"The Children Are Watching Us"—that was the title of Vittorio De Sica's old, beautiful film. And it's true: children watch us. But the way they look changes with each stage of their brief, sometimes very brief, childhood.
From the first months of life until two or three years old, children examine everything that comes their way with the same intense, enthusiastic interest. Given the chance, they would not just look—they would smell it and taste it all. They gaze at everything with hunger and innocence, making no distinctions.
At three, four, five years old, they're in what we call preschool. I've heard children this age make sharp observations about what comes within their reach and offer surprisingly sensible thoughts on matters of real importance. Their way of looking has changed too: now they can observe—watch carefully and closely. They distinguish, judge, appreciate or reject, fear or love intensely at first glance, without second thoughts. They have no tact, no manners yet, no sense of proportion—the consequences are well known. But they still have enormous reserves of sweetness and innocence. Their actions are protected by a kind of unconscious lightness. Their wrong looks don't truly wound, and they can be easily redirected, forgotten, forgiven.
Children of five, six, ten years old—elementary school children. For them the rush to grow up begins: in first grade they still resemble the younger children described above, but by fifth grade they're ready to step into the world of teenagers. They must learn to read, write, and do arithmetic—as Pinocchio said—but also and above all to live with others, to seek and respect well-being for themselves and for those around them.
For all these reasons, I believe that by the early years of elementary school, children are capable of—and should begin to—understand difference and respect it. To weigh what hurts or helps another person. And therefore to control their own gaze, to avoid wounding others by the way they look.
It seems almost unnecessary to say that including disabled children in the classroom and having trained teachers guide them is a great, essential help for this journey.
But it is up to all of us—the adults—to explain, correct, and suggest new ways forward. Not with hesitation or baby talk, but with the right balance. We take such care to instill in our children the first notions of order, diligence, thrift—what Natalia Ginzburg calls the "little virtues." How can we neglect to nurture these great, potential virtues from their very beginning?
Of course, there's a long distance between the first intuition of "what is right" and the ability to act on it. We know this. But that's no longer a question of understanding or possibility—it's a different matter altogether, one that lasts a whole lifetime.
A teacher who is also a mother, 2004