My son taught me how to listen

My father was a good man, but he was not a talker. He gave instructions. Do your homework. Greet your elders. Sit up straight. I grew up and did the same thing with my son, Kofi, without even noticing.

Kofi is seven. Last year his teacher called me in. She said he was a bright boy but very quiet, and that he seemed worried about something. I was surprised. At home he was quiet too, but I thought that was just his way.

That evening I asked him what was wrong, and he said, “Nothing.” I asked again, louder. He said nothing again and went to his room. I was frustrated. I did not know what else to do.

At a fathers’ meetup, another father told me something I did not expect. He said, “Stop asking questions at the dining table. Take him somewhere and do something with your hands.” So on Saturday I took Kofi to wash the car. We did not talk much at first. Then, while he was rinsing the tires, he told me that a bigger boy at school had been taking his lunch money for weeks. He did not want to tell me because he thought I would say he should be stronger.

That broke my heart a little. I did not lecture him. I said thank you for telling me, and I asked what he wanted to happen. We went to the school together on Monday, and the teacher dealt with it.

Now we wash the car every Saturday, even when it is clean. That is where he tells me things. Sometimes it is about school, sometimes football, sometimes a dream he had. I ask one question and I wait. My only job is not to fill the silence.

My father never did this with me. I am learning it at forty, from a seven year old.