Human, Only More So

Hi Everyone,

When I was living in South Africa in 2008, someone told me something that helped explain some of the frustrations I was having: “Every major problem in the world exists in South Africa in full force.”  I’m sure this could be said of many countries, but it definitely rang true with South Africa: it seemed that everywhere you turned, you faced corruption, environmental degradation, racism, greed, devastating poverty, educational apathy, sexism, serious health crises, and on and on.  However, I had to acknowledge that the opposite was also true: South Africa is saturated with potential, kind people, gorgeous scenery, thriving creative centers, promising youths, wise elders, a recent history that provides examples both of how to be and how not to be.  I came away from my year there with an admittedly biased conviction that South Africa was a microcosm of the world.

Since I’ve been working with the three- and four-year-olds at my work, I have started thinking similar thoughts about preschoolers.  Ideas about childhood have varied drastically throughout the millennia and usually reflect more about the society that came up with them than the children they describe, so I understand that it is highly presumptuous and ridiculous to put forth any general theory about childhood after working in a preschool for four months. Nevertheless, when people ask why I love working with young children, I’ve started saying, “I love that they’re just like other humans, only more so.”  I’m beginning to suspect that all of what it really means to be a person can be found in a preschool classroom. 

On a daily basis, these kids embody both extremes of virtually any adjectival spectrum I could imagine:

They can be so kind to each other one minute (welcoming a new student to the class by showing her where to sit at circle time) and so ugly the next (“I’m not your friend.  Get away from me!”).  

They experience extreme sadness (wailing at the top of their lungs because a classmate has ripped one of their drawings in half) and extreme joy (jumping on a mini-trampoline cures all woes).  

They can be others oriented (“Oh, Zach! You’re here! I’m so glad! I’m your friend today!”) and totally self-centered (I ask, “Who lives on planet Earth?”  And James replies, “I do!”  When his friends also claim to live on Earth, he bursts out crying, yelling, “No fair! Only I lives on planet Earth!”).  

They are at once optimistic (Kevin: “Hey, one day, I was swimming and a shark came up to me.”  Ryan: “And did you die?”  Kevin [elated]: “No, I didn’t!”) and pessimistic (“Jenny is on the trampoline and it’s my turn and she won’t give me a turn.” I ask, “Have you asked her for a turn?” “No, but she won’t give me one”).  

They are brutally honest (“Someone is making a pooping smell!”) and imaginatively deceptive (My co-teacher asks Megan what she is going to clean up during clean-up time, and Megan says, “Maybe my head is gone.”  She looks around for her head for a while, then says, “Maybe it’s around here somewhere.  I know... follow me!”) 

They are logical (“When I grow up, then I’m gonna be a Mommy.” “When I be little, I’m gonna be a baby!”) and totally nonsensical (After measuring me with a yardstick, Kristin declares, “You’re a humpback whale!” — at least, I hope this wasn’t based in reality!).  

They are easily excited (“Jordan’s sitting by me, and I’m sitting by me too!”) and easily bored (While reading Baby Baluga together for the fourth or fifth time in a row, Peter tells James, “This is Baby Baluga,” and James replies with a tired sigh, “Yes... I know...”).  

They are meticulous imitators (Sophie pretends to be a receptionist at a doctor’s office and as she escorts me and two other children to “the back,” she assures us in a comforting tone that “the doctor will be back soon.”) and they are fabulously creative (“My socks have red stripes on them. Do you want to know the red stripe song? [humming] Mmm-mmm, mmm-mmm...” [I later learned that this boy loves listening to the band The White Stripes]). 

They are frightened (being scared of the toilet flushing) and they are brave (“If the Big Bad Wolf messes with me, I’m gonna smack him like this!”).

They are naïve and inexperienced (“If you have a sister, you’re going to be a mom.  If you have a brother, you’re going to be a dad.”), and they are wiser than they’ll ever know (While reading a picture book with me and Kelly, Allie points to a character who is walking off the page and says, “That’s God.”  I ask where God is going, and she says, “He’s going home.”  I ask where God lives, and Kelly chimes in: “In a tunnel.  Wanna see?”  I say, “Definitely!” and she says, “Well, we can’t.”  Though they obviously didn’t know it, in this brief exchange, these girls summed up much of my theology.).

Every major emotion or characteristic people can exhibit exists in the extreme in our classroom every day.  They are fiercely human, these tiny people.

Recently, I reread C.S. Lewis’ essay,"The Weight of Glory," which is one of my very favorite pieces of writing.  In it, Lewis discusses the Christian concept of glory, and how it is manifested among people.  The whole essay is worth reading, but my favorite part is when he says, “Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses.”  Lewis reminds us that all people are human, only more so.  We certainly can’t spend our entire lives in speechless awe of humanity — we would lead incredibly unproductive ones if we did.  But I, at least, am never in danger of that.  More often, I’m tempted to forget that anyone I encounter — whether I have known them my whole life or am passing them momentarily in a grocery store parking lot — is a gift.  In those rare moments when I remember to remember how sacred people are, I feel a deep and thrilling honor, and under my breath, I whisper, “Wow! I get to be in this world with you!  With you!”  

The trick, of course, is remembering this while cleaning up the third milk spill of the day, and trying to prevent World War III from breaking out over a particularly desirous Lego.  But that’s the great thing about kids.  Just when you think you’re going to have to ship one of them to another country so that he doesn’t make any more of his classmates cry, he will “do teamwork” with one of them, putting away a puzzle, or constructing a rocket ship out of blocks.  The longer I spend with these inconsistent, mysterious, holy little humans, the more of that sense of honor I feel.  

And know that far more often than I make time to relate, I remember that I am profoundly honored to know each of you.

Have a great week!

Sarah/Mouse