Children scare me. I avoid them because i don’t know what to say to them. Or if they’re really small, as in still in the crib or stroller, I feel disinclined to stare at them googly-eyed and engage them in baby talk. If I were to do so, it would be more for the benefit of the mother; a performance to feign interest in her progeny. On those occasions when I’ve been cornered by a new mom, I look around in desperation like an actor who’s forgotten every line and expects to find a director frantically waving him to exit stage left.
The scenario runs like this. Here comes new mom. I tell myself to nod and smile. What was I supposed to say again? “Sure, the baby looks like his dad. Anyone can see they have the same chin. Oh, it’s a girl? Forgive me. I didn’t put in my contacts today.” All lies. Who can tell if an infant resembles its father, mother, great-aunt, or the FedEx giuy? To me, the little creatures all look the same. Pudgy faces beneath wisps of hair. Crying, laughing, pooping. Waiting to be cleaned. Demanding to be fed. Their toothless mouths gibbering incomprehensible commands as if they were French kings in the court of Versailles.
So why am I here? Why am I at 826LA, an organization that teaches kids to write? Because I want to go outside my comfort zone and interact with people, albeit little people, who’ve been on this earth for fewer years than I’ve lived in Los Angeles. On my first day as a volunteer, I wait with other more seasoned volunteers, and not only am I the oldest person in the room; I am also the most afraid.
The first time I walked into 826LA, I felt my mouth form an Oh. It’s the kind of place that I wish had existed when I was a kid. Somewhere to escape. The room looks like a designer’s version of Harry Potter with exposed beams, steel and glass pendant lights, wooden tables and aluminum chairs.There are bookcases. Not white plastic or blond wood that looks like it was bought yesterday at the nearest Ikea. But in shades of nutty brown that make you feel like time has passed and the books have aged with those shelves.
I hear noise outside. They are here. “They” being the little people from planet earth that scare the bejesus out of me. In they come. One by one. Each one so different that I’m amazed. I don’t remember myself at the age of six. No, that’s a lie. I was a nearsighted kid with pink plastic glasses shaped like cat’s eyes with rhinestones in the corners. In contrast, these kids look cool, so cool that some even have mohawks. When I was their age, the only mohawks I ever saw were in dog-eared American History books.
Each child is told to pick sunglasses from a box, place them on, and pose before a canvas. A volunteer aims a camera to take what will be each child’s author photograph. What impresses me about the organizers is that they emphasize the importance of allowing the children to select their own glasses. Personal choice and decision making is encouraged. I love this place. Some of the little ones stand with arms pinned to their sides while others cross their arms and tilt their heads. I make a discovery. Even at six, children have distinct personalities. I had so forgotten those early years of my existence that I had come to view these little people as all the same. A gray monolith. So wrong.
Finally, all the children are seated on a rug in the middle of the room, and the storyteller can begin. She tells them that we’re the Barnacle & Barnacle Publishing House and that we work for Mr. Barnacle, a cantankerous old recluse who despises his employees. Suddenly the voice of Mr. Barnacle bellows from the rafters and he threatens to fire us if we don’t produce a ton of books that very day. The banter between the storyteller and Mr. Barnacle feels fresh and convincing. It makes me laugh, puts me at ease.
The children then create a story as a group, and their unrestrained creativity amazes me. Nothing is impossible. Nothing is unimaginable. A ninja with a mohawk and rollerblades? Why not? A blue elephant that can teleport? But of course. Everything is possible.
The storyteller ends with a cliffhanger so that the children can write their own endings to the tale. I settle down at a table of four little boys. Two are talkative. Two are silent. The former write and write. The latter have blank pages. I stare at the children and and wonder if they can sense my fear. Now what was I supposed to say again?
Now is the challenge. Now is the growth. Something in me cracks open as I find my voice and discover what it means to help someone else find theirs. My attention is focused on the two quiet boys. I ask them questions about the characters in their story, about what they would do if they were in the same predicament. Slowly, they give their answers. They find their voices. They write. Two hours later, the little angels leave with their books. They are authors. I share in their delight.
