then she hangs up and continues her work. It is a busy day and she wants to get through her tasks quickly.
Thirty minutes pass. Another call. “Mom, mom, I just captured a dwarf!”
She mumbles her quick reply, “That’s great, that’s great. I’m so proud of you, honey.” Then she hangs up, a little flustered at the break, but happy to be a constant part of her son’s life.
Thirty minutes pass. Another call. “Mom, mom, I just captured a dwarf!”
“That’s great, that’s great. I’m so proud of you, honey.” When she hangs up, she shrugs at a coworker. “He must really be excited about his game. This is the third time he’s called me today.”
“Third time?” asks the coworker. “That’s an awful lot for him. Maybe you should go home and check on him, just in case.”
She ponders the suggestion. “I don’t know, I have so much work to do here…”
“I can cover for you here. Go on, get out of here. You’ll be back in no time.”
Mom smiles and gives the thoughtful coworker a hug. “Oh, thank you so much.” Then she scoots down the hallway and over to her car.
When she arrives home and opens the front door, her son greets her energetically. “Mom, mom, I captured a dwarf! I captured a dwarf!”
“Okay honey, I’m so proud of you,” she answers and pats his head.
“Do you want to see him?”
“Sure honey, show me the…” She looks up. Her jaw drops.
Various pieces of furniture are stacked against the door to the hallway closet. Tables, chairs, even some shoes. Some are wedged into place, others are piled on top of each other.
“Wha…?”
“Mom, mom, come take a look! I captured a dwarf!” He takes her hand and pulls her to the closet. There is a sound coming from the closet. Something scratching or banging or moving around.
Mom grabs the furniture and digs her way to the closet door. Tables, chairs, shoes are all tossed aside. Her son is standing besides her with a great big beaming smile. Proud.
All of the furniture is pushed aside. Mom swings open the door.
And out runs a very short man. A midget. He is dressed in a suit. He darts across the hallway, out the front door, and down the block with nary a word.
The son is jumping up and down, clapping his hands and shouting, “The dwarf! The dwarf!”
Mom stands there, motionless, speechless. Clueless. She isn’t sure if she should ask her son what happened, or tell him she’s so proud of him for capturing a… well, you know.
The little boy stood in front of his class. He cleared his throat. Second-grade eyes watched intently as he ruffled the piece of paper in his hands. Then he started.
“I know you all think I am despicable. But I think you all are despicable.”
The second graders blinked. Despicable? They didn’t know this word. Only the little boy did, being the advanced reader he was.
The teacher also knew the word. She watched on, her mouth wide open, eyes unblinking.
The little boy exaggerated the enunciation of the word. Des-PIC-a-ble. It was almost like Daffy Duck was standing in front of the room delivering this speech. You could almost see the spit springing from his lips.
As the little boy continued, the teacher put her hands over her mouth. “Must… not…” Her thoughts struggled. “Must… not…” Tears bubbled in her eyes. “Must… not… laugh…”
But it was all too much. The little boy’s speech became a incredulous cacophony to the teacher’s reddening ears. She buried her head into her hands just as her lips burst forth. Face-down at her desk, the teacher buckled into hysterics.
The other students blinked again. They still didn’t understand. What was this word? Why was their teacher crying?
That’s what they thought. They thought she was crying.
And so, one by one, the other students started crying too. As the little boy continued his despicable speech, the entire class was washed in a wave of tears.
“Wah ha ha ha ha ha!” the teacher cackled.
“Waa waa waa waa!” the students cried.
“Des-PIC-a-ble, all of you,” the little boy continued.
And so ended the funniest, saddest, most despicable little second-grade speech ever. True story. Every last despicable word of it.
I don’t remember how old we were exactly. Perhaps I was three and my brother was one? Maybe younger?
I don’t even remember incident, it was so long ago. When I saw the photograph, however, I had to cringe. And laugh.
The photograph is gone now. Mysteriously disappeared.
“Did you throw it away?” my brother asks.
I didn’t. No way would I ever do that. It was a piece of history, a hilarious piece at that. I would never throw away a memento like that.
“Man, I remember that picture,” he adds with a chuckle.
We search up and down the house for it. But nada. It was gone.
My parents remember the incident. They laugh every time we talk about it. So they help us search for it too. But still nada. Long gone.
What a shame to lose this piece of history. It depicts my brother and me in a very particular moment.
To understand its significance, you have to understand my brother. He’s a hilarious guy, though the younger siblings of my grade school classmates told me they found him intimidating.
Indeed, he’s never had a problem speaking his mind, nor usurping authority figures if he disagreed with them. This has led to some squabbles and infractions and, I’m sure, a few pissed off teachers and principals.
So the photograph?
It is a picture of my brother and me, still wee toddlers, in the bathtub together. I am sitting in the tub of water, crying. He is standing in front of me, peeing into the water with a big toothy grin.
“I totally want that picture,” my brother continues. “It’s like the perfect example of how I’ve always pissed people off, even as a kid.”
My parents and I laugh. Indeed it is. I really hope we can find this picture again.
I’m not sure when it first hit me. The desire to become an entrepreneur, I mean. All I know is, it has something to do with a pom-pom ball, some felt, and a pair of rolly eyeballs.
I blame it all on my Dad.
My Dad set up the foundation when I was in grade school. He came home from work one evening with a bunch of fuzzy pom-pom balls, sheets of felt, fabric glue, scissors, and a bag of plastic rolly eyeballs, top hats, baseball caps, and other assorted accessories.
The goal for my brother and I was to create a community of pom-pom people.
First, we cut out pairs of feet with the felt. Then we glued these feet to the pom-pom balls. Next, we glued a pair of eyes on each pom-pom. Finally, we individualized each one with accessories. Some received top hats. Some got baseball caps. A few had baseball caps on backwards because they were the bad-asses.
I have no idea how my Dad came by this idea. Maybe from a television show? Maybe from a magazine article? I wonder.
The next day, my Dad took these pom-pom people to work and sold them to his coworkers. He sold every single one.
Inspired by the demand, our family spent the next few weeks creating more pom-pom communities. We diversified and created all kinds of original accessories. My brother gave one a shield and sword-toothpick. I gave another a painter’s palette with swabs of paint (pieces of different colored fabric) and a paint brush-toothpick.
One of our favorites was a black pom-pom with a toothpick we colored red and a black piece of felt around his back — a lightsaber and cape. Get it? Pom-pom Darth Vader! Ah, to be young and imaginative.
Demand remained steady for a month or so. Production kept up with demand steadily. In other words, coworkers kept buying them and we kept making them.
He gave us portions of the money. Some of it was allotted to bank accounts my parents opened for us. Though we were too young to use any of that money, they instilled the virtue of saving money even back then. The remaining cash was used to buy toys and comic books.
Then we saturated the market. Demand fell. We had to scale production back. The unsold pom-pom people remained at my Dad’s desk until he sold every last one in the trailing months. My brother and I kept a few choice favorites back home. I still have a pom-pom painter.
The next time I engaged in an entrepreneurial activity was college, where I used my meager training in graphic and web design to do some freelance work. I did a few small jobs here and there, getting paid what I thought was a mountain of money, though I realize now it was pennies compared to what professional freelancers made.
Having a taste of freelance work was but a sip of being self-employed, a common baby step towards entrepreneurship. The desire to be a business owner always stuck in my peripheral though — not just to be self-employed, but to be a business owner. Not as a freelancer, but as a leader who manages a company of employees doing something fun, profitable, and worthwhile.
Fast forward to 2007, way after the collapse of the Wild West Web. I finally decided to take a gulp, turn my head, and stare straight at entrepreneurship. I flirted with a few ideas, started a few projects, and did a few cool things with some friends, all of which further whet my appetite.
A year ago, I finally founded a formal business with two other entrepreneurs.
It’s still a young company, but it is already profitable, which is saying a lot in the current economic recession. Years of learning, preparing, and planning are beginning to pay off.
I just moved to a new apartment too. While unpacking, I found my old pom pom painter. A grand grin grew on my face. Life was coming full circle. That pom pom guy is sitting on my laptop right now as I write this. Once I finish, I’m going back to work (there is no such thing as a weekend for an entrepreneur).
What a journey it has been, from a pom pom ball to a small business owner. Thanks Dad! I can’t wait to buy my kids a bag of (metaphorical) pom pom balls too.
“It’s so hot out here,” muttered Poppy the pigeon. The fountain in the park invited him for a spell. He soared down, perched on the edge, and jabbed his tiny pigeon head into the stream. “Ahhh, refreshing.” It was. The fountain’s water was really refreshing.
Nearby, something squealed. Poppy popped up. Two boys were skateboarding down the park. They were weaving in and out of terrified pedestrians. And both weren’t wearing helmets.
Poppy leapt from the fountain. High into the sky he soared, high as a pigeon. And down towards the boys he aimed.
The boys were moving fast. Poppy had to flap frantically to catch up. “Slow down, you miscreants!” he chirped. But the boys didn’t heed him; they didn’t speak pigeon.
A young couple screamed. An elderly man teetered off his walker. A little baby started to cry. The boys skated on, laughing and jeering.
Poppy looked down at them. On their heads were target symbols. Like the ones at archery ranges. These head targets are not visible to humans. Only birds see them.
So naturally, as any good archer would do, Poppy took aim. And fired.
SPLAT. “What the?” One of the boys crashed. “Oh damn, is that bird poop in my hair?”
“Ha ha ha! You got shat on!” hollered his friend. “You got”—SPLAT—”oh no!” He jumped off his board.
“Haa! What? You got shat on too? Serves you right!” He looked up.
SPLAT. “Dude, that bird shat on me again!”
SPLAT. “Ugh! My eye!”
SPLAT SPLAT. “This bird is a fricken poop machine!”
SPLAT SPLAT. “Dude, let’s get the hell out of here!”
The boys jumped on their boards and raced out of the park. The pedestrians stared unnervingly at the pigeon, not sure if they should thank him or run for cover. Poppy hovered for a moment. “90% on target this time.” He grinned a pigeon grin. “Not bad.”
Trickles of tiny pigeon sweat gleamed between his feathers. “It’s so hot out here,” he muttered. The fountain in the park, once again, invited him for a spell. Back into the stream he jabbed his head. “Ahhh, refreshing.”
Do you know what kind of people can make great people managers? Parents. Having children teaches you a lot about managing people.
And I believe this rule works in reverse too. Good managers can be good parents. That idea motivated the approach I took when I was a people manager; I thought like a parent as I managed my team.
Hopefully, it has helped. Here’s why:
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Being a people manager means being able to juggle multiple tasks at the same time. Multi-tasking is a core part of the job, as is prioritization and scheduling. If your mind can’t juggle, then you’re going to drop lots of balls. Fortunately, you needn’t track all of projects in your head simultaneously; that’s why God created project management software.
Being a parent means being able to juggle multiple tasks too, but without the benefit of project management software. You’ve got to feed the baby, make breakfast for the toddlers, pack a lunch for the teens, do the laundry, wash the dog, clean the bathroom, do the dishes, mow the lawn, etc etc. If that ain’t multi-tasking, I don’t know what is.
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Being a people manager means being a skilled negotiator. You’ve got to negotiate with dozens individuals throughout the day to fulfill your objectives. This includes giving your team performance reviews (managing downwards), giving your boss status updates (managing upwards), and meeting with multi-disciplinary teams and departments (managing sideways).
Being a parent means being a skilled negotiator too. Except your individuals range in age, maturity, gender, and, well, mostly maturity. This includes telling your kids to do their homework (managing downwards), talking to your parents and parents-in-law (managing upwards perhaps), and talking to your spouse about mortgages and bills (managing sideways).
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Being a people manager means being an adept evaluator. Every day, you’re evaluating your team. You gather feedback, assess their strengths & weaknesses, and help them reach their potential. In doing so, you judge whether some are ready for greater responsibilities and whether others need extra assistance.
Being a parent means being an adept evaluator too. You watch your kids grow and do your best to steer them onto the right path. From parent-teacher conferences to helping with homework to at-home disciplinary action (spanking, time-outs, etc); all of these are part of your daily repertoire in helping your children blossom into (hopefully) well-adjusted & mature adults.
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Being a people manager means being able to compromise. You want one thing, your employee wants another thing, and your boss wants a third. It’s up to you to reach an effective solution for everyone—which usually means a compromise. A win-win-win, so to speak. If you can’t do this well, you’ll have a lose-lose-lose on your hands. And then you’ll lose lose lose your job.
Being a parent means being able to compromise too. Your spouse wants to raise your children one way, you want to raise them another way. Or your spouse wants to handle the finances one way, and you want to handle them another way. This means you both have to work together to reach an effective compromise, which should be satisfactory to both parties. If one person is happy and the other isn’t, then it wasn’t an effective compromise and someone’s going to be sleeping on the couch tonight.
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Being a people manager means being a good doer. If everyone sits around and talks about doing something, but never actually does it, then you should write a big fat WTF on your forehead. A good manager is action-oriented, meaning he/she will take action and perform all the hard work necessary to complete the task at hand.
Being a parent means being a good doer too. Your kids set fire to the living room rug again? Discipline them right there and then. Breakfast need to be made? Make it. Hedges need to be trimmed? Trim them. In other words, get off your lazy ass and just do it.
Categories:
Adulthood,
Childhood,
Conversations,
Getting Older,
High School,
In a Cafe,
Kids,
Life,
Parenthood,
Psychology,
Values“I intend to live forever. So far, so good.”
- Anonymous
“I look forward to growing old.”
“Are you insane?” Lisa gasped. She regarded me like a little puppy that just ate his own poop.
I shrugged. “Why, you don’t at all?”
“I repeat: Are you insane?” She waved her hand dismissively. “You know what? Don’t even answer that.”
“Insane in the membrane,” I said in a small voice. She ignored me.
“I would love to be a kid again. To have no responsibilities, no worries, no stress. To wake up and be able to watch Saturday morning cartoons.” She looked out the window and sighed. “Life was so much easier back then.”
I leaned back and took a sip of hot mocha. “Was it really? As a kid, weren’t you in a rush to grow up and be an adult, so you could drive and drink and do grown-up things?”
“Well, sure, every kid wants that. But they don’t know any better.”
“And as a teen, weren’t you always stressed out about something dumb? Like over who you liked or who to take to the prom or final exams?”
Lisa pushed her macchiato aside. “Childhood is an idyllic time. Who to take to the prom is such a smaller thing than say, a mortgage you can barely meet. Right? Even someone as insane as you can agree with that.”
“Sure, but not to the kid at that time. When you’re a kid, every little problem seems like the end of the world. And that’s a lot of stress.”
She deflated into her chair. One listless hand picked up her macchiato and swirled it. “Still, I can’t help but think back to being a kid and missing those days.”
I took another sip of hot mocha. It was cooling off now. “I know what you mean. Relative to adult problems, kid problems are much, much smaller.”
“So,” she put her macchiato down, “why do you look forward to growing old?”
“You’re going to think I’m even more insane than you already do.”
“Impossible. I already think you’re damn insane. But go on.”
“Okay.” I cleared my throat and sat up straight. “I look forward to the extra responsibilities. Like: immediate and extended family; house and mortgage; potential businesses and investments. I look forward to being able to do more things, to understanding more about life, and to being responsible for bigger issues.”
Lisa arched one eyebrow. I continued. “I have these big goals of changing the world, right? Changing the education system, starting socially-beneficial companies, etc, right?” She nodded. “Those are my stretch goals. My realistic goals are to have a good family, to be the kind of grandfather who tells his grandkids lots of stories, and to be a writer.”
Lisa scratched her head. A loose strand of hair dangled and she tied it back up. I continued. “Personally, I didn’t like a lot of my childhood. I spent most of my energy trying not to be made fun of by racists. But it’s taught me to be much stronger. And I’ve found that each successive year that I live has been better and brighter than the last.”
I leaned back and shuffled in my chair. “Whoa, I feel like I just took a major dump.” She swirled her macchiato, then took a sip. I could tell she was digesting. Outside, a group of kids wandered by, followed by a loner. He looked at me and scurried off.
“You’re certainly one goal-oriented guy,” she declared. “I guess can see why you look forward to growing old too. People who have rough childhoods, then go on to make something of their lives, tend to look to the future.”
“It’s not that I had a rough childhood though,” I added.
“Right, right, I know. I don’t mean you had a bad one. But you didn’t have an idyllic one, at least. And since you’re someone who actually sets goals and achieves them, each successive goal you reach must feel great.”
I blushed. “Well, I…”
“Plus, and most importantly,” she started. I waited on the perch of my seat as she leaned forward and looked me straight in the eye. “You’re insane.”
“In the membrane,” I whispered.
She groaned. “And plus, who the hell doesn’t look back fondly at childhood and playing with toys and watching cartoons and having no worries?”
“What? Didn’t you just say…”
“Don’t even answer that.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Insane people never know when they’re insane. Tell that to your grandkids.”
What’s more fun than bucket of possums and an electric eel? Playing with second graders, of course!
Two friends and I were lucky enough to get such an experience. Our company offers a program called Classroom Buddies. In it, volunteers can take time off during a work day to help an elementary school teacher take care of his/her class.
This year, we got a rambunctious and edifying second grade class. Rambunctious meaning they were like a bucket of possums on speed, with two electric eels. Edifying meaning they opened my eyes to how much things have changed since I was in second grade.
The school we served happens to have a large population of children from low-income families, many of whom are immigrants. The majority of students speak Spanish, though all classes are taught in English.
On our first day, the students jumped out of their seats to greet us. What a warm welcome. Some hugged us, some slapped our hands, most just stared at us and giggled—at what exactly, I have no idea (maybe I had a booger on my nose).
After introductions and trying to explain what we do at work, the teacher let her students ask us questions.
Now, what would you realistically expect second graders to ask? Something like, “Do you like your work?” or “Do I really need to study math?”, right?
If you did, you’d be a fool. Kids nowadays don’t care about things like work and math. They care about things like… well… dating and marriage. (Blame Britney Spears.) For instance:
“Are you married?” “Do you have a girlfriend?” “Do you have a boyfriend?” (to the girl in our group).
And for added fun, one asked the girl, “How old are you?”
“Um, how old do you think I am?” she responded.
“62!” the kid yelled. She’s not 62, by the way; nowhere near it. Maybe these second graders should care more about things like math.
Later, when the teacher wasn’t around, the kids opened up and just started talking about random things.
“My Dad works at WalMart,” said one.
“My sister is pregnant again,” said another.
“The police came to my house again, because my Daddy was yelling at my Mommy.” Yikes.
Each day we returned, we did some fun activity. Like make sock puppets. Or find Easter eggs. Or build gingerbread houses.
Oh yea, gingerbread houses. Want to hear another edifying experience? At our disposal were gingerbread men, liquorish, candy corn, candy canes, mini marshmallows, gumdrops, graham crackers, and icing for glue.
Some of the boys exercised their creativity with these items. For instance:
A gingerbread man holding a marshmallow was: a man throwing a snowball. Ah, that’s creative. Half of a gingerbread man lying next to a bunch of marshmallows was: a man ducking for cover behind a bush. Um, oh.
A gingerbread man holding a black piece of liquorish was: a man with a gun. Ah, I didn’t realize that was a common childhood memory. And a gingerbread man with a candy corn on his back was: a man stabbed in the back. Yikes!
The second graders didn’t exhibit any particular sociopathic behavior, at least, none that an untrained amateur like me could see. Sure, on the playground, there were bullies. But none of the kids were carrying a gun or knifing each other in the back, thankfully.
Speaking of the playground, the boys would often ask to play soccer. Some of the girls wanted to join in, but the boys shooed them away.
“Why don’t you want them to play with us?” I asked.
“Sometimes we do.”
“I’ll bet they always beat you, right?” I snickered.
“Noooo! But sometimes they chase us and try to kiss us.”
Again, remember: these are second graders we’re talking about. Back in my day, which admittedly is like a thousand years ago, second grade girls never chased boys and tried to kiss them. Or at least, they never chased and tried to kiss me. Sniff.
The energy level of second grade boys was extremely high too. They ran me ragged in a matter of minutes.
“Hey, I’m pooped, I’m going to sit here and watch you guys play,” I said.
“Noooo! You can’t sit down, you’re a big kid! You HAVE to play!”
Heh. A second grader called me a big kid. Nice.
It wasn’t all fun and play though. Several students had a hard time with English, so the teacher asked them read to us. Even though the books were first grade books, some still struggled. Hopefully we helped a little.
One boy, who only spoke to us in Spanish, was happily speaking to us in English by the end of the year. I like to think we reached him.
And just like that, the school year was over. But not before the kids left us with some parting thoughts.
One boy said to me, “Thank you for coming. I like you guys.” Aww, how nice.
One girl said to the girl in our group, “Can you be my Mommy?” Um, what’s wrong with her current Mom?
Another boy suddenly became very aggressive. He hit and tripped the other students repeatedly. “That’s a sign that he has a bad home life and doesn’t want school to end,” explained the teacher. “He doesn’t want to go home.” Damn, poor kid.
And so closed an edifying experience with a class of rambunctious second graders. Some of it was a symptom of the kids’ environment; some of it maybe was the growing influence of Britney Spears. All of it was an awesome experience.
Man, I’m pooped. Anyone have a quiet bucket of possums?
. . .
Ever have an edifying experience with second graders?
“I believe I can fly,
I believe I can touch the sky,
I think about it every night and day,
Spread my wings and fly away.”
- R. Kelly
“How did you get up there?” our little cousins asked. They were on their tippy-toes, as if their toes would magically get them on the roof too.
“We flew,” my brother and I answered.
“No you didn’t. Did you?”
“Yup, we did. And you can’t come up because you don’t believe us.”
Our cousins bounced up and down. “We believe! We believe! Can you take us up there too?”
“Nope. It’s too dangerous for you two. You’re too young.” My brother and I smirked. Behind us was ledge we climbed across from our bedroom window. But we didn’t tell our cousins that.
“We want to fly! We want to fly!”
“Sorry. Maybe someday when you’re older.”
“No fair! How come you get to fly and we can’t?” Their frowns almost made us laugh, but we kept as stolid as we could.
“Because.”
“Because why??”
“Just because.”
“Awww c’mon!” They ran around the house, flapping their arms. “We want to fly too!”
My brother and I ducked back from the edge and hooted. “Oh man, this is too funny! They totally believe us!”
“Look, I can fly! I can fly!”
We peeked over the edge again. One of them was jumping up and down.
“You’re not flying. You’re just jumping around.”
“Nuh uh! I was flying for a few seconds! I’m just too young to fly all the way!”
I hid my face and laughed again. My brother kept a straight face. “You’re doing it wrong. You have to flap your arms like this.”
“That’s what I’m doing!”
“That’s all wrong. You’ll never get it. Forget it; you’ll never be able to fly.”
Our little cousins hollered and ran around the house again. They leapt about as they ran, arms flapping. “We want to fly! We want to fly!”
“You know, I’m beginning to think that you’ll never be able to fly. With that awful arm flapping, you’re not going to go anywhere.”
The cousins skidded to a stop. One of them stared at us defiantly. “Stop it! You guys can’t fly!”
“What? Of course we can! How do you think we got up here?”
“Prove it! Show us you can fly!”
We flapped our arms and got onto the tips of our toes. “See? We’re going up, we’re going up, we’re… naaah, we don’t want to fly right now.”
“That wasn’t flying! You can’t fly!”
“Sure we can! There’s no other way we could have gotten up here.”
“Maybe you climbed up.”
“Oh yea? Look around the house. Do you see a place we could have climbed?”
Our little cousins circled the house again, touching the fences and wall in various places to asses their climbability.
“See, there’s nothing we could have climbed. We flew.”
“Nuh uh! You can’t fly!”
I looked at my brother. “I guess they don’t believe us.”
“Yea,” he answered. “I guess they’ll never be able to fly.”
“You guys are lying poopie heads! You can’t fly!”
My brother and I darted from the edge and quickly crawled into our bedroom. We rushed downstairs while our little cousins continued shouting at the roof.
“Hi!”
Our little cousins stopped in mid-word. Mouths still open, they swiveled to see us standing next to them. “How did you get down so fast??”
“We got bored up there and decided to fly down.”
“What?! You flew down?? When? We didn’t see you!”
“You didn’t? You should have been paying more attention. We flew down right next to you.”
“Nuh uh! You’re lying poopie heads!”
“Okay, fine.” I stared the cousins deep in the eyes. “You want proof?”
“Yea!”
I looked at my brother. “Okay, let’s fly back up!” We took off around the house.
“Hey!” Our little cousins came after us. Their little legs couldn’t match our speed. We made it halfway around the house before they made it a quarter. With our cousins out of sight, we ran into the house, up to our bedroom, and back out the window again.
“Hey you guys! Up here!”
Our little cousins tumbled over each other as they tried to stop. Their little eyes were as wide as golf balls. “You flew!!”
“Yup!”
“You guys can fly! You guys can fly!”
“We told you we could.”
“Take us up with you! Take us up with you!”
“No way! You called us lying poopie heads. And that hurt. So we’re not taking you anywhere.”
“Puh-leeeeease! Take us up there! We want to fly with you!!”
My brother looked at me. “Since they didn’t believe us, they’re never going to be able to fly, are they?”
“My my, you are correct,” I nodded. “What a shame to never be able to fly. Sad.”
“We believe! We believe!”
“Yes, very sad indeed.” My brother rubbed his cheek to wipe an invisible tear. “Sniff sniff.”
Our little cousins stood below us for a frozen moment, mouths agape like a pair of turkeys, then they darted into the house. “Moooooommie!” we heard them cry. “They said we’ll never be able to fly like them! We want to fly too!”
As they sobbed, we heard our aunt and uncle trying to stifle a chuckle. My brother and I tumbled over and laughed until we couldn’t breath.
“Think we should tell them the truth?” my brother asked between chortles.
I smirked. “Naaah. Let them go back to school next week believing they have flying cousins.”
. . .
Have you ever been a lying poopie head to younger cousins or siblings?
Everyone wonders about his or her purpose in life. Why am I here? What should I do with my life? What is my destiny?
I’m not the type of person to sit and wait for an answer. So I’ve given myself an answer. I can sum it up in a sentence:
I want to fundamentally improve the world. (Hey, we gotta aim high, right?)
There are two ways to do this: through policy and through education. Policy changes have an immediate but sometimes superficial impact. Educational changes have a fundamental impact, but can take a long, long time.
Politics is not a realm I want to enter. And like the song says, children are our future.
I want to start a privately-funded public school that uses a cooperation-based teaching system, as opposed to today’s competitive-based teaching system, to educate a new generation of society not just in academic intelligent, but in emotional & social intelligence as well.
Teachers will be highly trained in traditional academics, child psychology, and other advanced teaching methods. They will be very well paid, so that the teaching profession will be a highly desired and respected career.
Initially, the school will target disadvantaged inner-city youth. Once the educational model is proven, I want it to spread to other cities and states. Perhaps even countries too.
The model will be constantly evaluated and evolved. Training will be constantly provided to the teachers. This sort of evolutionary feedback loop is common in many types of entities (businesses, technologies, even biological organisms). Continuous evolution will keep the educational model modern, relevant, and effective for generations to come.
American schools still use a model that prepares our children for factory work. Volumes have been written about the need for a more innovative & creative workforce, so I won’t go into it here, except to say that academic smarts isn’t enough to operate in today’s global marketplace; emotional & social intelligence are also equally important, if not more so.
That is just the US-centric incentive for such this educational model. Hopefully, schools around the world will adopt such fundamental educational goals also. As a species, the human race needs to. I currently have little knowledge about the educational models in countries outside of the US, so they may already have teaching systems like this.
Fortunately, I’m not alone in this vision. A number of schools with progressive and/or alternate educational models have already appeared in America. I’m trying to collect information about each, so if you know of one, please let me know.
There is no profit incentive here. No power incentive either. The educational model will be publically available to any school or organization that wants to adopt it. There’s no need for a centralized governing body, though an independent quality & accountability association may be necessary.
Being privately-funded hopefully removes potentially negative political & financial influences on these schools. But a number of problems are immediately obvious:
How do I pay these very well paid teachers?
How do I train these teachers?
How do I privately fund it?
What exactly does this educational model look like?
How would the current educational institution react to these schools?
How would parents react to these schools?
How would quality & accountability be ensured?
And many, many more.
I don’t have the answers yet. There’s a lot more research to do. I’ll need lots of help too. Experienced teachers. Child psychologists. School principals who’ve had to deal with school boards. Anyone with the desire to help change the world.
Perhaps I won’t realistically accomplish all of this in my lifetime. That’s okay. At the very least, I want to lay the groundwork for such a school. Perhaps a successor will continue with the torch.
Or perhaps such a school already exists and all I need to do is support & help it grow. Who knows. There’s still much research to do.
But on my deathbed, at least I’ll know that I tried to fundamentally improve the world.
. . .
Want to help, or have any information that can help me build this school?
