! HERE’S  AN “OLDIE BUT GOODIE” FROM ONE OF MY ARIZONA REPUBLIC COLUMNS.

“There are no Strangers”

By

Gerry Niskern

The toddler reached a frightening height in the tunnel. Slowly he inched his chubby knees upward, higher and higher. His parents gasped as he turned a corner and suddenly slid down, collapsing in a heap of giggles on the cork floor. I had just witnessed one of the many activities small children engage in every day at the numerous meetings of the mini United Nations across our valley.  Mac Donald’s has only one requirement for a junior emissary to take part: You must take off your shoes!

The munchkin with me raced ahead to join the kids in the play area. I slid into a bench and placed our burgers on the table. Glancing around, I smiled at two or three groups of adults and received fleeting nods in return. My glance fell on the rack where the kids stashed their shoes.

Little hiking boots, black patent tap shoes, moccasins, Birkenstocks, Hi-lites, ballet slippers, and cowboy boots spilled out of the cubbyholes in the Sneaker Keeper. It would be interesting to know if their choice of footwear now was an indication of their future life.

Looking up, I waved at my little charge as she rounded a corner in the maize of tunnels above our heads. Measured in a child’s eyes, those tunnels must seem a thousand feet high and ten miles long. The bright colored tubes and rectangular forms connect to form a wonderland of play. The delegates at these multi-cultural gatherings have a ball crawling through the tunnels, negotiating with their fellow climber’s crowded curves and angles. Close behind her a Middle Eastern boy, in long baggy shorts (he owned the Hi-Lites) willingly took a detour to let a timid little Asian boy scoot past.

The sky- diver I saw earlier ran over to greet a little blond ballerina in a purple leotard, and grab a quick hug. She quickly stashed her ballet slippers in the shoe rack and headed for the pool of bright colored balls. Soon she was teaching a couple of Latino girls how to do a back flip into the ocean of balls. Meanwhile, a fussy future homemaker was busy gathering the stray balls that bounced out and tossing them back into the kaleidoscope of color.

High above, a doctor to be, neatly combed hair and immaculate clothes, turned a corner and comes face to face with black eyes, bronze skin and high cheek bones. The Native American doesn’t move an inch. Doc moves to the right, the future tribal leader blocks the way. Suddenly, a female, with red curls and blue eyes scoots around the corner and can’t get through. Tears start and the chief and surgeon hastily draw aside to let Miss American slide by.

Meanwhile, down on the floor, a blonde toddler hurries over and gently rocks the cradle carrier containing a fussy African American infant. The baby’s big sister is helping another child tie his shoes.

It doesn’t seem to matter whether their new playmates wear clothes that are new or ragged, clean or dirty. The color of their skin is not important. I couldn’t help thinking that sooner or later, most of these kids will experience discrimination, rejection, bigotry, fear, and maybe even violence. Would this brief interlude of play frozen in childhood ever be theirs again?

If someone arrived on earth from another planet, we would have a difficult time explaining why the little people mingle, but the big ones do not. Wouldn’t it be interesting if the adults had to introduce themselves before they could pick up their lunch and escort their kids to the play yard?

Better yet, at the next summit meeting of our world leaders, I suggest the entrance to the conference be located at a giant tunnel maze.  The presidents, prime ministers and kings could brush up on their negotiating skills before tackling the problems of the world.

I think our neighborhood kids would give them just one word of advice: Don’t forget to wear clean socks!