When I was a kid, I used to do a lot of headstands. Head and hands on the floor, feet in the air. When I was ready to switch back, I'd push myself upward with my arms before letting my feet fall back to the floor. It felt good, like jumping.
One day a neighborhood babysitter saw me do this and she said, Wow, that's really unusual, most people can't push up into a handstand like that, that's great! I remember frowning, and feeling a wrongnesss, and trying to get her to dismiss her comment. She persisted, very friendly, affirming my specialness, my superiority. I shrugged and tried to forget about it. She was a nice person.
But the next time I did a headstand, I found myself coming down from it very slowly. I somehow didn't feel any impulse to jump.
I continued for years to stand on my head, but I never leapt upwards through a handstand again. I wasn't sure why, but I knew I didn't want to be praised like that again.
I didn't want anyone to call me "superior."
When I was 20, my employer showed a videotape aimed at increasing multicultural sensitivity in the workplace. One scene showed a room of women working at sewing machines. A manager came into the room and asked one of the women-- say her name was Julie-- to stand up where everyone could see her. He praised her and honored her for her excellent work, and handed her a cash bonus in front of the group. He was trying to be a positive, motivational manager. Her eyes filled with horrified tears and she fled the room. Poor Mr. Manager! What did he do wrong?
The videotape explained that Julie was a Native American, and that her culture prized community so highly that to separate out an individual from her peers would be a cause for trauma. Julie could barely return to work the next day because of her agonizing embarassment, the narrator said. The manager talked with her, and she explained that she would much rather have received the bonus quietly, in an envelope that did not draw the attention of her peers.
I thought of my headstands, and I knew that I was like Julie. But I didn't know why.
As a child I read a story about a white elementary school teacher and her frustration in her attempt to use standard American classroom techniques on a Native American reservation. The core image of the story is this: she sends a group of Indian boys up to the chalkboard to do a math problem. Each one with his own piece of chalk. "See who can do it the fastest. The first one to finish, turn around. Ready, set, go!" Six little boys start scratching numbers on the board. The first one finishes, then stands there, hesitating. He does not turn around. One after another they finish. When the last boy is done, they all turn around together.
The teacher, the narrator of the story, is bewildered. And a little bit frustrated. How are you supposed to motivate children who do not compete with one another? This is not what they taught her back in teacher school.
The story stuck with me, because I knew that, even as an inarticulate child, I couldn't have turned around either. I knew exactly what those children might have been feeling. But the teacher didn't. That worried me. I am not a Native American. So what made me so different?
One more story, again about the power of the circle instinct. This time the people are not Native, but Chinese American children.
It's Christmas Eve, in a prosperous suburban home. A huge pile of glittering presents is waiting under the tree. It is the tradition in this family to have a party in the evening, and then allow the children to open the gifts at midnight. The evening is long, and five children of different ages are on best behavior. By midnight, everyone is a little tired, especially the adults.
It's time to open the presents. One of the moms announces that she is Santa, and calls everyone to come sit around the tree. She gives each child the first brightly wrapped package. Anticipation fills the air.
Then a small crisis strikes. Someone, on his way to the tree, stumbles, and accidentally breaks an elaborate crafted item that one of the children has been working on for weeks. The young artist flees the scene in tears. An adult follows to comfort her.
After a few minutes of waiting, the remaining adults announce that the Santa Claus should continue. Open the presents, the adults tell the remaining four children. The children hold the packages in their laps, but none of them can move. They glance at each other, and at the hallway down which their sister disappeared.
The adults, who are tired, urge them on. Open the presents! They say. She's all right! She'll be back in a minute. The minutes drag on. The adults urge and grumble.
The children clearly want to respect the needs of their elders, and also to open the pile of presents. But they cannot do it. Without a word exchanged, they wait. Not until their number is complete again can they begin.
When a child attends UU Sunday School, this feeling for the Circle is one of the primary lessons that is taught. UU teachers need to maintain classroom order, but they do not want to teach conformism or obedience, and so instead they teach: notice the Circle. Notice that it is something that we love. Notice how it feels when you respect the Circle, notice how it feels when the Circle breaks.
Even if, like most UU children, you never attend YRUU and just drop out at the age of nine or ten, this memory of the Circle leaves an imprint. An imprint that has deep theological, cultural, and personal implications. An imprint profoundly different than that of children raised under systems of hierarchy and competition.