Teaching at a kids camp this summer has really challenged a lot of my presuppositions about children.
A few weeks ago, I was sitting against the wall about an hour before that session's final program took place, and a rather quiet, very intelligent young lady, about ten I guess, came and sat down beside me. I was surprised, because whenever I saw her in class she behaved as if she couldn't wait to get out of there. (But that's one of the problems with having a class right before lunch.) I was talking to another girl in her class at the time, so after I greeted the quiet new arrival, I returned to my other chat. I was trying to explain to them that I probably won't be coming back next summer. I heard a voice at my elbow: "Oh! That makes me sad. I LIKE you!" It was the reserved young lady, who always seemed to aloof. I truly didn't know what to say. I think I said, "Thank you," but it didn't seem like enough. She had broken free of her own personality to effectively communicate her own feelings, and my meager token of thanks were not intrinsically worthy of it. I don't know if that means anything to anyone else, but it made a profound impression on me.
MANY kids are difficult to read, not just the quiet, shy types. The ones from broken homes can be the most affectionate; the ones from traditionally stable families can be bratty beyond measure. And vice versa, of course. I feel like I've seen all kinds this summer: from the ones whose parents dress them in hopelessly stained "Margaritaville" T-shirts to the ones who pack boiled shrimp and sushi for lunch.
And I never dreamt that someday, children ages six to eleven would all be sitting quietly, each absorbed in a little electronic box known far and wide as a "DSI," all playing a tandem racing game together. I'm not sure if this is the kind of group activity with which I should be pleased. It boggles my old-fashioned mind. In fact, it boggles my quaint little brain so much that when I see one sitting reading a book, even if it's a text version of the latest High School Musical film, I want to applaud them and their parents. Go OUT. Go READ. Go THINK. Go PLAY. REALLY play, not with a controller in your hands and the sole thought, "Next level" running like a crazed rat in a maze through your slowly-developing mind. And I have to say, not really boasting, that I'm not being a hypocrite in this: I don't enjoy video games or wantonly surfing the net. Of course, I'm very grateful that I'm not, because my will power isn't so brilliant and were I to become hopelessly addicted, I would doubtless lose what little vocabulary I have left (after college got through with my brain).
It's such a topsy-turvy world, and they are such impossibly complex beings that they always keep you guessing. Sometimes they open up completely and will talk to you about anything; sometimes you have no idea what they're feeling until they tell you, point-blank, and the truth can be so unexpected it leaves you in an awkward, wordless zone for about thirty seconds. They don't notice the awkwardness, though, because they can't yet understand it, which is a place to which I, and a lot of other people, wish I could return.
