The Newspaper Collector
“What are you praying about every day?” One day my son Jack asked me.
“I thank God for giving me what I have now and pray for every important person in my life, like families and friends.”
“What are you praying for me, then?”
“I ask God to help you grow into a real man, a man with courage, strength, wisdom, responsibility, and kindness. Most importantly, give you kindness.”
“Why kindness?” He was intrigued, apparently it was not his top pick.
I paused. It seemed so simple a question that I faltered to give an affirmative answer. Then I told him a story. The story has been around in my mind for all the years. Jack’s question helped me turn the fractured memories into a solid talk, and now into words.
It was in the 1980s, I was at Jack’s age, a freshman in high school. It was a public boarding school with students from about 10 cities nearby. We all passed rigorous entrance exams and were considered the “elite students”. For many of us, it was the first time we left home. The new life was overwhelmingly vibrant and yet challenging. In a couple of months, some embraced the new life with jubilance some got depressed. We noticed a student. I have long forgotten his name. Let me call him Meng. Meng increasingly showed signs of withdrawal and depression. He came from a remote farming family. He was short, thin, and poorly dressed. He always hid from others, head lowered, eyes dodgy. Obviously he was in a downward spiral. We needed to give him a nudge or lift, or he could fall off the cliff.
There was a position in the class — the newspaper collector. At that time, the newspaper was the only way for us to see the outside world. The personal letters would be distributed by the class director. But the newspaper collector had a separate key to take the newspapers to the classroom. A class had 50 or so students, receiving four to five newspapers every day. Everyone wanted to have first-hand news — the deficit between demand and supply was really high. So every morning when the newspaper collector stepped into the classroom with newspapers in hand, we all watched him like a superstar. Whoever got the newspaper from him, although mostly randomly, would feel an inexplicable privilege and receive widespread envy in the room. It was not an officer’s title, but the newspaper collector was a coveted position that afforded a strong sense of self-importance.
One day in a class meeting, the class director promoted the current newspaper collector to an officer’s position and filled Meng in as the new collector. Meng flushed with excitement. We all applauded and thought that was the best decision the director had ever made. Lifted by the responsibility and trust, Meng should soon rebuild his confidence.
He did well in the beginning. But soon we felt something wrong. Every morning coming back from the mailbox, he would go to his table directly, put the newspapers under his arm, and started to read. Somebody came and asked to have one of the newspapers. He replied, “let me finish it first.” When reminded that he should keep just one paper and distribute the rest, he said, “I don’t know where they will be when I finish this one. I must finish them all.”
Meng read so slowly and raised his eyes looking around time by time. He was literally surrounded by the newspaper-lovers — I was one of them. But he never budged, and to our astonishment, he was showing a rapidly developed sense of prestige. Looking back, it seems he considered it a privilege by being implored, not by serving others. This soon generated irritation among us. Somebody talked to the director. The director talked to him. He returned to normal for a while but soon again got into his own mode.
Until one day the director said, “the classes are getting busy now. To help Meng focus on the study, he will not be the newspaper collector. ” I still remember Meng’s dismayed face when he handed out the key. Almost over one night, Meng went back to the emaciated, timid boy. Soon nobody would notice him, whether it was unconscious or intentional. After high school, nobody noticed which college he went to, or whether he got into college at all.
My storytelling to Jack was much shorter. He almost couldn’t wait for the end and asked, “It doesn’t say why kindness is important. It says we should not take advantage of other people’s kindness.” Again he made me pause. His sum was absolutely right. But I don’t know why his question awoke this fainted memory. Maybe we all need kindness, no matter where we are in life. What if Meng had a bit of kindness? What if we had more kindness to help him? Am I telling this story with kindness, or just gloating over him handing out the key in the end? What happened to Meng after all these years? After all, we were all underage at that time. We would grow kindness as we grew up and learned. “Forget injuries, never forget kindnesses,” said the Chinese philosopher Confucious. But it seems I can’t remember the kindness without remembering the injuries. Is it a sign of lack of kindness?
Jack’s seemingly innocent questions only bring me more self-questions. With or without kindness, the answers would go totally opposite. We all need kindness indeed. My boss Jess Bezos (although he never knows it) says, “cleverness is a gift, kindness is a choice.” I can’t choose for Jack. But I can pray. If he only had one last trait to pick for life, I pray to God, give him kindness.
