Confidence tricks: dare to be different
Her son’s confidence may occasionally confound her, but mostly Eleanor Black just doesn’t want him to lose it.
Not long ago I took my son to an orthodontist, to see what could be done about his teeth. They have always been troublesome – they started pushing through his gums spookily early, when he was four months old, and falling out when he was still at kindy. He was the only child in his new entrants’ class who had already been visited by the Tooth Fairy.
Now that Micah is 8 he has a couple of boogie boards at the centre of his smile.
His front teeth protrude over his bottom lip, which only bothers him when someone tells him to shut his mouth, like the grumpy guy at the mall who takes passport pictures. They are always there, gleaming in every photo, whether he is smiling or not.
Before Christmas I asked him if he had anything to add to his Santa list and he said, ‘‘No, Santa knows what’s in my heart. I don’t want to do the paperwork.’’
A year-and-a-half ago he snapped off part of one tooth while swinging on the monkey bars at school. The teacher didn’t notice until the end of the day; he didn’t bother to tell her. The thing that annoyed him about it was the rough edge on his tongue.
I took him to his dentist to get a sort of tooth prosthetic and a couple of months later he broke that off too. It’s the angle of the teeth, you see – when he falls, whoomp, there they are, taking the impact.
Between the broken tooth and me asking him how he felt about
Confidence is such a trick, so powerful, so elusive. For some reason, which has nothing to do with his doofy parents, Micah has it.
his boogie boards, I risked making him self conscious, but he was unfazed. ‘‘I guess I’m having braces.’’
The orthodontist said there were expensive interventions available to pull his teeth into line, tortuous, medieval-looking devices, but if we started too early, the effects wouldn’t last. So we’re waiting until he is 11 or 12, which means he is heading to intermediate school with buck teeth. This is two years away, but already I worry.
In my experience, the years between primary school and high school are among the most turbulent. For a kid who is different in any way, even something as insignificant as having kooky teeth, those years can be lonely.
But my biggest concern is that Micah’s magnificent confidence will be dented. Confidence is such a trick, so powerful, so elusive. For some reason, which has nothing to do with his doofy parents, Micah has it, and he always has.
Psychologists say confidence is as critical to success as ability. It comes from knowing what you’re good at, what value you add to any given situation. Micah knows he is good at maths, writing, friendship, Lego-building and dog-caring. He is a kind and tolerant big brother to Jacob most of the time, and he knows that too.
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t abuse his position every now and then – he’s capable of withering an adoring 5-year-old with a one-liner. When Jacob made a flip phone out of a piece of paper and asked for his number, Micah said, ‘‘I’m not going to tell you because then you’ll call me.’’
He has also said of his brother: ‘‘I wish Jacob had a job so I could just fire him.’’
People tell me I was a confident child for the first three or four years of my life. I don’t remember it. By the time I got to school I was unusually quiet and slow to adapt to new situations. We moved every two years when I was growing up, sometimes more often; I had changed schools eight times by the age of 13.
I remain a person who observes people before I engage, which does not always serve me well. My confidence as an adult comes from knowing that most things don’t matter a whole bunch. This is not because I am cool or fatalistic, but because my family went through hell when I was in my mid-20s.
My father developed multiinfarct dementia around the same time I was starting university, although we didn’t realise it for years. He kept having small strokes, which damaged his brain slowly over time. The effect was similar to Alzheimer’s, although that disease has its own unique horrors.
Dad couldn’t find his reading glasses, then he couldn’t get through an article without circling back to the top multiple times, then he couldn’t be left alone or he’d wander. By the time he died he was incontinent, struggled with speech and had forgotten most people, except my mother and me. He cried easily, would beg us not to leave him at the rest home where he spent the last three years of his life.
Watching my favourite person go through all that changed my perspective. I knew what I was capable of enduring and I knew what held value for me. My boyfriend problems were laughable. Clambering up some career mountain seemed trivial.
Protecting my child’s self worth and comfort to move freely in the world, however, is one of the things that matters. As we hurtle towards the start of a new school year, I am acutely sensitive to signs that his big teeth are making him uncomfortable, or attracting unkind attention.
Micah reports that so-and-so was mean to him and my heart quickens. ‘‘What happened?’’ I ask.
‘‘He said I was bossy,’’ Micah replies.
‘‘Well, you are,’’ I say, relieved. ‘‘Make sure you listen to other people’s ideas too, okay?’’
Later I overhear him singing to himself: ‘‘Yeah I dare to be different, this is just who I am. If you don’t understand me, I don’t care. Yeah I dare to be different, this is just who I am. Cause I daaaare to be squaaaare!’’
‘‘What’s that about, buddy?’’ I ask.
‘‘It’s a song we sing at school with Mrs Bixley. I just love it, because I’m different and I love being different.’’
‘‘Is it ever hard to be different?’’ ‘‘No, it’s great,’’ he says, his face shining, and I really, truly believe him.