By Jennifer Oliver
I always prefer to believe the best of everybody, it saves so much trouble.
~Rudyard Kipling
When I attended Open House at my son's school, I scanned the bulletin board outside his first-grade classroom. I spied Cody's handiwork in a colorful sea of papers tacked to the board. My expectant smile froze.
I always prefer to believe the best of everybody, it saves so much trouble.
~Rudyard Kipling
When I attended Open House at my son's school, I scanned the bulletin board outside his first-grade classroom. I spied Cody's handiwork in a colorful sea of papers tacked to the board. My expectant smile froze.
In one circle he was supposed to write or draw what he didn't like.
"MEN," he scrawled in capital letters.
Uh-oh, I thought as fear iced me. How could Cody not like men? He loved his daddy! Did some man do unspeakable things to my child?!
"Cody," I said casually. "Can you tell me about your work here?"
"Yeah," he replied, then carefully recited each word slowly. "I... don't... like... mean."
Such is the world of phonics, writing words the way they sound.
That exercise served to reinforce how our kids perceived the world, divided into two classes: good and bad.
It didn't matter to them what the person looked like. You were either good or you were bad. Take our neighbor next door, for instance. She was a good person, giving the kids treats when they deserved it. Now the bully on the bus who hit Cody in the stomach…
"He's mean, Mom!" cried Cody. "He's a bad boy!"
"He's not a bad boy," I replied, drying his tears. "What he DID was bad. There's a difference."
That's what the parenting magazines tell us to say. And it makes sense, this mass campaign of programming us to think in terms of "people coming first."
People with or without disabilities.
People with or without a steady income.
With or without a home.
With or without goodness.
People first.
But I doubted Cody understood my logic.
Until one warm Saturday morning.
Cody and I arrived at a pizza parlor where a birthday party was being held for his classmate, Kristi.
"Cody!" Kristi shouted, walking toward him in a cloud of pink ruffles, her thick, blond hair combed into one long braid down her back. She was radiant as she hugged him.
"Why, Kristi," I said, "you look beautiful!"
"Thank you," she responded, twirling around. "Let's go play some games, Cody!"
Cody, unfazed by being the only boy in the handful of attendees, bounced gleefully from one game to another, feeding tokens to hungry machines.
When several pizzas were delivered to the balloon-bedecked tables, Kristi made a point of asking Cody to sit next to her. When Cody asked for pink lemonade, she informed the waitress, with a trace of authority in her voice, "I'll have what he's having."
When it came time for opening presents, she announced, "I want to open Cody's present first!"
He handed her a small package, a pink Ooglie toy that made funny and irreverent noises when one pulled its tail.
"It's for your book bag," Cody said shyly.
"Oh, I love it!" she gushed, hugging Cody. "Thank you!"
While everyone was eating cake, Kristi leaned over to me and said, "Mrs. Oliver, Cody is always so nice to me every single day at school. He's the only one who's never, ever mean to me."
I blinked back tears. Not just because a little girl was sweet enough to acknowledge Cody's sensitivity to his mother. But for knowing how cruel kids could be, especially to skinny-challenged girls like Kristi.
My heart ached from the sudden surge of pride that coursed through it.
All I could think of was, by golly, he got it.
Cody got it.
People first.
"MEN," he scrawled in capital letters.
Uh-oh, I thought as fear iced me. How could Cody not like men? He loved his daddy! Did some man do unspeakable things to my child?!
"Cody," I said casually. "Can you tell me about your work here?"
"Yeah," he replied, then carefully recited each word slowly. "I... don't... like... mean."
Such is the world of phonics, writing words the way they sound.
That exercise served to reinforce how our kids perceived the world, divided into two classes: good and bad.
It didn't matter to them what the person looked like. You were either good or you were bad. Take our neighbor next door, for instance. She was a good person, giving the kids treats when they deserved it. Now the bully on the bus who hit Cody in the stomach…
"He's mean, Mom!" cried Cody. "He's a bad boy!"
"He's not a bad boy," I replied, drying his tears. "What he DID was bad. There's a difference."
That's what the parenting magazines tell us to say. And it makes sense, this mass campaign of programming us to think in terms of "people coming first."
People with or without disabilities.
People with or without a steady income.
With or without a home.
With or without goodness.
People first.
But I doubted Cody understood my logic.
Until one warm Saturday morning.
Cody and I arrived at a pizza parlor where a birthday party was being held for his classmate, Kristi.
"Cody!" Kristi shouted, walking toward him in a cloud of pink ruffles, her thick, blond hair combed into one long braid down her back. She was radiant as she hugged him.
"Why, Kristi," I said, "you look beautiful!"
"Thank you," she responded, twirling around. "Let's go play some games, Cody!"
Cody, unfazed by being the only boy in the handful of attendees, bounced gleefully from one game to another, feeding tokens to hungry machines.
When several pizzas were delivered to the balloon-bedecked tables, Kristi made a point of asking Cody to sit next to her. When Cody asked for pink lemonade, she informed the waitress, with a trace of authority in her voice, "I'll have what he's having."
When it came time for opening presents, she announced, "I want to open Cody's present first!"
He handed her a small package, a pink Ooglie toy that made funny and irreverent noises when one pulled its tail.
"It's for your book bag," Cody said shyly.
"Oh, I love it!" she gushed, hugging Cody. "Thank you!"
While everyone was eating cake, Kristi leaned over to me and said, "Mrs. Oliver, Cody is always so nice to me every single day at school. He's the only one who's never, ever mean to me."
I blinked back tears. Not just because a little girl was sweet enough to acknowledge Cody's sensitivity to his mother. But for knowing how cruel kids could be, especially to skinny-challenged girls like Kristi.
My heart ached from the sudden surge of pride that coursed through it.
All I could think of was, by golly, he got it.
Cody got it.
People first.
http://www.chickensoup.com
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