Self-Reliance and Other Essays

Only You Can Make Yours

Here are your crayons.
You can draw anything you want.

You could copy the kid next to you.
Their house. Their sun. Their dog.
Copying for a while helps you learn.

But wait.
There is one picture only you can make.

Only you can make yours.

It comes from inside your own head.
The way you see the dog.
The color you think the sky should be.
Nobody else has that one. Just you.

Only you can make yours.

If you only ever copy,
your picture never gets to come out.
It waits inside you, all folded up.
And nobody ever gets to see it.

Your friend has one too.
Their own only-them picture.
Yours is not better. Theirs is not better.
We want to see them both.

Say it with me:
Only I can make mine.

So look. And learn.
Then pick up your crayon.
Make the one that is yours.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: This comes from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay “Self-Reliance,” whose core is that copying throws away the one thing only you could give, and that nobody knows what you can do until you try. The story keeps the child’s power small and kind, because grown-up “self-reliance” is often twisted into needing no one and doing as you please, which is nearly the reverse of Emerson’s point (he thought the deep self you trust is shared by everyone). So looking and learning from others is allowed here, a friend’s picture counts as much as yours, and the point is to add yours, not to stand above theirs.

I Changed My Mind

Yesterday you said,
I don’t like peas. Never, ever.

Today you tried one.
Just one, on your fork.
Huh. It was sweet.

Now you like peas.
Is that allowed?

Yes. You can change your mind.

Yesterday you knew a little.
Today you know a little more.
So today you think something new.

Yes. You can change your mind.

Your big brother might laugh.
He might say, you said never!
That can feel silly.
Your cheeks might get warm.

You can say it anyway.
I did say that.
Then I tried one.
Now I think they’re yummy.

Say it with me:
I can change my mind.

But only change it for a real reason.
Not to make someone happy.
Not to win a game.
Change it because you tried, or looked, or learned.

Tomorrow, try one new thing.
Then tell someone what you think now.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: This is the child-sized core of Emerson’s line “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds”: say what you think today, and if tomorrow you see it differently, say that, even though you’ll be misunderstood. The word that matters is “foolish.” Emerson isn’t praising flip-flopping, so the story fences that misreading: the mind changes because the child tried or learned something, never to please someone or to win.

Be a Friend

You want a friend.
Someone to play with at the park.

You could stand by the slide
and wait, and wait.
Waiting can feel lonely.

Here is the secret.
To have a friend, be a friend.

Be a friend.
Say hi.
Ask them to play with you.
Take turns on the swing.
Let them go first sometimes.

Be a friend.
Tell the truth, even small truths.
You could say, I like your drawing,
but I don’t like that game.
A friend can hear the true thing.

Some days they won’t want to play.
That’s okay.
You can’t make someone be your friend.
You can only be a good one.

Be a friend anyway.
Wave. Smile. Try again tomorrow.

Say it with me:
To have a friend, be a friend.

Tomorrow at the park,
find someone standing alone.
Go be a friend.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: This comes from Emerson’s essay “Friendship,” where he writes that “the only way to have a friend is to be one,” and that a friend is a person with whom you can be sincere. The story fences the easy misreading that being nice earns you a friend on demand: some days the other child won’t play, and the child’s job is only to be a good friend, not to make someone be one. Emerson also wanted friends honest enough to disagree, which is why the truth-telling beat stays in.