Childspeak

If everybody spoke the way a child did, the world would be a much more honest place. More ridiculous, as well, since world leaders would frequently call each other “booger faces” and shoot spitballs at each other. But at least they’d be saying what they’re thinking.

 

On a recent lazy Sunday, in the midst of an afternoon which demanded that one spend time in the sunkissed outdoors, I drove down to Rotary Park in Biddeford with a camping chair and a book, intent on reading the afternoon away while a warm river breeze caressed my face. I found a shady spot on the riverbank, started unfolding the chair, and looked down to find a small blond boy staring up at me with a Kool-Aid-stained grin spread from cheek to cheek. He held a stick in each hand.

 

“I’m gonna throw this stick in the river!” he announced emphatically. He then followed up on his promise with a mighty chuck, the stick tumbling end over end as it smacked the water’s surface. Not a bad arm for a kid probably no older than 4.

 

“Nice work,” I said.

 

The boy’s demeanor and countenance then took a sharp detour. This happens with some kids. One minute they’re happy-go-lucky bundles of positivity, the next they’re sulking like a caped avenger brooding over a bank robbery. His grin became a frown, tinged with confusion.

 

“Are you sticking around for marshmallows?” he asked.

 

Needless to say, I had not planned on marshmallows. The boy’s family apparently had, for nearby in the park, I could hear the sounds of an imminent barbecue; a woman, presumably the boy’s mother, appeared from between a thicket of trees, approaching us and looking positively horrified.

 

“No,” I told the boy, “I love marshmallows, but I forgot to bring mine.”

 

A beat passed. And then, just as his mother came within earshot, the boy said, “You forgot to bring your hair.”

 

I’ve got to hand it to him. That was a pretty awesome line.

 

Mom came and whisked him away, shooting me an apologetic look, and as they retreated back to their area of the park I could hear the poor woman explaining to her son that some people shave their heads as a matter of style; she still sounded embarassed.

 

Only she had no reason to be. I was fine with the whole encounter. The boy was just speaking his mind, and that’s what kids do.

 

We lose that as we grow into adults, largely out of pure necessity. Daily life requires some modicum of tact. Imaging if we introduced the loose tak of youth into everyday situations –

 

At work: “Hey boss, your ideas are stupid and you smell like an armpit!”

 

At a job interview: “Why are your eyes so big? Is it because of those dumb glasses?”

 

At the movies: “Nice underwater escape, Stallone! ADRIAAAAANNN!”

 

You can see how this would be problematic.

 

By the same token, adults often have a tendency to play it too safe, and could probably learn a thing or two from their diminutive counterparts.

 

I offer the English language itself as proof of this. The more adept we become at playing the whole adulthood game – and it’s definitely a game – the more we hide behind euphemisms, mask our true intentions, and say things without actually saying them. We ensconce ourselves in a complex web of B.S.

 

Here’s a for-instance for you. You’re on a first date. It’s going badly. The person sitting across from you forgot to shower, and smells like a plastic bag of animal hair burning in an oil field. She’s eating spaghetti with her fingers and can’t stop talking about how Hitler really wasn’t such a bad guy. Clearly, things aren’t going to work out. You handle the situation by politely engaging in small talk – “So, it sure has been humid lately!” – and refraining from rude behavior, like checking the time on your phone, or silently weeping into your mashed potatoes. Then, as you’re about to part ways for the night, you compose a parting line: “Thanks for coming out tonight. I’ll call you sometime.” You call her sometime, but only to inform her that you won’t be treating her to enchilladas in the near future.

 

That’s typical adult-speak.

 

Child-speak would go something like this: “You’re a smelly, racist pig! See you later, butthead!”

 

It’s mean, but there’s something cathartic and no-nonsense about the child’s approach. It leaves no wiggle room, no space for interpretation. It’s pure honesty, unmolested by airs. And you don’t even have to call her again! What an adult can learn from this situation is to meld their grown-up tact with a child’s forthrightness, and say something like, “Thanks for coming out tonight. I didn’t feel a spark, but I wish you the very best.” No games, no messing around. Just the truth. And you don’t even have to call her again!

 

Here’s another one. You’re at a family reunion, and you’re locked into a conversation with crazy Uncle Lenny, to whom you haven’t spoken in about six years, mostly because he spends the majority of his time tripping on acid and staring at his Hubert Humphrey campaign bumper sticker. You’re trying to extricate yourself from the encounter when he floats you an unappealing invitation: to help him choreograph a Barry Manilow-themed dance number for his “America’s Got Talent” audition.

 

The adult lies: “Sorry, I’m having an operation to remove my sphincter. I’ll be out of commission for a while.”

 

The child tells the truth: “That sounds dumb. You’re dumb. I want cake!”

 

In a way, I admire the blond boy for speaking his mind – even as I’m jealous that he can get away with it. But there’ll come a time, one day soon, when he’ll walk up to another head-shaver, and instead of saying, “You forgot your hair,” he’ll say, “I really like your hair-do,” and the person he’s speaking to won’t be  certain as to whether there’s a hint of sarcasm buried under the surface. 

 

On that day, the boy will become a man.