The Max Rules

            If life is a card game and we are the cards, Max is beyond a wild card.  He’s a card we’ve never seen before. The game is figuring out how he plays – how he fits with the other cards.  

            A late afternoon in June, a time to relax on the patio: Max rides the bicycle in circles around the driveway.  Victoria the six-year-old rides the adult tricycle.  Too tall to sit on the seat, she stands on the pedals and follows Max until he makes an unpredictable turn and there’s a near crash.  Two little girls from next door join the fun: Gwen, another six-year-old, climbs in the basket on the back of the tricycle and makes it even harder for Victoria’s underpowered legs. Morgan, the fourth grader and Queen of C-A-T, dribbles the basketball and dodges the cycles.  Cleo the Dog nods in the clover and keeps a nervous eye on the motions.

            Max, our 29-year-old, developmentally delayed, mysterious wild card, is an incomplete master of the bicycle.  Balance, steering and pedaling are good, but braking is primitive – dragging feet or swerving in a split second.  Squealing, yelling and barking ratchet up the fun.

            We tolerate the chaos because Max the motion seeking wild card seldom has opportunities to play with the commonly known cards – the sixes, the eights, the tens.  His behavior is too exotic.  Communication requires intuition.  As a wilder than wild card, he makes all the rules.

            Since she was four years old, Victoria has been living with Max.  He fits snugly into her deck of cards. Now a six, she’s as good as the Ace of Spades. Finally, after a year of watching Max from their backyard, Gwen and Morgan have been lured into the game.  They like the big tricycle, the basketball goal, the swing, the climbing wall, and a bucketful of whiffle balls and bats.  Like most young children, they spent days staring in amazement at this grown boy who seems like a little child.  They are timid. Cleo the Dog is big and jumpy. Previously they only played with a few known cards. Now, their deck has expanded. They can play by the Max rules.

            The occasion makes Mom and Dad happy. 

            Step back from the game and consider the mystery card – a very little boy in a very big body – a brain that seizes, lungs that wheeze, eyes that never look at what they perceive and other body systems that work on a varied schedule. Vulnerable to diseases unidentified and unnamed.  Talents that fly undetected. Hands that pitch and catch from vision’s periphery. Ears sensitive to notes and keys missed. A contagious laugh for jokes and rhymes that never grow old.

            Life is just a metaphor. God speaks from the burning bush. Trumpets bring down the walls of Jehrico. Odysseus communes with the spirit of his deceased mother. Jesus walks on water, casts out demons and Thomas touches the nail-scarred hands. The sun, the moon and all plants and animals are filled with spirits.

            Too many of us fail to live the metaphors or understand them. Thus is Max’s purpose.

            An instinctive hugger: On the Arkansas Queen we sit in the sun on the upper deck as Little Rock’s little skyline drifted past.  Max gets out of his seat, steps behind us and gives an elderly black man the unexpected hug. I’m sorry, I say, he doesn’t know any better. That’s okay, he says, we all need more hugs.

            The unknown man plays the cards he is dealt.

Bullies: Mitt, Mason and Me

Billy the Sissy lived on the other side of the woods from our Virginia Avenue house. A fat, effeminate little boy, he was rarely out his mother's sight. One summer day my friend and I lay in wait with slingshots and a pile of acorns in some shrubs at the edge of the woods across from Billy’s front yard. When he came outside to play we pelted him with acorns. Without even looking in our direction he put his hands over his head and ran inside. A few days later we hid again in the shrubs and waited. A car pulled into the driveway. Billy and his mother got out and walked toward the front door carrying grocery bags. We let loose another barrage of acorns. They mostly clinked off the side of the house, but one must have hit our target because Billy yelped. His mother turned toward the woods and yelled. "I know you are over there in the woods. You leave my boy alone or I'll call the police."

We were fourth graders, cowardly bullies and afraid to confront our victim face to face. Back then I did not give much thought to bullying. A sissy was on my mind. Bullying was something boys did. I did not like being the victim of bullies, but bullies held status. They were unafraid of retaliation or the wrath of adults. They were independent and free of control. They were not subject to orders. They established the order.

In high school I had a friend who was the school’s prima bully. I'll call him Mason. He was average size, wiry, quick of wit and creative. He knew every insult, every dig and tease. He was master of the posture and look of intimidation. When Mason and I were in the tenth grade, Billy the Sissy was a freshman. For the first month of our sophomore year, any time Mason passed Billy in the hallway, he busted him a potent smack on the fleshy part of his upper arm. The smack and Mason’s laugh resounded off the metal lockers. The teachers never saw the bullying and Billy never told. He was compliant, like all perpetual victims.

            Mason the Bully might have been morally deficient, but he was smarter than most students and some teachers. He routinely tested and pushed classroom boundaries. But bullying was only one segment of a complex character. I discovered our junior year in high school that Mason got up at five every morning and did his trigonometry homework, which explained why he could solve the problems no one else could, and which later explained why he got a full scholarship to a university and now operates a nuclear power plant.

I have not seen Mason since high school. I wonder if he left his bullying back at Marion Senior High School.

As you may know, there is another smart kid of our generation who was a bully in high school. According to reports (Washington Post account) Mitt Romney was a high school bully who led an attack on a gay student.  He and a posse of followers tackled a gay student and cut his long hair. Romney says he cannot specifically remember the event:

Back in high school, you know, I did some dumb things, and if anybody was hurt by that or offended, obviously, I apologize for that… You know, I don’t, I don’t remember that particular incident [laughs]… I participated in a lot of high jinks and pranks during high school, and some might have gone too far, and for that I apologize (The New Yorker).

            If Romney did what former friends and peers have described, he would remember it and has missed an opportunity to talk about growing up, the nature of adolescence and how people change as they become adults.  No one’s character should be judged solely on actions in high school.  Among Romney’s peers who participated in the hair cutting event, or witnessed it without reporting it to school authorities, were boys who went on to be an attorney, a dentist, a prosecutor and a principal. Their memories of the event are vivid and their regrets deep. And they understand that a person at 17 years old probably will not be the same person at 37.

            Bullying is a major concern among middle and high school teachers.  We finally recognize how pervasive and damaging it is. In addition to the types of bullying that have always been recognized – physical and verbal bullying - we now count spreading rumors, social isolation and sexual exploitation as forms of bullying. Cyberspace adds a new dimension to bullying.  It allows bullies to spread rumors, images and videos of their victims to a worldwide audience. We now understand that bullying has consequences beyond temporary trauma. Chronic bullying can be life changing and deadly.

            Middle school is the place and time when we realize there is a tug of war going on for our soul.  Students have an emerging ability to see themselves from the outside and to see events from multiple perspectives. But there is built-in interference to budding maturity. Every nerve beats a rhythm – “gotta connect, gotta connect, gotta connect with my friends”.  The middle school is a swamp full of friends, but it is a context for teaching students about bullying – what and why it is and the long-term impact it has on both bullies and victims. Though rapidly changing bodies and volatile emotions make it difficult for them to carryout long-range plans, middle school students have lived long enough to have a sense of time and the future.  They are still young and believe the world should be a safe place.  But, they are close to the brink of cynicism.  They have learned that adults are flawed and not always truthful or competent. They value fairness but are close to learning that life is not always fair.

            Preaching to students about bullying will not work. Didactic adults rarely connect with adolescents.  We have to be as clever as the students and not tell them what to think, but use stories from good literature and raw history and let them identify the bullies and victims. Let them point out the consequences. If we ask the right questions, they will expose their own goodness.  And when they forget, we can offer another story, and another question, and draw them back again . . . and again . . . and again. That tug of war never quite ends.