It seems that I may go to New Orleans to work in a children’s art camp over the summer. I want to teach—but probably high school, and hopefully kids who are old enough to respond to what they learn. My relationship with early childhood is strange. I look forward to the challenge, should I be accepted, of further exploring this stage of education.
I remember little of my own childhood. Some of my memories are not positive. I remember the powerlessness, the misrepresentation of my actions by adults, the frustration of understanding that, no matter what I say, my intentions will be misunderstood. Some of that anxiety persists even now. It is what makes me write.
There is a vast capacity for inarticulate thought in human beings. I do not mean the subconscious, but literal and conscious discourse that forms wordlessly. To a great extent, my own intellectual awakening took place when I realized that my “feelings” could be voiced. Those feelings turned out to be logically-formed concepts. I don’t know how to describe this any better than I have. They were not exactly emotions, but a collection of images and connotations. For example, as a child I would never have been able to articulate the thought, “what is the purpose of thought if it doesn’t inform action,” but I remember, in very early childhood, thinking exactly that. But without words. This is extremely vague. My bad.
I think the real change that took place when I learned how to form thoughts into sentences was one of empathy. Before I could express a thought, I couldn’t interact with many expressions of other people’s thought. Because my intelligence was working on this inarticulate level that I have been describing so terribly. It took a lot to learn that the words of others, even if they did not resonate in my subjective world, resonated in someone else’s. Language catalyzed this change.
I’m off track now. Being a kid fucking sucks, is my point.