Monday, November 13, 2006

conversation with a preschooler

We have various neighbors who are devoutly Muslim, Jewish, and Catholic. There are also Hindus, atheists, and every variety of Christian. And, of course, most of our extended family is Mormon. So our son is not unaccustomed to hearing "Because they're Muslim" or "Because they think that's what God wants them to do" when he asks, "Why do they do that?" I also try to explain a little about the different religions when he asks, and I hope he will understand diversity.

For example, on Halloween, when he wanted to knock on our Muslim friends' door, I asked him not to. I knew they considered Halloween a pagan holiday, to be avoided at all cost. When he asked why, I said, "They don't celebrate Halloween because they are Muslim. But they have other great holidays that we don't have, like Ramadan, when they eat a big meal with all their friends every night for a month. And Eid ul Fitr, when they get to go to a carnival, and get new clothes." I didn't want him to think his friends are weird or deprived just because they don't dress up like vampires and dinosaurs and fairies and ask strangers for candy. ('Cause that's not weird at all.)

Yesterday was a rainy one, so we couldn’t go outside to play. He was bummed that he couldn’t be outside with friends. Out the window, he saw his friend walking up the street with his dad.

“Do you think Levi will stay outside and play?” he asked hopefully.
“No, it’s still pretty wet.”
“Do you think Ali and Hakim will come out?”
“Probably not,” I answered.
“Can Muslims not have rain boots?” he asked, trying to figure out what might be preventing his friends from coming out.
“Oh, no, Muslims can wear rain boots. And Levi’s not Muslim, he’s Jewish.”
“What do Jewish people do?”
“They go to synagogue—that’s like church—on Saturday, and they sing certain songs, and lots of them speak Hebrew” I stalled, trying to find a way to explain ritual, heritage, and ethnicity to a preschooler. “But not all Jews do that. David is Jewish, and his family doesn’t do any of that.”

Then he looked at me seriously and said, “I want to be something. I want to have something like that.”

He wanted an identity. He wanted to know what he can be.

I panicked. I’m not sure what I believe. I’m not sure what my identity is. While the closest things I can claim are Mormon and atheist, I don’t want to identify as the former, and I don’t feel the latter as an community or an identity per se.

I blurted out, “We have science,” thinking of the character in Nacho Libre that “believes in science.” I felt stupid. I couldn’t even figure out what to say to my child. While I have no trouble saying, “Muslims believe this, Christians believe that, some people do this,” I couldn’t figure out how to explain what I believe. Or better yet, how to encourage him to figure out what he believes.

Later at dinner, I recounted the conversation to my husband. He turned to our son and said, “You want to be something, huh?”
“Yeah,” our son said, “but I know what I want to be. I’m a pirate.”
“Great,” I joked, “that means you have the Flying Spaghetti Monster as your god.”
“The Flying Spaghetti Monster? What’s that?”
“The god of the pirates. I’ll show you a picture.” And we pulled out the Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, a book I got my husband for fun. Our son really liked the pictures and the connection to pirates, and quickly adopted the symbol of the fossilized fish as “my symbol,” lover, as he is, of fossils. He kept saying, “The Flying Spaghetti Monster is my god. ‘Cause I’m a pirate. David too, because he’s a pirate too.”

“This is the perfect thing for you to blurt out while we’re visiting Grandma and Grandpa in Utah,” I said, more to my husband than to my son. Better that than “My dad likes beer, but my mom likes wine.”

He was really getting into it, and I started to worry. Okay, so now my little joke was going a little too far.

“Is the Flying Spaghetti Monster real or just pretend?” I asked him.
“Oh, he’s real. He’s real. He’s just hiding.”
“Where?”
“Um, where no one, no one can ever find him. Deep, deep down in dirt.”
“What about Jesus? Is Jesus real or pretend?”
“Pretend,” he answered with confidence. (I never told him that, just for the record.)

Great, I thinking. My kid believes in Santa Claus and the Flying Spaghetti Monster, but thinks God is just pretend. If he thought all were pretend, I'd be fine, but why choose Santa Claus and a god made of pasta as plausible entities? Wondering what to do, I realize I don’t really have to do anything right now. Because he’s a preschooler: Within 30 seconds, he was more preoccupied with saying “Ahoy thar, ye matey” and his collection of hot wheels than gods or identity.

But I think it will be healthy for him to be able to identify with some identity, though I don’t think it has to be a religious one. And to help him learn that identity, I should figure out what my identity is.

4 comments:

Anonymous said...

I love you sidebar comment about having been Mormon once. That is much how I feel about my time in the church. Being ex-mormon took too much commitment.

As far as your son. What about ethnic identity. Each country has a rich history that could be fun to share.

Sister Mary Lisa said...

How can one not love the noodly appendages?

from the ashes said...

Daniel- Welcome. Ethnic identity is an excellent thought. But what is my ethnic identity? As a nth generation Mormon, descended from Utah pioneers, I am pretty much a northwestern European mutt. All over the British Isles, Ireland, Germany, Denmark, Holland. I always somehow had the idea that all Americans were similarly mutt-ish, but so many are not. They're Italian-American, Irish-American, German-American, Chinese-American, etc. But I don't feel any particular pull to any one of my many ethnicities.

Honestly, I like the idea of a Mormon ethnicity. (All ethnicities are created, they are imagined communities, so why not create another?) But I'm not comfortable claiming a Mormon ethnicity among anyone but Mormons.

from the ashes said...

SML- My son really got a kick out of his noodly appendage. We were eating lasagna when I told him about it, and when he pulled up a piece, a long string of gooey cheese stretched down. He said, "Oh, look! Spaghetti Monster!" Already he's seeing the signs in everything.