My Inner Child Wants To Give You A Wedgie
I'll never forget Dr. Paparella. On the first day of our masters class, he asked for a show of hands:
"How many of you are artists?"
Out of thirty educators, three art teachers raise their hands.
"How many of you are writers?" I raise my hand, two other hands go up. Dancers? Singers? Nobody raises a hand.
From out of his briefcase, Paparella silently pulls out a videotape and pops it in the machine. There he is in a kindergarten classroom asking the very same questions same questions. Hands shoot up. "I can sing! You wanna hear me sing?" "I can dance! See! Look at me!"
It was a moment of somber reflection for a roomful of teachers. The enthusiastic tykes on the tape in no way resembled the students in my high school classroom--or myself, for that matter. When did we all lose our self-confidence and love of learning?
Many psychologists and social workers are proponents of getting in touch with the "inner child" as a means of recovering from psychological trauma. They argue that many of our present doubts and insecurities have roots in our negative childhood experiences. By getting in touch with our inner child, we can rediscover true joy. I decided that night that I would try to do so as well. The next day, I awoke with a renewed sense of purpose, ready to embrace the wonders of this world with childlike awe.
I marvelled at sunsets and replicated them in fingerpaint; I danced like no one was watching; I made up nonsensical songs and sand them to strangers; I sent my wife a note, written in crayon, that read "Do you like me? Check the box". I placed ripe olives on my fingertips and pretended I was a gecko. I wore footie pyjamas. It was a creative renaissance, a spiritual epiphany, and a psychological emancipation.
All was well at first, but once the cork is out of the bottle, it's pretty hard to shove that genie back in again. A week ago, I awoke to find some petroglyphs scrawled on my wall in green magic marker...Apparently, My inner child has plans to smash your halloween pumpkins.
I realized at that moment that the little bastard was taking over. Since then, I've discovered that my inner child wants to give you a wedgie. He wants to put a bag of flaming dog poop on your front steps; He wants to put his hands under his shirt and make farting noises during your marketing presentation. It takes all the repression a Swedish Lutheran can muster just to keep him in check.
I don't know who first came up with the "inner child" hypothesis, but I can assure you they don't know squat about little boys.
"How many of you are artists?"
Out of thirty educators, three art teachers raise their hands.
"How many of you are writers?" I raise my hand, two other hands go up. Dancers? Singers? Nobody raises a hand.
From out of his briefcase, Paparella silently pulls out a videotape and pops it in the machine. There he is in a kindergarten classroom asking the very same questions same questions. Hands shoot up. "I can sing! You wanna hear me sing?" "I can dance! See! Look at me!"
It was a moment of somber reflection for a roomful of teachers. The enthusiastic tykes on the tape in no way resembled the students in my high school classroom--or myself, for that matter. When did we all lose our self-confidence and love of learning?
Many psychologists and social workers are proponents of getting in touch with the "inner child" as a means of recovering from psychological trauma. They argue that many of our present doubts and insecurities have roots in our negative childhood experiences. By getting in touch with our inner child, we can rediscover true joy. I decided that night that I would try to do so as well. The next day, I awoke with a renewed sense of purpose, ready to embrace the wonders of this world with childlike awe.
I marvelled at sunsets and replicated them in fingerpaint; I danced like no one was watching; I made up nonsensical songs and sand them to strangers; I sent my wife a note, written in crayon, that read "Do you like me? Check the box". I placed ripe olives on my fingertips and pretended I was a gecko. I wore footie pyjamas. It was a creative renaissance, a spiritual epiphany, and a psychological emancipation.
All was well at first, but once the cork is out of the bottle, it's pretty hard to shove that genie back in again. A week ago, I awoke to find some petroglyphs scrawled on my wall in green magic marker...Apparently, My inner child has plans to smash your halloween pumpkins.
I realized at that moment that the little bastard was taking over. Since then, I've discovered that my inner child wants to give you a wedgie. He wants to put a bag of flaming dog poop on your front steps; He wants to put his hands under his shirt and make farting noises during your marketing presentation. It takes all the repression a Swedish Lutheran can muster just to keep him in check.
I don't know who first came up with the "inner child" hypothesis, but I can assure you they don't know squat about little boys.
