Maybe the kid's a dancer.
The kid probably mastered breaking, and line, and swing, and ballroom, and tap, and jazz, and modern shortly after taking that first step. Today the kid is working on some never before seen move that tickles the ozone, and calls forth rain from the clouds.
Perhaps the kid's an artist.
Was just born understanding how Mike managed to paint all those tiles of the Sistine ceiling distorted just right so when you see them from the ground floor, everything's perfect. The kid figured that out before speaking that first word, could do it in crayon on construction paper. And now, the kid mixes oil and this stuff from tubes daddy's never seen before to rip the facade off the rainbow to reveal colors you and I have never seen in the spectrum.
The kid might be a mechanic.
Been sneaking out of the house after curfew, forever. Thats when the kid fixes those funny noises in mama's old jalopy.
She used to complain about them on the way to the babysitter. The kid doesn't like to hear mama use those words. Lucky for her, there's a letter perfect blueprint on the kid's mind. The kid sees all the wires, and connections, and parts as clearly as he sees mama sitting behind the steering wheel. And in THAT blueprint, everything moves, so the kid can understand what causes the noise.
And the kid just "knows" how to make them stop. Over time, the blueprint has grown, and now every machine in the whole world is part of that diagram, and the kid can just walk up to any of them, and "know" why they're not working right
And there's a part of the diagram in the kid's head that goes to a machine the kid's never seen. That's because it hasn't been built yet. But the kid knows how, and will eventually get around to building it.
Or cook, or chemist, or singer, or builder, doctor, philosopher, physicist, basketball player, therapist, preacher, healer, midwife, farmer, geologist, anthropologist, or some skill we don't have a word for yet.
The kid's brain knows the task at hand as surely as it knows to make the kid's heart beat, and eyes blink. And at six, or seven years alive there is no question in the kid's universe that begins "What are you going to be..." or ends "...when you grow up." This thing is the kid's true religion and taken as an article of faith. The kid and the gift just ... are.
The kid's parent(s) probably don't get it yet. They know their kid is different, but in this world where different can be dangerous, their working assumption is that even the difference is "typical," you know ... the kid is gay, or mentally challenged, or disabled, or born in the wrong place and time. And the kid might be, but that has nothing to do with THIS. They thought the new hobby was a passing fad--a puppy love or temporary intrigue. But they're wrong, This ... is DIFFERENT.
There's a chance that on some days, in deep-seated places they don't like to talk about with their closest friends, they are even ashamed of the kid.
And the other children don't understand the kid either. Why the kid is always up before the sun, already completely engrossed in a chemistry experiment that's already failed 1,278 times before They don't realize that the kid knows how close the answer is, but can't look it up in a book somewhere, because it's never been written down.
Nobody can quite understand why the kid risks getting grounded to stay up long past bedtime, plugged into an ipod, or hands busy scratching old records to make and mix sounds nobody's ever thought to put together, sounds you can't hear because the kid doesn't share headphones while there's work going on . But if the kid is lucky, there is one person ... maybe another child, who will try.
You and I won't truly become "aware" of the kid until the moment arrives. And in the moment, we'll wonder where this genius came from, and how even though we sent a man to the moon, nobody ever thought of the kid's particular way of doing that particular thing.
And because television cameras only zoom so close we won't see the calluses on the kid's hands or feet that started as "hard-work'" blisters before the kid ever came close to puberty. We'll notice the kid's glasses, or the way those eyes squint to read, or glare to see. We won't recognize that the kid intentionally sacrificed perfect vision on the altar of the inside magic so the secrets could come out.
We might even notice the kid's backpack, and the way it bulges. But because we grew up in the age of books, we won't realize that the kid was born into an age of instant information, and the the backpack is full because the kid has reached the end of the internet, devoured the thoughts of every great predecessor in the field, and that now the kid is thinking thoughts that those greats wouldn't have arrived at for 20 years after their departure.
But we'll catch the kid in fleeting glimpses. Camouflaged to match the concrete, or the prairie, the one-stoplight town, or the Appalachian mountains. And in our tragically hip way of missing the trees for the forest, the kid will slip from our potential vew.
Lucky for us, the kid doesn't care. The kid isn't even aware that we can't see the effort or the results because of the crowd of thugs, criminals, potheads, wannabes, and posers blocking our view. The kid's nose is to the grindstone. The kid only cares about one thing ... and it isn't our blindness. The kid is a modern-day Jesus, or Mohammed, Gutenberg, Curie, Gates. And the very way people think--about even the possibilities, will never be the same after the kid, as before.
All the kid has to do is survive ...
... infertility, and abortion, poverty, abuse, pedophiles, that first delicious hit of weed, alcoholics, alcoholism, gangs, drugs, becoming a parent too soon and losing focus, Playstation, bad education, worse healthcare, bullies, a thousand points of darkness, self-loathing, suicide, peer pressure, friends that aren't good for him, a mother that desn't know best, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, crooked cops, an injustice system, random acts of violence, saccharin, asbestos, global warming, dying on the wrong battlefield, religion, politics, the media, and the demons inside.
The kid isn't the first, or even the 10th.
You will someday hear what the kid has to say, because when the kid speaks, it is with the voice and authority of the universe.
I do not know the kid's gender, or when the kid was born. I don't know what color the kid's skin is, or the kid's ethnicity. I'm not privy to whether the kid is cute, or funny-looking, rich, poor, or middle-class. I have not seen whether the kid is a beanpole, or pudgy. I don't know if the kid is born into the Bible Belt, a community ruled by Sharia law, or the liberal bastions of Berkeley. The kid may be betrothed at age four, or have earlobes stretched by polished stones
I only know that the kid is good. And good at it. And that one false step can snatch the kid from us forever.
OH ... and I know the kid's name.
Hope.
No comments:
Post a Comment