You Believe Me
Feb. 11th, 2010 09:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
krikketgirlThere's a boy at my school--he's a new kid. He came partway through the semester. And he's just awkward enough that he makes you feel a little awkward, if you know what I mean. I try to be nice to him, because I know how hard it is to start a new school.
He came up to the checkout desk the other day, and he said, "You'll believe me." He went on to tell me a story about why he believes that UFOs are real. But that's not the important part. The important part is the statement, "You'll believe me."
He didn't ask whether I'd believe him. He didn't look at me doubtfully. He walked up to me and made a statement: I would believe what he was going to tell him. Maybe other people wouldn't, he implied, but I would.
It took me aback. It made me think before I said anything after he told me his story. And it touched my heart. I don't know this boy well. I don't think UFOs are real. But he really believed that I would listen, and I would not make fun of his story, and I wouldn't think he was weird. I would believe him.
The more I work at the school, the more I come to understand that children speaking to me--no matter how often they do it, or how trivial the things they tell me--is a gift. Every time they tell me something (okay, something that doesn't involve who cut in line or who had to sit at the 'No Talking' table at lunch), they're believing, like this boy, that I will listen. That I will care. That I will not yell at them, or scold them, or laugh at them, or think they're dumb.
When children invite us into their world, it is a supreme compliment. Somehow, we are judged worthy of coming to where they are. We are not residents--we only visit. We should remember that, and treat these invitations with dignity and grace.
You believe me--don't you?
He came up to the checkout desk the other day, and he said, "You'll believe me." He went on to tell me a story about why he believes that UFOs are real. But that's not the important part. The important part is the statement, "You'll believe me."
He didn't ask whether I'd believe him. He didn't look at me doubtfully. He walked up to me and made a statement: I would believe what he was going to tell him. Maybe other people wouldn't, he implied, but I would.
It took me aback. It made me think before I said anything after he told me his story. And it touched my heart. I don't know this boy well. I don't think UFOs are real. But he really believed that I would listen, and I would not make fun of his story, and I wouldn't think he was weird. I would believe him.
The more I work at the school, the more I come to understand that children speaking to me--no matter how often they do it, or how trivial the things they tell me--is a gift. Every time they tell me something (okay, something that doesn't involve who cut in line or who had to sit at the 'No Talking' table at lunch), they're believing, like this boy, that I will listen. That I will care. That I will not yell at them, or scold them, or laugh at them, or think they're dumb.
When children invite us into their world, it is a supreme compliment. Somehow, we are judged worthy of coming to where they are. We are not residents--we only visit. We should remember that, and treat these invitations with dignity and grace.
You believe me--don't you?
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