The Trial and Death of Socrates

I Don’t Know Yet

Some kids love to shout, I know! I know!
Even when they don’t.
It feels good to be the one who knows.

But here is a secret.
The bravest thing to say is three small words.

Say it with me: I don’t know.

It can feel scary to say.
Everyone else looks so sure.
Your face gets warm.
Your hand wants to stay down.
Say it anyway. I don’t know.

I don’t know is not the end.
It is a door.
You open it and peek inside.

What is a star made of?
I don’t know… yet!

Why does the sky go dark at night?
I don’t know… yet!

How do birds know where to fly?
I don’t know… yet!

The kid who fakes it keeps the door shut.
He says I know, but he doesn’t.
So he never finds out.

The kid who says I don’t know yet
opens the door.
She goes and finds out.

You don’t have to know everything.
Nobody does.
Not even grown-ups.

The smartest one in the room
can say, I don’t know. Let’s find out.

So when you don’t know,
don’t hide it. Don’t fake it.
Say the brave words.
Then go and look.

I don’t know…
YET!

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: This is the oldest idea in the book it comes from. Socrates, put on trial for his life in Athens nearly 2,500 years ago, said the one thing that made him wiser than the confident men he questioned was that he didn’t think he knew what he didn’t know. The full story is about a trial and a death, far too heavy for now, so what comes down to your six-year-old is only the part that helps every day: saying I don’t know is where learning starts, not where a smart person stops. If you hear it used to dodge trying, put the yet back and walk them through the door. The honesty only helps if they go and look.

Is It Right?

Crash! The cup is on the floor.
It broke. You broke it.
Your tummy feels tight.
Uh oh. Will I get in trouble?

A little voice says, Hide it.
Say the cat did it.
Then no trouble for you.

But wait.
Ask the big question.
Say it with me: Is it right?

Hiding it is not right.
Blaming the cat is not right.
The cat did nothing!

Getting in trouble feels bad.
That’s true. It really does.
But doing wrong is worse.
Trouble ends. It goes away.
A lie stays with you inside.

So you take a big breath.
You go and find a grown-up.
I broke the cup, you say.
I’m sorry.

Maybe you still get in trouble.
That’s okay.
You did the right thing.

Is it right?
Yes. And you did it.

Next time you feel scared of trouble,
stop and ask the big question.
Not, Will I get in trouble?
Ask, Is it right?

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: At his trial Socrates said that a good man shouldn’t weigh his chances of living or dying, only whether he is doing right or wrong, and that doing wrong is the thing to run from, since it runs faster than death. The book’s version is about facing execution; this one keeps the same order of worries at a child’s size, being in trouble against doing wrong. It does not promise that honesty avoids consequences, and it isn’t a tool for pressing a confession out of a child. The book goes further, saying no evil can happen to a good man; that is a hope Socrates held, not something to tell a six-year-old about their own safety.

Two Wrongs Make Two

You built a tall block tower.
It took a long, long time.
Then your brother runs by.
Bump! Down it goes.

You feel hot and mad.
Your hands want to knock his tower down.
Bump for bump!

Stop. Count the wrongs.
His bump was one wrong.
Your bump makes two.
Say it with me: Two wrongs make two.

Knocking his tower down
does not build yours back up.
Now two towers are gone.
Now two kids are sad.

You can still be mad.
Mad is okay.
You can say, Stop! That was mine!
You can go and tell a grown-up.
You can walk away and breathe.

Those are not wrongs.
Those keep you safe.
Only bump for bump is a wrong.

Then you start again.
Block, block, block.
Maybe he says sorry.
Maybe he helps this time.

Two wrongs make two.
So you keep it at one.
Then you build.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: In his prison cell, while an old friend begged him to escape, Socrates laid down the rule he said he would not bend: never do wrong in return, whatever wrong has been done to you. He then used that rule to argue he must accept an unjust death sentence rather than break out, and that further step is still argued over; it is not taught here. This primer keeps only the first part: paying back a hurt with a hurt adds a second wrong. Saying stop, telling you, and getting away are not paying back, and a child should never read this as having to put up with being hurt.