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Jun.18
2:56 PM ET
Wednesday, 18 Jun 2008
Will The Real You Please Stand Up? Unleash Your Inner Genius
Chapter 8: Unleash Your Genius
A little girl was doodling in class one day while the teacher was
teaching English. The teacher noticed that she was distracted,
so she walked over to her desk. ”What are you doing, Sherry?”
“Drawing,” the little girl answered gleefully.
“I can see that. What are you drawing?” the teacher said
as she leaned in to look at the tablet.
“God.” Sherry answered.
The teacher found this amusing. “Sherry, that’s silly.
No one knows what God looks like.”
Sherry turned to the teacher with smiling eyes and said.
“They will when I’m finished.”
What are you drawing today? What’s on your canvas? Are there brilliant hues of color and textures reflecting your zest for life and passion for living? Or is it full of the drabness of complacency, negativity and lack? We come to the planet as empty canvases with no limits on
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THE GENIUS OF SUPERMAN
It’s hard to say no to Superman. When Chris, my younger brother, was five years old, he wanted to enter a 30-yard dash at “Fun Day” at a City of Dallas summer youth program. It was a project that was designed to give kids alternatives to just hanging out on street corners during the summer vacation. Chris, who at the time insisted that everyone in our family call him “Superman,” had always been fascinated by running, jumping, and, yes, flying.
When it was time for dinner, Mom would say, “Chris, time for dinner, sweetie.” But he wouldn’t come. Mom would repeat herself. “Chri-iiiis, come and eat, baby.” Still no Chris. Finally, I told her that if she wanted Chris to appear she’d simply have to call him by his name—Superman. “I’m not calling him Superman. I’m his mother, he’ll come,” Mom said, looking very serious. “Don’t let me call you again, little boy!” Still no Chris. Finally, Mom caved in. “Supermaaaaaan!” And faster than a speeding bullet, Chris would appear, wearing the “S” cape that Cora, a friend of the family, had made him for his birthday. But he wouldn’t just walk into the room like everyone else. Superman made an entrance. He’d make “sssssswoooop” sounds as if he were jumping from one building to the next and then he’d plop down into his seat. If Mom cooked vegetables that he didn’t want to eat, he’d pretend that they were kryptonite. This never worked, but it was always fun to watch because he was so energetic and persuasive.
And that’s exactly what I remember most about him as he prepared for the 30-yard dash that day at the park—his energy and his gift for persuasion. His desire to express his running genius.
Each week that we went to the park, he would stand on the sidelines hypnotized as he watched the older kids run in races. And although he didn’t really understand the concept of running a race (so I thought), he somehow knew that the atmosphere of competing and doing your best provided one of the greatest feelings in the world.
For three weeks, he’d run over to me, panting and out of breath with the same question, “Can I run today, Fran?” For three weeks my answer had remained the same, “We’ll see,” that worn-out phrase my parents used on me whenever they didn’t know exactly how to say no with good reason. But on this one day, I finally saw the sparkle in Chris’s eyes. He wanted—no, he needed—to run in that race, so I agreed to give him his shot.
As one event finished and they geared up for the next one, I found out from a parent that the other two kids in Chris’s race were seven and nine years old. They were much bigger and more developed than my gangly five-year-old shrimp of a brother who’d just lost one of his front teeth. Oh, no, I thought. He’s gonna get creamed. He’ll hate me for letting him sign up!
I jogged over to the starting point, thinking that maybe I should pull Mighty Mouse from the race. Maybe encourage him to run with kids his own age. But something in Chris’ spirit told me that age was nothing but a number in his mind.
Data is a real-time snapshot *Data is delayed at least 15 minutes