Xunzi

First You Wobble

Nobody hops on a bike and just rides. Not the first time. Not one kid, ever.

First you wobble.

Your legs feel funny. The bike leans this way. Then it leans that way. Maybe you tip over into the grass.

Nothing is wrong with you. That’s just how starting looks. Every big kid who rides now wobbled first.

So what comes next?

Someone holds the back of your seat. A grown-up runs beside you, puffing hard. Maybe you use training wheels for a while.

You practice. You fall a few more times. You try again the next day. And the next day.

First you wobble. Then you practice. Then you ride.

Being kind works the same way. Sharing the last cookie does too. So does saying sorry.

Nobody is born good at those. Everybody has to learn them.

Sometimes you wobble at sharing. Sometimes you forget to say sorry. Sometimes you want to go first, every single time.

Nothing is wrong with you. That’s just how starting looks.

So you keep practicing. Someone holds the seat for you. A grown-up reminds you. A friend gives you another chance.

Say it with me. First you wobble. Then you practice. Then you ride.

Now hop back on. Wobble a little. Try again.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this comes from Xunzi, a Chinese philosopher of the third century BCE, who argued that fairness and kindness are built through practice and teaching, the way a carpenter’s clamps and straightedge make crooked wood straight. His own pictures were that crooked wood and a slow cart horse that gets there by never quitting; the bike stands in for both, keeping his two parts: steady practice, and someone else’s steady hand. His bigger claim, that human nature starts out bad (his translator’s word is evil), is still argued over. His rival Mencius said the seeds of goodness are there from birth, though Mencius too said those seeds need tending. This primer teaches only the part both men shared. If a child asks whether needing practice means something is wrong with them, the answer is the refrain: everyone starts out wobbly.

The Rain Isn’t Mad at You

You wake up so happy. Today is the picnic!

Then you look outside. Rain. Lots of rain.

Maybe you feel sad. Maybe you feel mad. That’s okay. Rain on picnic day is sad.

Maybe you wonder, did I do something bad?

No. The rain isn’t mad at you.

Rain falls on kind kids. Rain falls on grumpy kids. It falls on grown-ups and on puppies. It comes when the clouds fill up with water. It doesn’t check who was good today.

The rain isn’t mad at you.

You can’t stop the rain. Nobody can. Not your mom. Not your dad. Not even a king.

But some things are yours to do. You can find your boots. You can hold the big umbrella. You can spread the picnic blanket on the floor. You can eat your sandwich inside a blanket fort.

The rain does its part. You do your part.

Say it with me. The rain isn’t mad at you. So what’s your part?

Go find your boots.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this comes from Xunzi’s chapter on Heaven. He argued that nature runs on a fixed course, the same under a wise king as under a cruel one, and that eclipses and falling stars are not warnings from above. The wise person, he said, spends worry on what is in their own power and not on what the sky does. Young children often read bad luck as a punishment for something they did, and this primer answers that. It does not promise that effort fixes everything. Some sad things, an illness or a move, are nobody’s fault and nobody’s to fix, and then a child’s part may just be asking for a hug.

One Slide, Lots of Kids

There’s one slide at the park. There are lots of kids. Everybody wants the slide.

One slide. Lots of kids.

What if nobody waits? Everybody runs at once. Somebody pushes. Somebody bumps. Somebody slips off the ladder.

Now nobody is sliding. Somebody is crying.

One slide. Lots of kids.

So the kids make a line. One kid climbs up. Then the next kid. Then the next kid.

You still want the slide. That’s fine. Wanting is okay.

The line doesn’t take the wanting away. The line takes the pushing away.

Waiting is hard, though. Your feet get wiggly. You want to shout, hurry up! You can feel that. You can still wait.

Then it’s your turn. Up you climb. Whoosh!

One slide. Lots of kids. One line, so nobody gets hurt.

Say it with me. One slide. Lots of kids.

Next time, look for the line. Find the end of it. Stand right there. Your whoosh is coming.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this comes from Xunzi’s account of ritual and manners. People want things, there is never enough of everything, and wanting with no rules turns into fighting; so rules give the wanting a set channel instead of trying to stamp it out. His rules sorted people by rank (who is served first at a feast, who bows to whom), so the equal turns at the slide are this primer’s picture, not his social order. The mechanism is his: a shared rule for a scarce thing keeps the wanting and stops the fight. His stories about which ancient kings first invented those rules are legend, and this primer leaves them out.