Is Spanky Your Favorite Rascal?

Why do we love brazen young adolescents? Why do I love them? Why does part of me want to see the untamable side of my son and my daughter break forth, even off the ball field? I don't know. Maybe it is because I believe brazen young adolescents grow up to save the world.

My friend Ken was brazen. My son's friend Jocelyn is brazen. And then there is Jack.

At the time of this writing Jack is 11 years old. He moved into the house next door last summer and began attending Hermes Middle School as a 6th grader this fall. He loves skateboarding. He wears a baseball cap under his helmet. He's mildly overdeveloped for his age. So is his 14-year-old sister. Jack is not the least bit intimidated by the 15, 16 and 17-year-old boys who follow them back home from the skate park to flirt with his sister. Even my 9-year-old daughter Chloe likes Jack. So does the other 9-year-old girl in the neighborhood. I’ve heard her in my backyard whispering to Chloe, "You do the talking and I'll do the stalking," as they plot to find an excuse to log time with Jack. But sometimes they are preempted by an 11 or 12-year-old girl who has joined the caravan following Jack and his sister back from the skate park.

Our "kids and cul-de-sacs" neighborhood is an early adolescent drama unfolding. Across the street are three boys with a single mom. Jack logs a lot of time with them. Another boy and his sister live on the corner. The other 9-year-old girl has a 12-year-old sister. Four more boys are less than a thirty second walk away. And of course there’s my son Philip and my daughter Chloe at 13 and 9, respectively.

The other morning my wife got into the car and discovered something wrong when she looked into the rear view mirror. Upon further investigation a BB gun had put a pellet through her rear window. The dark shattered mess of pebbles was held together by the tinting and the heating element. My wife called the stay-at-home mom on the corner to ask if she had any idea who had a BB gun. The stay-at-home mom related that her son had come inside the previous afternoon claiming he was afraid to ride his bike on the street because the three boys in the house across from us were firing their BB gun out from the garage at targets on the street. She gave a short apology for not taking action.

My wife and I agreed I would take on the uncomfortable task of talking to the mom across the street. As I approached the porch, only the screen to the front door was closed. As I got closer, I could see Jack playing a video game with the oldest of the three boys while the younger two were looking on. “Knock-knock,” I said.

“Hi,” one of the boys answered.

I told him I wanted to speak with his mom. I had to wait for just a little while, since she was on the phone working from home. She eventually walked up to the screen door. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

I relaxed and looked her in the eye. “This is kind of awkward.” I paused to allow her to ready herself for something awkward. “Do your kids have a BB gun?”

“Yes.”

“This morning my wife discovered the rear window of her vehicle was shattered by a BB pellet. One of the neighbors claimed to have seen your boys shooting a BB gun from your garage at targets in the street yesterday afternoon.”

She was swift with her response. “That wasn’t my boys. I’m certain. They know the rules about the BB gun very well and I know they do not do anything like that.” It wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear. Either she was in denial, boldly lying or someone from outside the neighborhood was to blame. I was hoping for denial.

I paused, looked away, choose my words, their delivery and my body language very carefully, and then looked back. “Well. OK. I’ll take you at your word. I need to report this to the police then.”

“That sounds like what you should do.” The awkward dialog was over, and she closed the door behind the screen. I went back to my house, grabbed the telephone and was in the process of looking up the non-emergency police telephone number when the doorbell rang.

Jack stood alone on my front porch. “The BB gun damage yesterday … that had to be me. I was shooting down at targets on the street. One of the pellets must have bounced up and done the damage. I didn’t know I had broken something. Otherwise I would have told you yesterday. I’m really sorry, and I’ll definitely pay for the damage. Maybe I can do some yard work.”

His words and his attitude were perfect in every way. He was shouldering all responsibility, even though (as we learned later) one of the boys across the street had brought out his BB gun and was doing the shooting with Jack. George Washington’s father couldn’t have felt more pride in a young adolescent than I felt toward Jack.

The interaction between our three families that followed included no surprises. The full story came out. The neighbors were willing to make us whole financially and we were willing to cooperate with whatever process the neighbor parents felt would appropriately discipline the boys, provided it was dignifying rather than shaming to the boys. We learned Jack’s parents—especially his father—had very strong values against guns. Jack’s father delivered a very stern lecture to his son.

Not long afterward that same afternoon, Chloe came in from the back yard looking like she was on the edge of tears. When I inquired, she told me, “I don’t want to hear Jack crying,” and then her own tears and crying burst through as she flopped onto the couch and buried her face in her hands. I stepped outside into our back yard quietly and could make out the muffled sound of Jack sobbing from the upstairs of his house. I hoped they were cleansing sobs like those Aeneas let flow once he’d successfully sailed those under his care to a safe distance from Troy.

I came back inside and gently closed the sliding door. Then I turned to Chloe who was still crying quietly on our couch. “Jack made a big mistake playing with that gun out in the street. It is painful for somebody to admit making that kind of a mistake. Jack was a friend of our family before this happened and he proved he was a good friend by quickly taking responsibility for what he had done. We’ll make sure he knows we are still his friends.”

In the days that have followed, we’ve had many opportunities to chat with Jack in a way that lets him know he’s forgiven and accepted. He acts beyond his years in his responses. Unfortunately the mom across the street has become withdrawn and does not make eye contact or pause to connect with us in any way when she is outdoors. It’s as if she’s the 11-year-old and Jack is the adult.

Today Jack came to the house carrying the checks that make us whole for the repairs. He looked my wife between the eyes and apologized once more. Why does our whole family love this rascal Jack so much? I don’t know. Perhaps we see the makings of someone who will grow up to save the world one day. In the meantime, perhaps I’ll start calling him Spanky.