Ah, to be young and oh so sure

The Boston Herald

BEVERLY BECKHAM

He didn't exactly swagger into the house. He walked the way he always does. Only he walked with confidence.

He didn't hunch through a doorway. He didn't slouch in a chair. He sat like a capital "L" perfectly straight, not crossing and uncrossing his arms, not shuffling his feet, not looking like a corralled horse eager to bolt.

He was comfortable in his skin. He was doing well at school, he said. He loved school, loved living away, loved learning.

All the years he was in high school, he never loved learning. School was where he killed time. Books bored him. Studying was something he did just for tests. It was the things he did after school that intrigued him.

But now science, religion, math, history, every theory, every piece of information fascinates him. Philosophers, Buddha, Jesus, Western tradition vs. Eastern tradition, atheism, agnosticism - he has an opinion about them all.

There was passion in his words and earnestness and fascination and most of all an assuredness that comes from having some of the answers and knowing that the rest are out there in books, in classrooms, in some professor's words; and that in time, after enough study and conversation and thought, all there is to know he will know.

I listened to this young man and I wanted to freeze frame the moment, put it away, so that years from now when he is confused and floundering, when life fails to make any sense, he will have this as a compass. He will see that for a moment in his youth, he had at least some of the answers and was certain where to go to find the rest.

A child trots off to school when he is five or six and after the first few days, after he adjusts to being away from home, he begins to enjoy the adventure. He likes the clean white paper the teacher hands out and the new crayons and the snacks he gets to eat, which he brings from home.

Draw your family, the teacher says and he does. He uses his purple crayon because purple is his favorite color. His teacher puts a star on the page and his mother hangs his work on the refrigerator.

And on it goes. He draws his house, his room, his dog, his best friend, his best friend's dog.

Then one day his teacher says, "Johnny, why do you use purple for everything? Do you think purple is the right color for people? Have you ever seen a purple dog?"

And right then Johnny looks down at his paper, then around at everyone else's and in those seconds art ceases to be wonderful and school ceases to be fun and Johnny begins for the first time in his life to doubt himself.

But he adapts. He learns to use all his crayons. He learns to give his teachers exactly what they want.

And then he grows up and goes away to college and the school and the teachers and the subjects are all different. And suddenly he's different, too. He's the kid he used to be, curious, eager, uninhibited and confident.

No one says to him, "You don't know this," or "You forgot to factor in that." No one puts him down or shuts him up. No one undermines his effort. The opposite is true: People listen to him. People listen and smile.

And so he isn't afraid to talk, to ponder, to theorize, to dare. He isn't afraid to trust his own instincts.

It's just a moment. In time he'll hear other people discuss his passions. He'll think to himself, "I didn't know this" or "I never thought of it that way." He'll grow shy again and reluctant to speak, embarrassed by his own shortcomings. In time he'll weigh his words and couch them in "ifs" and "possiblys."

But right now he's as confident as a message on a billboard. He's young and certain and that certainty is a tonic. He believes all things are possible. He believes in the power of knowledge.

Most importantly, he believes in himself again.