Mas receio que sempre que os pediatras ou os psicólogos entram no seu registo aflitivo (do género «mãe que é mãe nunca hesita nem se engana, não se cansa, nunca se satura e jamais se enfurece») e recomendam aos pais soluções mágicas ou desempenhos técnicos, os desqualificam e os infantilizam ainda mais, como se, a exemplo do que se faz, vezes demais, na escola, se fornecesse a solução mas não se ensinasse nem a escutar, nem a compreender, nem a resolver.
Eduardo Sá
2013
Hiya Kids...
Guess I'm a little out of my element in this writing business but I figured here in Photoplay I could talk to two or three million of you at once. In the series of talks I gave at schools a month or two ago I only got to talk to a few thousand of you at best. And I didn't begin to cover the questions you've been asking in your letters lately. Stands to reason I can't answer all of you personally. I'd be an old graybeard before I got through. Besides, most of the time you tell me not to write to you anyway - that getting your problem on paper has helped - and if anyone in your family got my letter you'd get the devil or the horselaugh.
Frank Sinatra
You know what you do.
So you know if you're a Juvenile Delinquent.
Or just a healthy normal American kid.
It'll work out with you doing worse and worse things and having less and less fun - and ending up caring and worrying plenty. Plenty!
Nobody needs to tell you when you're doing wrong. As I found out a long time ago, we all have something inside of us that tries to steer us right. Sometimes we ignore that voice or whatever it is and go ahead anyhow. But this never means we can't still right-about-face. This never means we can't say to ourselves and anyone else whose business it is,
"That's not for me! No more!"
I did a lot of things as a kid that were wrong, even had fun doing some of them. And plenty of times when my father gave me a bawling out I went off sulking and said to myself, "There's a lot I could tell my old man - with his oldfashioned ideas." I don't suppose there's ever been a kid who didn't think he knew more than his mother and father.
I had a terrific knack for getting into trouble; probably because I hung out with older fellows and, a little tyke anyhow, was always the last guy to get away...
When a cop came down the street the other fellows beat it. I knew I didn't have a chance of keeping up with them so I ducked under the stand. And there I had to stay for about three hours; until twelve o'clock when the cop finally gave up waiting around in case the other fellows came back and the old fruit man closed up and went home.
The moral of all this is that I had nothing to gain by what I did. The most I would have gotten out of the raid - besides the excitement - was a bunch of spinach which I don't like. If I had been at home at the right time, at the dinner hour, I could have had everything I could have stolen from that fruit stand and it would have all been clean and fresh and well cooked. I also would have escaped the licking I got when I landed home after midnight.
The same thing applies all along the line. You'll find you're much surer of getting whatever you want - and of getting it with less grief - if you'll go after it in a decent, intelligent way.
The quicker you learn this the luckier you are.
I know I'm right, I have some pretty concrete examples to prove it...
A lot of my old buddies from my old neighborhood, which wasn't exactly an ideal place for kids to grow up, didn't "smarten up", continued to go after things the wrong way.
As those buddies of mine became older their motives naturally became more violent and they naturally went out for bigger things.
Also, let me tell you, I can't see anything wrong about kids ganging up and wearing special clothes and talking a special way; like you bobby-sockers do. In time of war the kids who're just under the fighting age always do this. I'm not going to sound off or try to be profound - but the best psychologists explain it's because you who are too young to fight or to go to work in a defense plant feel unimportant and maybe a little insecure that you band together with your own kind of clothes and your own kind of lingo.
"Dear Frankie," you write me... Then you go on your own way. One who must be nameless writes:
"My sisters continually wear clothes I just washed, took out of the cleaners or bought. I have gotten so exhausted from this that I have quit my job in a five and dime store. Besides never taking me anywhere with them my sisters always say I am trying to get out of a piece of housecleaning when I study. And if I put my book down they say I'm a martyr. My mother will not tell them to stop. I can't cry any more as my tears are all gone. But I can't stand this any more..."
Another letter says: "It seems my mother doesn't want me at all.
Começou a assaltar-nos o temor de que o homem não soubesse conduzir, mas a razão mais elementar dizia-nos que isso não podia ser, pois, naquele sítio, um homem que não fosse um grande volante despencava-se irremissivelmente. Com tacto e paciência, Alberto foi-lhe arrancando a verdade: o homem tivera um acidente em resultado do qual, segundo disse, ficara mal da vista e essa era a razão de cair nos buracos. Tratámos de fazer-lhe compreender o perigo que era conduzir nessas condições, para ele e para as pessoas que levava, mas o homem era impermeável às razões; aquela era a sua profissão, estava muito bem pago por um patrão que não lhe perguntava como chegava, desde que chegasse, e a carta de condução tinha-lhe saído muito cara, pois tivera que pagar uma choruda gorjeta para lha entregarem.
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