Here comes graduation, for me and for Henry, who's moving into the 6th grade next fall. He says he's ready to go; he says he welcomes the change. Just up ahead, he sees the promise of moving beyond the tiny little world where 40 peers have avoided you since 2nd grade. September brings with it a new, huge bunch of kids who get to know him as he is, not as how he was. Just up ahead, he sees a big break, a chance to start over.
It's the kind of thing he talks about with me, when we're alone and everything's quiet. They are the most precious moments in my life; how lucky am I to be as trusted as that? Plenty of people - especially boys, I think - wouldn't be able to talk about the shame and the sadness of being shunned. But Henry is a self-reflective little cat, who can take the risk of being honest with himself and with me. He doesn't quite get how cool he is, how amazing, how splendid. But he's getting there, with practice. He's getting into his own corner.
Lots of us have been in his corner; we've been waiting there for him. We are the very caring adults who are different ourselves. We look at this fascinating little kid and see someone who will soon be an interesting, exquisite young man. But for so long now, what Henry has wanted the most is to simply fit in and be what he calls "normal." We know, though, that if "normal" means the behavior and attitudes of his peers, then screw "normal." Slowly, slowly, slowly, he's beginning to see what we learned long ago.
There's a person at school who chases me down from time to time to tell me "a cute little story about Henry today." The story typically reveals some quirk in his nature, some misbehavior, some aloofness and separateness. I don't quite understand why this person likes to give Henry that press, when the other stories are so much warmer. It feels very mean-spirited to me. These stories play into what my anxieties have been about my son, and those anxieties are pretty common knowledge. Why put him in that corner?
Last week there was a publishing party in his classroom. The kids had written essays as part of their Making History course, and we parents were invited to come in and celebrate all their hard work and brilliance. Each kid's essay was on their desk, with a sheet nearby for people to write down their comments and share their compliments about the work. Henry took his time with more than half the essays, oblivious to the big deal of lemonade and snack. He made his way around the room, bent over, shuffling his feet in that symmetrical way he has. (The boy does love his symmetry.) I watched him leave encouraging words behind; I followed him to see what he was writing because his comments were so incisive and I was so getting a kick out of seeing that precious insight of his. And how many kids bothered to stop and read his paper, and share a word or two? One, who left behind a very unkind comment. That was it.
Would I have heard about Henry's kindness and thoughtfulness that day from that person whose good intentions I doubt? Would I have been chased down the hall with the picture of a boy who'd shown maturity, wisdom, and kindness, who had stretched himself to look beyond their treatment of him, and who bothered to care about them at all? It's unlikely.
So let me tell you a cute little story about Henry today: Henry doesn't run with the pack. I used to think it's because he couldn't keep up.
I was wrong.
