The Symposium

Let’s Find Out

On our walk, I see a bug.
It is small and shiny and green.

My friend says it is just a bug.
He knows bugs, he says.
And he walks on.

I look at the bug.
What kind is it?
I don’t know.

Not knowing feels funny.
Like an itch in my head.
It is a good itch.

Say it with me:
I don’t know. Let’s find out!

I crouch down low.
I count its legs.
One, two, three, four, five, six.

It has a hard green back.
Then the back opens up.
Wings! It flies away.

I run to my dad and ask him.
What was that bug?
Dad says, I don’t know. Let’s find out!
Grown-ups say it too.

We look it up together.
It was a beetle!
Its hard back keeps its wings safe.

If I said I know,
I would have walked on.
I would have missed the wings.

So when I don’t know,
I don’t hide it.
I say it out loud.

I don’t know. Let’s find out!

And then I go and look.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this comes from Diotima’s teaching in Plato’s Symposium. The gods don’t go looking for wisdom because they already have it, and the ignorant don’t either, because they are satisfied with themselves and feel no lack; the ones who search are in between, knowing what they don’t know. The Greek word for that searcher is philosopher, a lover of wisdom. One edge to hold: the friend who says he knows bugs isn’t a bad kid, and saying “I don’t know” is a habit to praise in your child, not a badge to hold over anyone else.

Look Inside First

Grandpa gives me two rocks.

One rock is shiny and smooth.
One rock is gray and lumpy.
It looks like an old potato.

The shiny one! I say.

Grandpa smiles.
Look inside first, he says.

Say it with me:
Look inside first.

Grandpa taps the lumpy rock.
Tap, tap, CRACK!
It breaks in two.

Inside, it sparkles!
Purple points, like tiny castles.
All that shine was hiding in there.

The shiny rock is still nice.
It feels smooth in my hand.
But the lumpy rock had a secret.

People can be like that too.

A boy in my class talks slowly.
His shirt is too big.
Some kids don’t sit with him.

Look inside first.

I sit with him.
I ask him what he likes.

He likes trains.
He knows SO much about trains!
He makes me laugh.

You can’t crack people open.
You find their inside by listening.

So today I will find one person.
I will sit down and ask.

Look inside first.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this is Alcibiades’ picture of Socrates in Plato’s Symposium. Socrates, he says, is like the carved statues of Silenus sold in the sculptors’ shops: an ugly satyr face outside, and when you open them, little gods inside. Even his talk, all pack-donkeys and cobblers, sounds silly until you open it up. The rock stands in for the statue. The point is not that good-looking people are empty or that shiny things are bad; it is only to get past a first look before you decide about someone.