Winnie the Pooh

Sometimes, to break through is to see through to the little one within.  And sing to them a story. 

Music by Scott Holmes - A Wee Tipple 
Non Copyright Music

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:07

Their ages ranged from ten to nineteen, some openly posturing, loud and aggressive, while others were quietly manipulative. Some fought with fists, while others fought with words and hand signals. Their backgrounds were diverse, raised by two parents, single moms, grandparents, aunts, and uncles. They had been in foster care, adopted, and also biological. A string of events had brought them here, some for the first time, while for others, it certainly would not be their last. Some responded well to the structure and direction, but most zealously fought it any way they could. After all, they had played by their own rules for so long anyway. No one was going to tell them what to do and when. They also had developed a good line of defense against others, against life, always challenging, outwardly and behind the scenes, always aware of their surroundings, good at giving away nothing, deflecting, distracting, ignoring, mocking, and outright defiance. After all, it was just a matter of time before these helpful people around them were exposed for what they really were, controlling, impatient, and punitive. There was no reason to hope for anything different, for any kind of goodness, and so many of them did whatever they could to speed up the process. Might as well get to it, people. There was no reason to waste time getting to what we all know the end will be. Just another person that can't be trusted, another person who doesn't follow through, another person who will let us drop through the cracks. And although they would not have been able to put it into words, they lived with the shame of so many things, having a family that didn't know how to be a family, not being adequately provided for, being a disappointment both to others and themselves, and shame over the fact that within their hearts still longed to be cared for. Most had just enough of light left in them, they could be potentially helped. While some, well, what they needed for meaningful change would need consistent, firm, loving adults who didn't scare easily and would be present over a long period of time. And unfortunately, there just aren't very many of those available. These defiant ones expected nothing good. They expected to be treated as just another number, another checkbox. They expected to be let down, left a flounder on their own and forgotten in the world. Name-calling, ridicule, and harsh treatment. They were used to all of it. But what they didn't expect, what they really weren't ready for, was Winnie the Pooh. You see, I really enjoy the Winnie the Pooh song. I sang it to my children when they were young, always pausing in the chorus so they could shout, Pooh. And one of the things I was noticing was that some of the similarities among the Defiant Ones was a kind of childhood that did not involve bedtime stories, fairy tales, and being tucked in at night. One day, one of these defiant ones was sitting, arms crossed, head down, and completely uncooperative. He was determined to ruin everyone's day. And because I had built a measure of rapport with him in the weeks prior, and because I sensed that cynicism had yet to completely take over his heart, and because I felt playful and mischievous, I stopped outside of his door and motioned him to walk towards me. After he joined me, I asked quietly, Do you know the Winnie the Pooh song? He looked at me with complete surprise. The what? The Winnie the Pooh song, I repeated matter-of-factly, as I handed one of his peers an assignment. Uh no, he said, completely confused. Well, I'm thinking you need to hear it. And to his shock, horror, and utter surprise, I began singing the song outside his door, drawing the attention of his peers, who were also considering how they might sabotage the day. But now they were distracted by curiosity and appeared at their doorways, wondering whatever the hell was going on. Now I happen to know the entire Winnie the Pooh song by heart. You know the one that starts slowly with these lyrics Deep in the Hundred Acre Woods where Christopher Robin played, you'll find the enchanted neighborhood of Christopher's childhood days. And then the tempo of the song picks up just a little bit. A donkey named Eeyore is his friend, and Kenga and Little Roo. There's Rabbit and Piglet, and there's Owl, but most of all Winnie the Pooh. And then the chorus that gets repeated so many times. Winnie the Pooh, Winnie the Pooh, chubby little cubby all stuffed with fluffy fees. Winnie the poo, Winnie the Pooh, Willy-Nilly silly old bear. By the time I was done singing it, he and every one of his peers were grinning, completely caught off guard by this strange smiling woman singing Winnie the Pooh in a place far from the land of make-believe, innocence, childhood play, and stories. And then he requested to have it sung again. Which I did, except this time I required one thing. That in the chorus, each time after I sung the line Winnie the Pooh, everyone would join in with Pooh. Not too loud, of course, to avoid getting into too much trouble with those in charge, but still certainly risking the possibility of some trouble. And there they all stood at their doorways, grinning, eagerly waiting for their chance to say together Pooh when the time came. From that moment on, Winnie the Pooh was often requested, sometimes from one who had just wanted to hear it again, sometimes by peers thinking it might put another in a better mood. And sometimes, sometimes I sang it after a dare, that an extra grumpy one would not be able to withstand the urge to smile despite his ill humor. And usually without fail, that smile would break through the storm clouds gathered on his face. Make no mistake, Winnie the Pooh would have received an entirely different response if the approach would have been fueled by any intent to mock or point out someone's bad mood. It worked because of the rapport and the trust built, and because on the inside they were all just young boys, wishing their mothers and fathers had read to them, sung to them, and tucked them safely into bed each night.