The principal is this tough middle-aged dyke named Eliza, and I like her—she’s the kind of person who’s unimpressed by all adults and interested in all kids—but when she set the syringe down on the desk between us, I had to grip the sides of my chair to keep from slapping her: I hated the dramatics of it, the staginess of the presentation.
“I’ve worked at this school a long time, Dr. Griffith,” she began. “My father was a scientist, too. So I don’t need to ask where your son got this from. But I have never seen a child try to use a needle as a weapon.” To which I thought: Really? Never? What’s wrong with kids’ imagination these days? I didn’t say this, though—I just apologized on the baby’s behalf, said he had an overactive imagination, and that he’d had a difficult time adjusting to America. All of which was true. I didn’t say how shocked I was, though that was true, too.
“But you’ve been living in America, what”—she glanced at her computer screen—“almost six years now, am I right?”
“It’s still hard for him,” I said. “A different language, a different environment, different customs—”
“I hate to interrupt you, Dr. Griffith,” she interrupted me. “I don’t need to tell you that David is very, very bright.” She looked at me sternly, as if the baby’s brightness were somehow my fault. “But he’s had consistent problems with impulse control—this isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. And he’s had some…challenges with socialization. He has difficulty comprehending social cues.”
“So did I, when I was his age,” I said. “My husband would say that I still do.” I smiled, but she didn’t smile back.
Then she sighed, and leaned forward in her chair, and something in her face—some veneer of professionalism—dropped. “Dr. Griffith,” she said, “I’m worried about David. He’ll be ten in November: He understands the consequences of what he’s doing. He only has four more years here, and then he’s off to high school, and if he doesn’t learn lessons now, this year, about how to interact with kids his own age…” She stopped. “Did his teacher tell you what happened?”
“No,” I admitted.
And out came the story. In brief: There’s a clique of boys—not athletic, not good-looking: these are kids of scientists, after all—who’re considered “popular” because they make robots. The baby wanted to join them, and had been trying to hang out with them at lunch. But they rebuffed him, multiple times （“Respectfully, I can assure you. We don’t tolerate bullying or unkindness here”）， and then I guess the baby brought in the syringe and told the head of the pack that he was going to give him a virus if he didn’t let him join. The entire class witnessed this exchange.
Hearing this, I felt two competing sensations: First, I was horrified that my child was threatening another child, and not just threatening him but threatening him with what he claimed was a disease. And second, I was heartbroken for him. I have blamed and do blame the baby’s loneliness on his homesickness, but the truth is that, even in Hawai‘i, he never had many companions. I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but once, when he was about three, I saw him go over to some other kids on the playground who were playing in the sandbox and ask if he could join them. They said yes, and he got in, but as he did, they all got up and ran over to the jungle gym and left him there alone. They didn’t say anything, they didn’t call him names, but how could he see their departure as anything other than what it was—a rejection?
But the worst thing is what happened after: He sat there in the sandbox, looking at them, and then he slowly began playing by himself. Every few seconds he’d look over at them, waiting for them to come back, but they never did. After five or so minutes, I couldn’t take it any longer, and I went and gathered him up and told him we could have ice cream but he wasn’t to tattle on me to Daddy.
That night, though, I didn’t tell Nathaniel what had happened in the sandbox. I felt ashamed, somehow, implicated in the baby’s sorrow. He had failed, and I had failed to help him. He had been rejected, and I was somehow responsible for that rejection, if only because I had seen it and been unable to repair it. The next day, when we were walking to the playground again, he pulled on my hand and asked if we had to go. I told him no, we didn’t, and instead we went to get another illicit ice cream. We never went back to that playground. But now I think we should have. I should have told him that those other children had been unkind, and that it had nothing to do with him, and that he would find other friends, people who really loved and appreciated him, and that anyone who didn’t wasn’t someone who deserved his attention anyway.
But I didn’t. Instead, we never spoke of it. And over the years, the baby has become more and more withdrawn. Not necessarily with Nathaniel, maybe, but—well, maybe even with him. I just don’t know if Nathaniel sees it. It’s not something I could even accurately describe. But I increasingly feel as if he’s not quite present, even when he is, as if he’s already detaching himself from us. He has a couple of friends here, quiet, earnest boys, but they rarely come over to our apartment, and he’s rarely invited to theirs. Nathaniel always says he’s mature for his age, which is one of those things worried parents say about their children when their children baffle them, but I think what he’s mature in is his loneliness. A child can be alone. But he shouldn’t be lonely. And our child is.
Eliza recommended handwritten letters of apology, a two-week suspension, weekly counseling, an organized sport or two—“to challenge him, let him burn off some resentment”—and “greater participation from both of his parents,” which was meant for me, because Nathaniel attends every school meeting, game, event, and play. “I know it’s hard for you, Dr. Griffith,” she said, and before I could protest or make some defensive remark, she continued, more gently, “I know it is. I don’t mean that sarcastically. We’re all proud of the work you’re doing, Charles.” Suddenly I could feel my eyes fill, stupidly, with tears, and mumbled, “I’ll bet you say that to all the virologists,” and left, grabbing the baby by his shoulder and steering him out.
The baby and I walked back to the apartment in silence, but once we were inside, I turned on him. “What the hell were you thinking, David?” I yelled. “You realize the school could’ve expelled you, could’ve had you arrested? We’re guests in this country—don’t you know you could’ve been taken from us, been sent to a state institution? You know kids have been sent away for less?” I was about to continue when I saw the baby was crying, and that made me stop, because the baby rarely cries. “I’m sorry,” he was saying, “I’m sorry.”
“David,” I groaned, and I sat down next to him and pulled him into my lap like I used to when he was in fact a baby, and rocked him, also as I had done when he was a baby. For a while we were silent.
“Nobody likes me,” he said, quietly, and I said the only thing I could, which was “Of course they do, David.” But really, what I should have said is “No one liked me when I was your age either, David. But then I grew up, and people did like me, and I found your daddy, and we had you, and now I’m the luckiest person I know.”