Words of Kindness for Kids Off to Middle School

Next time I run into Kofi Annan, the secretary general of the United Nations, we’ll have something to talk about.

“Hey, Kofi,” I might say. “How was that commencement speech you gave at Stanford? You get a lot of laughs droning on about the delicate balance of nuclear geopolitics and the fate of the free world?”

“How was yours?” he might snipe in return. “You knock ‘em dead at Meadows Elementary School in Thousand Oaks with that ridiculous line about the 117 keys to success?”

Some people can be so petty.

I know for a fact that Kofi Annan wasn’t asked to give the commencement speech at Meadows. And I was! No wonder he’s being such a pill about this.

Over the last six months, I’ve enjoyed corresponding with the fifth-graders at Meadows. One of their teachers, Jennifer Fry, thought they might get a kick out of my columns, and judging from their e-mails, I guess they did.

They suggested ways I could trap the possum that invaded my house. They echoed my outrage at a campaign to ban the “Harry Potter” books. They wondered what sleeping under the stars was like for Stewart Finch, the homeless man who created rock sculptures on the beach.

When I visited their class last month, they offered me an embarrassment of riches--birthday gifts, such as a pack of yogurt-covered pretzels, a loaf of garlic bread, a dozen eggs from chickens the fifth grade raises just outside the classroom. They asked me for my autograph. My autograph!

The day after my talk, they called and en masse sang “Happy Birthday Cha Cha Cha.”

It made my day.

Two weeks ago, I wrote a column that was a mock commencement address--an old standard in any columnist’s late-spring repertoire.

But the kids at Meadows e-mailed me, asking for the real thing.

With a nip and a tuck, here’s what I told these students Thursday night, after thanking them for cheering and shouting “You go, Steve!” in a way that U.N. secretaries-general rarely encounter:

In the grand tradition of commencement speakers, I have absolutely nothing useful or valuable to impart to you on this wonderful occasion.

But I won’t let that stop me.

First, I’d like to talk about how some of you probably feel going from elementary school into middle school.

Forty-one years ago, I made a similar leap--from elementary to junior high school.

And I wasn’t scared one little bit.

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In fact, I was terrified.

I thought I would get lost in the new building, that I’d be tormented by older boys with mustaches, that I’d always be late to class, because I could never remember my locker combination. I was so petrified that I kept repeating the numbers for days on end, until they burned a pathway into my brain--46-37-28, right-left-right, 46-37-28, right-left-right . . . Now one of my big fears is that on my deathbed, I’ll forget to tell my wife and daughter how much I love them, that I’ll forget to reveal the secret to a happy life as--whatever it is--and I’ll mumble: 46-37-28--and then croak.

And my family and friends will say: “He was never more eloquent.”

It’s OK to be a little scared about changing schools and making new friends. It takes some courage--but you have plenty of that.

There was the square-dancing you did on the stage at the Civic Arts Plaza.

As one who has stumbled his way through many a wedding, I can tell you: Dancing in public takes courage.

And this square-dancing required physically touching members of a gender laden with cooties and possessed by aliens from the planet Strange. This also took courage.

It took courage to tackle the works of William Shakespeare. When I was your age, all I knew of Shakespeare was the charming childhood rhyme: “Shakespeare, kick in the rear.”

But you kids weren’t intimidated by the greatest writer in the English language and came to know “Twelfth Night” and “Yon Cassius with his lean and hungry look” and most of all, “To thine own self be true.”

So you have all the courage you need. When a middle-school boy with a mustache gives you a hard time, just draw yourself up to your full height, look him straight in the eye, and go: “Et tu, Jason!”

At this point in commencement speeches, it is customary to give a formula for success. These are words you will remember until you forget them, which should be almost immediately.

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There are 117 keys to success, and the first one is kindness.

Kindness is one of the few commodities of which the world always will need more.

Kindness is choosing the clumsiest kid on the playground for your side.

Kindness is eating lunch with the girl nobody likes because she’s so shy.

Kindness is not smacking your little brothers and sisters when they use your stuff. A better approach would be to say: “Dearest sibling, I fully comprehend that your lack of maturity and youthful exuberance has impelled you to treat my possessions as if they were your own and, because I have a big heart and a certain je ne sais quoi, I forgive you. BUT DON’T LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN!”

Be kind to your teachers. When you see that one of them is having a rough day, it’s OK to politely ask why. And if her face turns scarlet and smoke rises from her ears, it’s also OK to say, “If you don’t want to talk about it right now, I’ll understand.”

Be kind to your noble, generous and long-suffering parents. They have the toughest job ever invented. That’s why it would be nice for you to do the laundry and unload the dishwasher and stifle your impulse to roll your eyes when they ask clueless questions about your music and to bring them breakfast in bed sometimes, even when it’s not Mother’s Day or Father’s Day.

To be kind is to give something of yourself, even when you get nothing in return.

Kindness is a smile, it’s a joke, it’s a pat on the back and it’s something that changes lives only for the better.

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Now: About the 116 other keys to success--well, the great secret of adult life is that nobody has the slightest idea what they are.

We’re still working on kindness because we haven’t gotten that one right yet. And we’re counting on you to help.

So be kind--to yourselves, your classmates, your parents, your teachers, to people who aren’t lucky enough to have all your wonderful advantages, to people who just need a break.

Be kind--and be the best sixth-graders you can be.

After the ceremony, amid a bevy of grandmas taking countless photos and kids whizzing around the room like deflating balloons, a dad thanked me.

“My son is reading the paper now,” he said. “He says he might want to be a writer.”

It’s a great job, I thought.

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Steve Chawkins can be reached at 653-7561 or at steve.chawkins@latimes.com