Kids Know

One day when Maggie was in high school, she told me she’d asked the guidance counselor why they had so many team-sport assemblies: celebrating a lineup of kids, the same kids, repeatedly.

What about all the other kids?

Wow, I thought, she’s there. She knows.

“She said I had anger issues,” Maggie said.

“Of course you do,” I answered. “You’re a teenager. But more than that, by making you the problem, the school avoids looking in the mirror.”

I’d seen this before.

I became a high school teacher when I was 24, not far removed from being a teenager. Surrounded by a much older and mostly male faculty, they maintained a high-and-mighty attitude on every student issue, keeping the lid on with iron fists.

Until a senior boy had his ear pierced 3 days before graduation.

Nothing catastrophic now, but in Oklahoma in the 1970s at an academic, church-affiliated private school, that diamond stud exploded like a grenade.

He knew.

An emergency administrative meeting was called to consider barring him from graduation. Advisors circled the wagons. Temperatures soared in the faculty lounge.

What does he mean by this?

Who does he think he is?

Why would he ruin graduation for everyone?

They hurled questions at me because I knew this boy well. He was likable and bright and saved his edgy sense of humor about his elders for conversations with me. I knew his thoughts and questions ran deep.

I explained he was not a troublemaker aiming for a critical statement to embarrass the school.

“He’s discovering himself, which is what we say students should do. It’s not an earring. It’s a stepping stone.”

They relented. The day came off without controversy.

When I became a mother at 45, some people asked why I’d take on parental troubles when my life was nicely set. If they expected a greeting card of sugary emotion, they were disappointed. I simply said I believed a child would be an important challenge. I’d understand more about myself, beyond myself even. I’d see important things that escaped me. I could help her through challenges she’d surely face when she encountered opposition.

No rose-colored glasses for me.

And I watched Maggie, probably to a fault, ready for her to emerge. So I held my breath when she showed me this picture—her metaphor in vivid markers.

Yes, she’s a princess but not the stereotype. No throne. No prince. No jewels. No unicorn. No castle.

She walks through her garden, alone and confident, her arm outstretched, discovering her way.

One stepping stone after another.

Kids know.