Nicky's Promise
Hi there. My name is Nicky. I am seven years old. I don't know how to write yet, so I'm recording this into a tape recorder and I'm going to keep this tape until I get older for the older me to write. I think this is the only way I have to talk to the older me. I wish I could talk with the older me because there are so many things that I want to know. All the things I wonder about now I will figure out someday, but then it will be too late. My mommy told me that she used to be a little girl. I didn't believe her, but she showed me pictures. She said that someday I will grow up to be as big as Daddy. She said that every adult used to be a kid. I don't believe her. If they were kids once too, then why don't they understand us? Did they forget? Sometimes it seems like they hate us. Why are they so mean to us? I'm scared to talk to adults. I asked Mommy what it was like to be a kid and she told me about how she did good in school and always cleaned her room. I don't know why she did that stuff. I don't want to do good in school and clean my room. School is boring, and the teachers and kids are mean to me. Cleaning my room is boring. I just want to play games and ride my bike. I asked Mommy if she got in fights with other kids. She said she did but she didn't remember anything. I asked Mommy if her teachers were ever mean to her. She said she didn't remember her teachers. I asked Mommy if she had the problems in second grade that I'm having. She said she didn't remember second grade. I wonder if something happens to adults that makes them forget what it was like to be a kid. I don't want the older me to ever forget what it was like to be a kid. I am promising to myself that I will never ever ever ever ever ever ever forget what it feels like when I'm grounded for no reason. It's not fair! I don't want to forget what it feels like when my teacher yells at me and sends me to the principal. I don't want to forget what it feels like to have everyone hate me. I don't want to forget what it feels like to get beat up and called a geek and have my lunch money taken and cry and run home and have Daddy call me a cry baby. It's not fair! When I grow up, I don't want to be mean to kids like adults are mean to me. I want to know what happened that made them forget. Now I'm grounded for no reason. Mommy says I'm suspended from school. I told her I didn't do anything but she just gets mad at me and sends me back to my room. It's not fair! There are so many things I wish the older me could tell me about adults. He can't talk to me, but then I thought that I can talk to him. So I took out my tape recorder to send this message to the older me. I can tell him all the things I don't understand, and I will promise myself that I will figure them out when I get older. I don't know why I get punished for no reason. I don't know why there are so many rules. I don't know why kids ain't allowed to do nothing. We have to do our chores and go to school and do our homework. My parents drink beer and say we're not allowed to. They say bad words when they're mad, but when I say them, they spank me for it and ground me. There are all these TV channels I'm not allowed to watch because I'm a kid. But they can watch them because they're adults. They say don't talk back. They say respect your elders. They think they're better than kids. They're not better than me! What makes them better than me! If adults are so much better than kids, then how come they're always killing each other? My parents watch TV and I hear about all the adults killing each other. In school, we learn about wars where a lot of adults kill each other. If adults were so much better than kids, then how come I hear all this stuff on TV about adults getting drunk and beating each other up? They make fun of me and say that I'm immature. If that's what I'll be like when I get mature, then I don't want to be mature. I want to be a kid forever! I promise that I will never ever ever ever ever ever ever forget what it feels like to be a kid. I promise that I won't be mean to kids like adults are mean to me. I promise that I will figure out why adults are like this. That was me twenty years ago. I kept that tape all my life and promised myself that I'd never let go of it. I listened to it a lot as I got older. I wanted to write it down, but I remember deciding a few years after recording it that I wouldn't write it down until I had the answers to all the questions I had. I wasn't sure when that would happen, so I just held on to that tape. Yesterday, it happened. The night before last, I was listening to that tape, and I fell asleep, leaving the tape running. When I woke up, I was in my parents' house. I didn't know how I got there. How could I just go to sleep one night and wake up 400 miles away? It didn't make any sense. My door was locked. Nobody could have come in, taken me out, moved me 400 miles away, and put me in my parents' house. Even if they did, why would they? It just didn't make any sense. My eyes opened quickly. Everything looked different. I felt different. I got up and saw that I was in my old bedroom, and everything looked exactly like it did when I was a kid. Then I looked at my hands and I screamed. They were so tiny. My whole body was so tiny. I was in the body of a little kid. My mom, twenty years younger, quickly opened the door. "Are you okay?" "Yeah," I said, hesitantly. She said, "what's the big idea screaming in the morning and waking everyone up?" I was speechless. How weird. My mom was treating me like a kid. I'd almost forgotten how it felt like to be treated like a kid. "I was scared," I said. "Well, stop screaming. You woke me up," she snapped, and closed the door. "And hurry up and get ready for school, or you'll be late!" she yelled as she walked down the hall. I got up and took a shower. This is so weird. My body is so tiny. I got out of the bathroom, and went to my room to get dressed. When I came out, my mom was standing there shocked. "You've never taken a shower before." Then I realized that showering was something I only learned to do as an adult. I was still taking baths when I was seven. I grabbed a muffin for breakfast and rushed out the door. I hoped I could remember where my bus stop was. Everything was just like it was when I was a kid. All the trees are shorter. The houses looked different. As if by impulse, I started walking down the street. Eventually, I saw some kids by the corner, and I remembered my old bus stop. The bus came. I got on the bus and sat down. Then I saw Johnny. I almost forgot about him. How could I forget about Johnny? "Hey punk! I'm gonna beat you up later!" he shouted. Ah, the fear and innocence of childhood, all of it shed as I progressed into adulthood. I said, "Poor Johnny. So insecure and troubled. You tease other children to ease your tender ego. You assume that your larger size renders you superior. Little do you know that you'll be going to jail before you even leave high school." Hey, that felt good. I suspect I'm going to have a lot of fun today. Johnny sat there shocked. Then he gained his composure and said, "that's it, Nicky! You're dead!" Nicky... now that's a name I haven't heard in a long time. I smiled patronizingly at Johnny as he sat there uncomfortably. I was rather looking forward to this little encounter he had planned. I went to class, and the teacher yelled, "sit down and stop talking!" Wow, nice to see you too, Ms. Jones, I thought as I laughed. I almost forgot what a witch this lady was. "And what do you find so funny this morning, Nicky?" "Nick," I replied. "Excuse me?" she snapped. "My name is Nick. And I'd appreciate if, from here forward, you stop patronizing me as though I were some sort of slave in your captivity. You are an insecure old woman and frankly I find it pathetic that you have to yell at kids to make yourself feel better." She quivered. "That's enough from you young man!" she yelled. "How dare you talk back to me. I don't know where you learned to talk like that, but I don't appreciate it! Go to the principal's office right this minute young man!" I giggled. Young man, that's cute. Among the many names these teachers used to belittle us. I hopped up and happily trotted toward the door. I passed other kids in the aisle who all turned their heads with their jaws wide open. I walked to the principal's office where I was told to sit down and wait. An hour later, the principal came out of his office and said, "good morning, Nick. Come on in." I walked into his office and sat down. "So, Ms. Jones tells me that you prefer to be called Nick now." "Yes," I told him. "She also says that you feel like a slave in captivity? I find that interesting. Tell me more." I always liked Mr. Schmitt more than the other adults in school. He still treated me like a kid, but at least he talked to me instead of yelling at me all the time. "Mr. Schmitt, the truth is, I'm 27 years old now. I woke up this morning and found myself in the body of my younger self. I haven't been to this place for 15 years. I got my masters degree three years ago, and quite frankly, I find all of this quite hilarious now. I almost forgot how this place is ran more like a concentration camp than an educational institution." Amused, Mr. Schmitt asked, "So, you've been to college, have you? And I was so sure you'd be a drop out. How can a loser like you make it into college?" I laughed out loud. I had no idea how insecure Mr. Schmitt really was. "You are such a sorry little man, do you know that? You would really like to think that I'll be a drop out. That would justify you, wouldn't it? And to think you proudly wear the badge of an elementary school principal and have society convinced that you're dedicated to helping children succeed. You want us to fail. You need us to fail." "That will be enough of that, Nicholas. How dare you insult me. I am seven times your age," snapped Mr. Schmitt. "Wrong," I said, "you are twice my age, which is pathetic considering that I've accomplished twice as much as you have in half the time. Furthermore, I dare insult you because you dare insult me by flatly calling me a loser. You feel justified to behave as such because of your age. Age is irrelavent, Mr. Schmitt, and I am not a loser." Mr. Schmitt uncomfortably shifted in his chair. He fell silent for a full minute. When he gained his composure, he quietly said, "well then." He sat silently for a few more seconds and continued. "So you say you have a master's degree. What subject, pray tell, was your major?" he asked, half smirking. "Mathematics," I answered. "Ah, mathematics! To think you could be a mathematician after the grades I've seen you get on your math tests!" he said, laughing. "Cut the superiority crap, Mr. Schmitt. You know as well as I that nothing I'm doing in this pathetic little institution of yours is preparing me for college. You assign busy work. I succeeded because I ignored your so-called 'instruction.' Instead, I learned to think for myself. That's something you would know nothing about." "That's enough, Nicholas," Mr. Schmitt replied, obviously tired of being teased by a seven year old. He was using my full name in the attempt to intimidate me. He needs so badly to feel like he has the upper hand. "You say you have a master's degree in mathematics. So I suppose you wouldn't mind me giving you a little quiz?" "Go right ahead," I replied. "I'll start off easy. What's the integral of two x?" he asked. "x squared plus C. Please don't bore me, Mr. Schmitt. If you want to talk math, at least ask something interesting." Shocked, he thought for a minute. "Very well. What is Fermat's Last Theorem?" "Ah, Pierre de Fermat. A genius, that one. FLT is not his last theorem, per se, but the last remaining statement in the post-humous list of Fermat's works that needed to be proven or independently verified. The theorem is that there are no positive integers such that x to the n plus y to the n equals z to the n, for n greater than two. He claimed to have found a proof, but there wasn't enough space in the margin to write it. In 1994, Andrew Wiles, a researcher at Princeton, published the proof. Originally it had gaps, but with the help of Richard Taylor, he was able to fill the gaps and finally replace the complicated geometry with simpler algebra." Mr. Schmitt sat there speechless. Finally he managed, "1994, that's 13 years in the future." "Sucks to be you," I replied. "I don't suppose you could describe the proof?" he asked. "I could, but that would be thwarting history, now wouldn't it Mr. Schmitt?" He sat there speechless for a while longer. He asked, "how would you like to be enrolled in a special class, for gifted children?" I said, "I guess I could, but I doubt I will be visiting in this body for much longer. You'll just end up with an extremely confused Nicky. But while I'm here, the older Nick does have a message for you." "Oh yeah? What is that?" he asked. "You have no right to treat Nicky, or any other child for that matter, as an inferior. As you can see, he is a bright kid who is capable of great success. Your efforts to belittle him and the other children is merely your feeble attempt to stunt his growth, so as to make yourselves feel better about your failures. They're children. They're new here, and they're trusting you to help them succeed in their dreams. It is your duty to help them in any way that they require. Instead, you punish them for dreaming, and you fervently struggle to crush their spirits. "But so often, such as my case, you fail in these attempts. We succeed despite you, but you will remain a failure. We don't listen to you. We don't like you. We don't trust you. We merely humor you until we turn 18 and get our freedom. Only then may we pursue our dreams. For some it's too late and they follow your path, becoming failures in your wake. But the rest of us rise above you, and we spend the rest of our lives trying to forget the pain you've imposed on our memories. Most of us forget. I have not forgotten." Right then, the bell rang. Mr. Schmitt jolted and attempted recovery from the seven year old onslaught he just experienced. "That would be the bell for recess. You are excused," he said, ushered me out as quickly as he could manage, and closed the door behind me. I laughed as I walked outside, just in time to meet Johnny angrily smacking his fist into his hand. "Ready to meet your maker, punk?" I smiled and walked right up to him. Taken aback, Johnny stood there stunned as I kissed him on the cheek and whispered, "I don't think I will succumb to your intimidation today, Johnny. Have a wonderful day," and continued walking past him. The crowd that formed, waiting for a fight, started getting confused and asking each other questions. See, I grew up with Johnny. I experienced his fist on my face for many years past second grade. He could probably buy a pretty fancy Cadillac with all the lunch money he stole from me. I was only beginning to find his methods predictable when he was arrested for car theft and possession of drugs in tenth grade. I knew his ways, and if only he'd stuck around for a while longer, I could have given him a few surprises. I knew how he fought, I knew his weaknesses, and I knew how he reacted to humiliation. That was why I gave him a back kick to his face when attempted to attack me from behind. It seems those 8 years of karate are starting to pay off. I turned around just as he fell to the ground, trying to hold back the blood from his nose. I snickered and kept walking past all the shocked kids who made room. Ms. Jones ran up to me, grabbed me by my ear, and attempted to drag me off in her chosen direction. I was intercepted by two gigantic legs, connected to a very large man who said, "you're coming with me." I was helplessly swept off the ground and hauled up onto the shoulders of this ogre. By playing adult, I'd almost forgotten that I'm trapped in the body of a helpless, fragile seven year old, and my body started doing things that I didn't understand. I began kicking and screaming. Then, oddly, I began wailing like a seven year old. Oh wait a second, I was a seven year old. I was dropped into a small chair outside the principal's office. The large man boomed, "wait here," and he moved across the room and sat down. I saw his face and finally recognized him. This was Mr. Moore. He was some sort of ex-Marine they hired to keep the kids in line. Concentration camp indeed. Mr. Moore was always the one that broke up the fights between Johnny and I, or with the many other kids who ritualistically punished me for living. I always thought Mr. Moore was some sort of God of War or something. Now that I'm older, I wonder what kind of person this must be. An ex-Marine who has a job as a school proctor to break up fights between kids. Who is this man? "Excuse me, Mr. Moore," I said. "No talking," he replied, "the principal will be with you in a minute." "Well," I continued, "I was just wondering how Mrs. Moore is doing?" Mr. Moore sat there, stiff as a board, and then, out of nowhere, I saw a single tear emerge from his left eye. He quickly wiped it off and snapped, "none of your business. Now keep quiet until the principal is ready for you." I plunged on. He kept telling me to be quiet, but I kept pestering him. I started asking him about his career in the Marines. Finally, he said, "my career in the Marines is over, and Mrs. Moore is dead. Now hush until the principal is ready to see you." "I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Moore. I'd ask if I may ask you another question," I said, "but I suspect you'd just tell me to hush until the principal is ready to see me, so I'll just ask... do you like your job here?" "Excuse me?" he asked. "Your job. Here. Do you like it?" I asked. "Why do you do it? Is it fun? Is this what you aspired to when you joined the Marines?" Taken aback, Mr. Moore calmly replied, "young man, this is none of your business, but you're oddly inquisitive for your age. If you must know, I left the Marines five years ago to take care of my wife." He paused to brushed away another tear. "She died of breast cancer. It was the most tragic experience of my life." He paused again, no doubt to wonder why he was spilling his heart to a seven year old. He continued: "She was a teacher, my wife. She was the best teacher in the world. I loved how she was able to take frightened and neglected children and transform them into confident, successful young men. It was astounding. Her students came to visit her in the hospital. It was amazing how much they all cared for her. She received hundreds of cards, flowers, candy, everything, all from her students. It was a profound experience for me. I was a Marine--I was taught to kill people. I became so close to my wife during those last few months, and I realized how wonderful it must be to have that much love in your life, to mean so much to so many kids. Those kids grew up and never forgot her. Hundreds of lives were changed because of her." He hesitated as he wondered if he was making a total fool of himself in front of this seven year old. He continued when he saw the deep look of compassion in my eyes. "After she died, I didn't know what to do. I knew I couldn't go back to the Marines. I spent a few months moping around the house in a deep depression, but as I began to recover, I asked myself what my wife would want me to do. I knew she would want me to be with kids. I knew at that moment that that's what I had to do. But I was lost. What could I possibly do with kids? I've never worked with kids. I'm a Marine. I'm big. That's my only skill. So I came to this school and asked if there was anything I could do to help, and they said that I would make a great school proctor. They described the job to me, and I knew I could do that job. "I wanted to make a difference, like my wife did. But I didn't. I came here, and I had to keep kids from beating each other up, I had to write them up for throwing food at each other, I had to break up arguments. I was a glorified baby sitter. Now I just come to work and do my job and go home. I try not to think about it, but sometimes I can't help it. I pull out a picture of my wife, I grab a bottle of Jack Daniels, and I'm done for." He looked up at me through the tears in his eyes and looked back down. He cried for another minute or two, and eventually recovered. "So here I am. I still wish I could make a difference, but I don't know how. These poor kids are treated like cattle, and I'm the cattle-herder. They'll never remember me like they remembered my wife. I'll never inspire them. If they remember me at all, they'll remember me with disgust," he said, dejectedly. "I remembered you, Mr. Moore. And not with disgust. I always had a feeling there was something more to you." He looked confused, though appreciative. "The teachers treat these kids so terribly," he continued, "nothing like my wife. Sometimes I'm astounded that these kids are even capable of growing up into successful, well-mannered adults, but I'm repeatedly impressed by how much a kid can be put through and still come out okay. They're really pretty strong. Some kids go through physical, mental, and sexual abuse from their parents and teachers, and still turn out to be happy adults. But it's no wonder why so many of them are depressed and have to spend years in therapy. I have a profound respect for kids, and I understand why my wife loved them so much. I wish I could make a difference, but I don't know how." "I know how," I offered. He looked at me inquisitively. "Become a teacher, Mr. Moore," I said. "These schools need teachers like you." "I hate these schools," said Mr. Moore disgustedly. "Then improve them. Or find other teachers who think like you. Find teachers like your wife. Marry one." He looked at me shocked. "Okay," I began, "I'll give you a starting place, but remember, it's just a starting place. There's no telling what more could be done. There is a school in Framingham, Massachusetts called Sudbury Valley School. It was founded by teachers like your wife, teachers who want to make a difference, but feel that traditional schools only stunt the kids' learning. There, the students are free to think for themselves. They are not intimidated by the adults. They are encouraged to speak their minds. As a result, they are profoundly articulate at very young ages. This school's philosophy is that all people are curious by nature; that the most efficient, long-lasting, and profound learning takes place when started and pursued by the learner; that all people are creative if they are allowed to develop their unique talents; that age-mixing among students promotes growth in all members of the group; and that freedom is essential to the development of personal responsibility. If you can't make a difference here, then make a difference there, but for god sakes, make a difference somewhere." "Who are you?" he asked. "Nevermind that," I replied, "just follow your heart, man. Don't let this pathetic system drag you down." "My wife made a difference despite this pathetic system," he countered. "Then I think your wife must have been a great woman. There are teachers who can make a difference despite the institutions they teach in. Many teachers start off this way, but most of them just fall into the routine, much like it sounds like you have done, and they forget their ideals. But there are teachers out there who still make a difference in their kids. However, some have decided that they can't or won't try to fight the system, and have therefore ventured on their own, starting their own schools. If you feel like it's more effort than it's worth to try to make a difference in a traditional school, then go elsewhere. You're a free man." "My wife would have wanted that for me. Not this," he said, half to himself. I looked up and saw my mother and the principal furiously walking toward me. "Uh oh," I said, "busted." My mom walked up to me, yanked me out of my chair by my arm and immediately began chiding me for fighting in school. The principal announced that I am to be suspended from school, and that I should be ashamed of such violent behavior. Just then, Mr. Moore stood up, towering over Mr. Schmitt. "Leave the kid alone. He was only defending himself," said Mr. Moore. Both Mr. Schmitt and my mother were shocked. My mother looked at Mr. Moore then back at Mr. Schmitt to see how he would react. Mr. Schmitt said, "come with me, Mr. Moore." Mr. Moore followed Mr. Schmitt into his office, winking at me along the way in. "What was that all about?" my mother asked. "Don't ask," I said. My mother regained her anger, and began marching me outside as she continued chiding me for my naughty behavior. I was in the car when I saw Mr. Moore walking out of the school. He came up to the car and made a motion for me to roll down my window. I did, and Mr. Moore said, "I was fired. Thank you so much. I'm going to go back to school and make a new life for myself as a teacher. I'm going to make a difference." He squeezed my hand, and walked away proudly. My mom just sat there gaping. Finally she started the car, and drove home. Not a word was spoken during the whole trip. When we got home, my mother said, "go to your room and stay there." I went to my room, threw myself on my bed, and produced a huge grin on my face. I haven't felt so good in all my life. I've paid a visit to Nicky, just like he always wished, and I benefited him more than I ever could have by merely talking with him. For I benefitted myself, and to benefit myself is to benefit him. I drifted to sleep as I happily recalled the memories from the day. I woke up with the tape player clicking. I rubbed my eyes and realized that my hands were those of a 27 year old. I was back in my own house. I looked down at the tape recorder, and back to the window as it was brightly introducing the morning sun. I got a big grin on my face. I hopped out of bed and picked up the phone. "Sudbury Valley School, may I help you?" said the kind voice on the other end. "Good morning," I said brightly. "May I speak with Joseph Moore please?" "I'm sorry, but Mr. Moore is teaching a class at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?" "Yes, I would. Please tell him that Nicky still remembers and loves him, and that I wish his wife well." "I will certainly give him this message," they replied. I left my number and got off the phone. I smiled and realized why I was suddenly suspended from school and grounded to my room for no reason when I was seven. I remembered that that was right about the time I recorded that tape. I walked over to the tape recorder, which was still clicking. I pressed rewind. Seconds later, I pressed play. "I promise that I will never ever ever ever ever ever ever forget what it feels like to be a kid," I heard Nicky declare between sobs. I let it run to the end and I pressed stop. Then, with a tear in my eye, I pressed record and said, "I have not forgotten, Nicky." --- For other stories and recommended reading, check out: http://www.prepense.org/
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