I and every other second grader at my elementary school was paired with a “buddy,” a personal mentor from the fifth grade. The fifth graders, armed with three years surplus experience, seemed to us the inscrutable equals of teenagers and adults. And they were eager to act the part.
They cast each other undisguised, knowing glances whenever we did something they considered innocent or adorable–surprisingly broad categories. They energetically moderated even our most relaxed conflicts. They spoke to us in that markedly different tone adults unconsciously adopt when they address children.
In our presence, our buddies displayed the most remarkable confidence, while even our gregarious members assumed an uncharacteristic, almost reverent quietness. This was to be expected: big kids do not fear the judgement of little kids, but little kids tremble at the reverse.
One day, in preparation to depart from our classroom, where our buddies had traveled to work with us, their teacher organized them into a single-file line. I remember thinking it a curious precaution to impose on such responsible and intelligent big kids.
While the fifth-grade teacher labored to terminate a petty conversation with our own, one of my classmates’ buddies, seemingly unprovoked, dropped to the ground and began performing the worm. It was a vigorous and mesmerizing dance, as well as a demonstration of impressive fitness. But it was over at a word from his classmate.
“Stop it!” she said with a note of genuine concern. “You’ll give the little kids nightmares!”
And for just a moment, all those big kids and little kids seemed ridiculous. I laughed. I think my classmates assumed I was laughing at the worm. Rather, I had realized that the world thought nothing of second graders and that, in a few short years, neither would we.
I vowed amid those heaves of audible amusement that I would remember what it was like to be a second grader. I would remember that I spent my free time pondering consciousness, that I often identified fallacies in the reasoning of adults, and that the worm didn’t give me nightmares. Preserving my second-grade state of mind soon became one of my favorite pastimes. I succeeded at burning it into my brain, and as a result, I trusted in the competence of second graders long after my friends had dismissed it as a fairytale.
Today, I honestly cannot tell the difference between a second and a fifth grader, but the difference between me and a twenty-year-old is a topic of great societal attention. Those fifth graders who woefully underestimated the second graders have grown up, and now many of them truly believe that they are owed the right to vote, while I am not; that they are mature enough to negotiate contracts, while I am not; and that while I must be subject to compulsory education–for my own good–they deserve choice. These beliefs hold firm in the face of my standardized test scores and other evidence to the contrary.
Wild and absolute assessments of the value of three years are no longer amusing. They have consequences now–consequences worse than a forgone viewing of a top-notch performance of the worm. Our buddies need to realize soon what they overlooked a decade ago: that their intuitions about age groups are terrible measures of capacity.
But perhaps I am mistaken to refer to “buddies” so many years after that title officially expired. Maybe I ought now to call them men, women, or adults. Nevertheless, I find buddy endearing, and it might still be accurate. After all, outside of my elementary school, buddy means friend, peer, equal.
Written: 9/27/2015
