Between Five and Twenty-Two
Years and years and years ago, I was invited to visit my son’s kindergarten class as a “guest presenter” during career week. Parents were asked to come in and talk about what they do. I followed a Fireman. He brought the truck.
I was doomed before I began.
In a better spot than an accountant, at least I had a prop. I carried in a leather Wilson basketball and twirled it on my finger, then messed with it from hand-to-hand while talking to the kids.
After a less-than-a minute-synopsis of my job (how long does it really take to explain basketball coaching to pre-first-graders?) I asked them some questions about themselves.
“How many of you play basketball?” Almost every child in the room shot a gyrating hand into the air, some two. (I’m guessing that meant they were double good!)
“I do! I do! I do!”
“Awesome! I bet some of you are really good dribblers.”
“I can dribble faster than anybody,” interrupted a jumping bean with a buzz cut. “I just go shroom shroom shroom . . .” he said, demonstrating how he weaves between imaginary defenders on the court while trying desperately to stay attached to his chair under Mrs. Etter’s watchful eye.
I try to reel back in the conversation as lots of air shooting, pretend passing, and general physical mayhem has begun to spread like the chicken pox.
“Basketball is super fun, isn’t it? I have another question for you.” I wait for them to settle.
“Who in here can draw?”
“Ooh ooh ooh! I can! I can! I can!” Hands shot up across the room, lots of left hands cupped to the armpit of the right in an attempt to get the outstretched hand just a tad bit higher.
“I drew a FIRETRUCK!” (of course she did) “with a Dalmatian wearing a tutu and I put rainbow hearts on all the windows, some were pink and purple and some were yellow and green.” The girl with lopsided dog ears squeezed her hands together under her chin and grinned so proudly hard her head shook like she was experiencing hypothermia.
Then all at once the table of tiny Picassos began to verbally hurl descriptions of their works to no one in particular but in the general direction of me. Recognizing another potential spin-off, I interjected a new question.
“Shh shh shh,” I air-pressed both my palms, “Who in here can sing?”
“Oh! I can! I can! I can!” came the chorus as individual serenades of “MMMBop” and various other trendy refrains comingled in a cacophonous concert.
“Who can dance?” I shouted above the sort-of tunes.
The kindergarteners didn’t even bother to answer. They dove headfirst toward the proof. As a miniature dance party broke out in the space surrounded by cubbies and colorful bulletin boards, I looked apologetically at Mrs. Etter and mouthed, “I’m so sorry!”
Clearly, I had lost the room.
She and I laughed together and joked about joining in though, of course, neither of us did.
I remember thinking when I got to the car, that my son had to be in the most talented class of kids on the planet. There was NOTHING those darlings couldn’t do!
…..
That evening as fate would have it, I was scheduled to be a guest at a graduate-level course on campus. As I made my way to the front of the room to speak, an idea popped in my mind.
After a brief introductory remark and a lame but well-received funny, I posed my first question.
“Hey, can anybody in here hoop?” About a third of the college kids slumping in their seats half-raised their hands.
“Anybody dunk?”
A couple of guys with uber coolness lifted an index finger. The group at large looked around visibly sizing them up.
“Can anybody sing?” I asked.
A funny man near the back called out, “Does in-the-shower count??”
The class empathetically giggled. “I’ll take it!” I said, sharing in their humble self-deprecation.
“How about draw? We have any artists in here?”
Not one hand raised. Awkward silence blanketed the room.
Juxtaposed against the gifted group I met earlier that morning, I wondered how this collection of self-identified, inept losers had faked their way through college on to graduate school.
Something clearly happens between five and twenty-two.
Life.
We know what transpires. Somebody laughed when a young girl sang. A boy drew a picture and somebody said, “What is that?” She played on a basketball team, but so many other players were better than her. Could she really say she could “hoop?”
The way people see themselves changes as the world weighs in with its opinions.
Before we start to think about it too much, we have faith in ourselves. We paint wildly, sing at the top of our lungs, wear clothes that we feel like wearing, whether they go together or not. Pre-judgment, we don’t worry. We live free, believing we can do most anything.
Recently, I rode a bicycle for the first time in probably twenty years. “What if I don’t remember how to do it?” I thought. “What if my muscle memory is rusted out and the ability to balance while pedaling fell through one of the holes?”
It didn’t. And I did remember how to do it. It truly is a thing you can’t forget.
Riding with the wind in my hair, I remembered how it feels to be footloose, liberated from the council of exterior critics and the interior voices that they build and feed. Kids get so much right. I vow not to disremember.