Laws

The Soft String

Inside you there are strings.
Not real ones. Pulling ones.

One string is Want.
Want pulls hard.
Cookie! Now! More!

One string is Scared.
Scared pulls hard too.
Run! Hide! No!

One string is Think.
Think is soft.
It pulls like a whisper.
Wait. Look. Is this good?

Hard strings can win alone.
Soft strings cannot.
So Think needs help.
Think needs you.

Grab the soft string. Pull!

Here is a cookie on the table.
Want says: Now!
Think says, soft: Ask first.
Which one do you pull with?

Grab the soft string. Pull!

Here is a dark room.
Scared says: Run!
Think says, soft: Turn on the light.
Which one do you pull with?

Grab the soft string. Pull!

Wanting is okay.
Being scared is okay.
All the strings are yours.
You just pick which one to help.

Sometimes the soft string is too soft.
Then someone who loves you says it out loud.
Wait. Look. Ask first.
That is the soft string, said in words.
Now you can hold it.

Say it with me:
Grab the soft string. Pull!

Tonight, when Want pulls hard,
listen for the whisper.
Grab it.
Pull.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: the soft string is the golden cord of reason from Book I of Plato’s Laws (644d-645b), where each of us is a puppet pulled by hard iron cords of pleasure, pain, fear, and hope and by one soft golden cord that is gentle, cannot win by force, and needs helpers; a city’s law, Plato says, is that golden cord written down. The primer keeps that mechanism and swaps the puppet for strings a child can pull. Plato’s larger claim, that a city’s law is the citizen’s own reason and deserves obedience on those terms, is the part people argue about; the child’s version stops at the people who love you saying the whisper out loud.

Little Tools

A builder builds big houses.
How did she start?

With little blocks.
With a little house
that fell down, and went up again.

Play it now. Grow it later.

A farmer grows a big field.
How did he start?

With a little spade.
With a little hole in the mud,
and one seed.

Play it now. Grow it later.

A carpenter measures every board.
How did she start?

With a toy ruler.
She measured her shoes.
She measured the cat.
The cat did not like it.

Play it now. Grow it later.

Playing is not small.
Playing is practice.
Your hands learn.
Your eyes learn.
And you learn to like it.

One game is not enough.
Lots of games. Lots of days.
That is how the little blocks
turn into a big house.

You do not have to pick one thing yet.
Play at lots of things.
Build today. Dig tomorrow.
Measure the cat on Friday.

Say it with me:
Play it now. Grow it later.

What do you want to be good at?
Find a little tool for it.
Go play.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this is Book I of the Laws (643b-d), where the Athenian says anyone who would be good at anything must practise it from youth, in sport and in earnest: the future builder plays at building children’s houses, the future farmer tills the ground, and the future carpenter measures in play, while the adults hand them toy tools and steer their pleasures toward what they will need. The blocks and the cat are the primer’s; the builder, the farmer, and the carpenter are Plato’s. He uses the crafts as a first step: the education he cares about most is the same method aimed at goodness, training a child to love the right things before the child can say why. The primer stays with the crafts, and it tells the child not to pick one yet, so play does not become a job interview.

The Boss Plays Too

Let’s play tag.
You are the boss of the game.
You make the rules.

Rule: the big tree is safe.

Now you are It.
You chase Sam.
Sam runs to the big tree.
Safe!

Oh no. You wanted to catch Sam.
You could change the rule.
You are the boss, after all.
The tree is not safe now!

What does Sam do?
Sam stops playing.
Then everyone stops playing.
The game falls apart.

The boss plays by the rules too.

Being the boss is tricky.
It makes anybody want to cheat a little.
Even nice kids.
Even big people.
That is why the rules sit above the boss.

Let’s try again.
Rule: the big tree is safe.
You chase Sam.
Sam runs to the tree.

It is hard. You wanted to win.
Wanting to win is okay.
But you say: Safe!
And you run after someone else.

The boss plays by the rules too.

Now Sam trusts the game.
Everyone trusts the game.
Nobody quits.
You all play until dinner.

Say it with me:
The boss plays by the rules too.

Next time you are the boss,
make a rule.
Then follow it yourself.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this is Book IV of the Laws (713c-715d). The Athenian tells an old story that the god Cronos knew no human given unchecked power can keep from overflowing with insolence and wrong, so he set spirits over people; a city copies that by making its rulers the servants of the law, since a city where the law has no authority is on the highway to ruin and one where the law is above the rulers is saved. The primer keeps only that the one who makes the rules is bound by them, and aims it at the child’s own turn as boss, not at catching adults out. The Laws’ own code is far from modest (it fixes songs and games and punishes impiety), and those parts are not what this primer teaches.

The Doctor Who Sits Down

Your tummy hurts.
Two doctors can come.

The first doctor rushes in.
He does not ask.
He does not look.
Take this. Bye!
He rushes out.

Do you want his medicine?
Not really.

The second doctor sits down.
Where does it hurt?
She listens.
She tells you what is wrong inside.
Your tummy is upset.
This will help it calm down.
Then she gives you the medicine.

Do you want it now?
Yes.

Say why first.

Rules are a bit like medicine.
Here is a rule:
Hold my hand in the parking lot.
Why?
Cars are big. You are small.
Drivers cannot see you.

Now you want to hold the hand.

Say why first.

The rule still counts,
even on a day with no why.
The why just helps you want it.

You make rules too.
Rules for your fort.
Rules for your little brother.

No shoes in my fort.
Why?
Mud gets on the blanket.

Say why first.

Say it with me:
Say why first.

Tomorrow, when you make a rule,
sit down like the second doctor.
Tell the why.
Then the rule.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this is Book IV of the Laws (720a-723b). The Athenian contrasts two kinds of doctors: one who gives orders like a tyrant and rushes off to the next patient, and one who talks with the patient and his friends and will not prescribe until he has convinced him. He wants every law to open the same way, with a prelude that persuades, and the penalty behind it. In the book the rushed doctor is the doctor who treats slaves and the careful one treats free men; the primer drops that class line. Readers still argue whether Plato’s preludes reason with the citizen or only charm him, since the same dialogue defends a useful falsehood in Book II. The primer keeps the double method: the rule counts either way, and the reason is there to make it wanted.