Imitation

My 6 year-old nephew, Z, has this long, skinny body with long, skinny legs.  I think it’s safe to assume that the first thing you notice about him physically, other than his tiger-gold eyes, is how much of him is all leg and arm.  And the child can’t sit still to save his life – constant motion: hands, legs, fingers, probably even toes.

Z is 100% boy.  His XY chromosome probably leans toward chopping of the leg of even that one X.  His room is army green with camouflage bed spreads.  Even his laundry hamper is camo.  (From my days in the Air Force, I’ve worn enough camo to wonder why anyone who isn’t mandated to do so thinks it’s cool.  But that’s totally a different topic.) Back to Z, he’s smart and funny and (sometimes) cuddly, but what I love most about him is that he’s a crack-up.  Sometimes Z means to be funny, but mostly not; he just is.

One day a few weeks ago, I was sitting of the floor of Z’s living room talking to my sister-in-law, his mother, J.  I don’t remember what we were discussing, but I’m almost positive it doesn’t matter.  The key element to this conversation was when she looked over at Z sitting across the room by the family dog, Shay.  J’s eyes popped wide as her mouth dropped open just the tiniest bit.  I, of course, had to turn to see what held her captivated.  And there sat Z, wearing only his Spider Man BVDs, right  leg raised up high enough and bent at the perfect angle to get his toes behind his right ear (I don’t recall ever being that flexible.), and he just scratched away at his head with those toenails.

J recovered first.  “What are you doing?”  Z didn’t stop.  I don’t think he even paused or flinched.

Instead, Z quite calmly continued to scratch as he announced, “I’m scratching like Shay.”  Shay, that calm, sweet dog, stared up at Z like she had some major concerns. Z, though, was exactly right; he was imitating the dog perfectly.  I tried desperately not to laugh, because now was not a time Little Dude  was attempting to be funny.  He saw the ingenuity of dog to reach odd places and decided to adapt his own habits.  He was seriously scratching his head with his toe nails.  Amazing!

I started to think about behavior and what is innate and what we learn.  Certainly neither of Z’s parents scratch their head with their toes, and I (honestly) don’t,  especially now that all of us, uhm, well, older than 35.  (Osteo-BiFlex here we come.)  I thought about kids and their minds – what comes innate and what they learn.  I thought about what they carry away with them when they leave their front doors and step out into that big scary  world  dreaded by parents everywhere.

Z, well, that kid has NO self-esteem issues.  In fact, he’s the one who at 3 years-old was running to the far side of the play ground and stripping completely naked and then managed to convince the herd of other tots to do the same.  Z is entirely, shamelessly, himself.  And I love that about him, never want that to change.  But to some degree we all do, as life ripples by, wearing down our edges and teaching conformity.

Into my head pops the question of whether or not conformity is desirable.  Do we enter the collective unconsciousness that presses us to give up on our individuality, our sense of self, our sense of humor, even our sense of morality? Or can we push aside that which is expected/accepted and remain the people God intended us to be, created us to be.

Now, I’m not saying that at 16 I still want Z to be scratching his head with his toes (although that would be a great party trick).  Instead, my desire is that he remain true to that core, that person created uniquely to serve His purpose.  How do we foster that (mostly) innocent, (mostly) desirable nature?  How do we reinforce that who he is now is who God made him to be, even  once the world seeks to repress that light?

I don’t have answers.  I have questions, lots and lots of questions.  But Jesus wasn’t a conformist, and I don’t believe we need to be or are even supposed to be.  Instead He spoke against the accepted “rules” of society, and I think that same spark lies inherent in all of our hearts (Please assume I’m ruling out psycho and sociopaths.). Sometimes that tiny flame is buried deeply beneath layers and layers  of life’s mud, but it’s still there,  and I never want to see that spark of self, spark of God, extinguished in Z.

I pray that Z holds onto that sunny nature, goofy humor, and beautiful heart in the harsh light of the “adult” world.  But praying, well, that’s all I can do, and it’s that with which I need to be content.  Difficult…very, very difficult.