I had kids write short memoirs recently, practicing the kind of reflective, analytical thought of which they’ll need to do more and more as the years go on. “What did you learn from this?” I kept asking them.

“I didn’t learn ANYTHING, Ms. S,” they say, eyes wide and perplexed.

“Every powerful memory we have has taught us something. What did this experience teach you?” I counter.

They slouch down in the conferencing chair, eyes unfocusing, casting their brains back into the past, when they were eight, nine, four years old. Then the light comes on. They sit up and announce triumphantly something like this, for example:

“It taught me not to be afraid of new things. Because, like,” they continue, “Sometimes…you can do something…and once you get into it, it’s not bad. Sometimes it’s….even fun!”

Now, cast these tidbits into a sea of more experienced writers, and you will hear as much as see the upturned noses. That’s boring. Trite. Stupid. “Try something new, it may not be so bad?” Everyone knows that.

Except for the fact that these kids don’t. For real.

My Earth Science friend Joseph, down the hall, has tussled with this in terms of the experiments he asks kids to do. “Is seeing what material floats or sinks in Coke real science? They’re not doing or discovering anything we don’t know already.”

“Yeah,” I say, “But they don’t know it. Isn’t it real science to them?”

Where should our unending search as adults for novelty as quality, for the idolatry of excitement, grind to a halt for just a moment? Where should it give way to delight in the continual rebirth, in each mind, of that which is simply good?

I think it’s with our kids. I think it’s seventh grade.