This passage from Bob Greene's book, And You Know You Should Be Glad
, reminded me of how powerful words- both kind and unkind- can be to a child:
We were on our way to his old house, and he said, "I think this is almost the exact place where Jerry Hockman said hello to us." Every step he took, every direction he looked, he was finding something. He was touring his past, he was an archaeologist on a deadline not of his own making, excavating long-lost joy. I was probably the right person for him to have with him; I was the one person in the world who wouldn’t have to ask him about his references, including the Jerry Hockman reference.
It’s funny how a kind gesture from someone can stay with you—how the smallest choice a person makes can resonate over the years. The reverberations of cruelty and gratuitous meanness, we often hear about—absence of mercy tends to make the history books. Yet it can work the other way. Fleeting moments of kindness can echo forever. We were little elementary school kids walking down this same sidewalk when, coming from the other direction, we saw Jerry Hockman.
Jerry Hockman, that year, was the high school’s star athlete—older than us, living in a different solar system than us, accustomed to hearing cheers. He had no idea who we were. We were young, invisible. So here came Jerry Hockman, in his blue varsity letter jacket with the white B on the chest, and to us it was like we were seeing Johnny Unitas, to us it was like we were seeing Mickey Mantle. He had that kind of celebrity, in that town, in that year. And our paths were about to cross.
What were we supposed to do, at a moment like this? Get off the sidewalk, to let him pass? Offer him words of praise? Ask for his autograph? We hadn’t planned this encounter—what were the rules for such an occasion? What we did was look down at the sidewalk and avoid his gaze. What we did was fall silent and feel small.
What Jerry Hockman did was speak to us. "Hi, guys," he’d said. Just that—he acknowledged we were alive. We looked up and he gave us a smile and a nod of his head as he walked past.
Tiny choice on his part—ignore the two kids or make them feel special.
Tiny choice—and here, at fifty-seven years old, Jack was remembering it.
Choose your words carefully- what you say, and what children hear, may have an impact that lasts for the rest of their lives.
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