Kids Know

Yesterday, six men were shot at a mosque in Quebec City in a terrible terror attack. I haven't told my kid, but he will know. 

Being a child seems such a precious, fragile thing. The age of innocence is so short. Belief in magic, in goodness, in the perfection of adults as human beings... it's so, so short. We try to preserve that innocence as long as we can.

But once they go to school? Kids know.

On Halloween, I walked behind my sons and friends as they trick-or-treated. I listened as they talked - not about school, or girls, or even video games. They were talking about Donald Trump, who had just promised to build the wall. Even then they were denouncing his intentions, little parrots echoing snippets of conversations they've heard about racism, sexism, about divisiveness, political grandstanding. 

My son and his buddies were 7 and 8 years old. They talk about this stuff at school.

Kids know.

My heart weeps that he is a tween who is just coming into his own as the world is falling apart in so many ways, as the news about the environment becomes grim, as fascist rhetoric begins to fester in the airways, and violence screams in our headlines. I could wish he didn't have to see the reality. But should I hide this from him? This is his world, the world that he and his friends will inherit, with all its problems.

When I read the news silently, he appears over my shoulder. He sees what I see. And he comes to his own conclusions.

"So they can't come home? That's wrong," he complained, as he read an article I was reading about Donald Trump's immigration order - about people stranded in airports, unable to fly back to the United States this past weekend.

He sees the world in such black and white sometimes. But then again, lately, it doesn't really seem like even the adults see that many shades of grey.

In my loss of clear knowledge of what we can do, I hide nothing.

But neither do I hide from him that others are fighting back for freedom, for fairness, and against the oppression of silence.

He also watches over my shoulder as I glance at social media. It's true, he doesn't see everything. He doesn't have unfettered access to the true depths people can sink to. But he sees more than I give him credit for, every single day.

He sees, and comments on, that there are ordinary people every day trying to fix his world in some small way. He is already wiser than so many who blame the entire generation for simply letting letting things fall apart.

My heart sings because, while innocence is lost, one child's fiery sense of justice is gained. Some things really should be seen in black and white.

"No," he says. "This isn't right."

How clearly he sees, sometimes, when adults are stuck in laws and rules. Instead he sees suffering and sadness and people telling untruths designed for unethical gain. He sees straight clear through to the results they bring.

Death, and sorrow, and pain.

No, this isn't right.

When he comes home, he will get in my car. We'll go home and perform our routines. He'll do his homework, eat, and sleep in peace. He won't go to bed hungry, uneducated, or unloved like so many unfortunate children.

There are so many children of war right now.

There's so many even here, at home. If not those wars far away, this new war here. A war of ideals and rules and fences.

How very few questions he ever seems to ask me. He's 8 years old, and the why of the human condition never comes up. Perhaps he's not ready to ask them.

Maybe he already knows.

I hope not.

But if he does, I hope he also will grow up prepared to fight for what is right. And that I'll be here with him.

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