THE INTELLIGENCE OF INNOCENCE

THE INTELLIGENCE OF INNOCENCE
Why Imagination Is Not a Phase
Personal Story by Gaby Montiel

Something I have noticed as both a child and an artist is how both of these roles revolve around imagination. Imagination is cast aside as useless to our modern day society, seen as childish, which for some reason, means it is unimportant. While melodramatic in some instances, the following essay captures my frustrations towards my generation being deemed as undeserving of the title “wise” or "experienced", echoing the same sentiment shown towards artists.

There is a certain wisdom that lies in the young. It is not from experience, or knowledge of how to succeed, or assurance of happiness. It is the lack thereof, the reminder that what we live in is created with the intent to move fast, the reassurance to grind our heels into the Earth and take in the view our fast tracks blurred past our vision.  There, nestled into the soft eyes and curious gaze, lies an intuition carried by the unaware memory of human nature, of what to do to survive. Past that is the pure and wise sight of someone untouched by societal expectations, by behavioral conformity, someone who only understands how to be human and nothing more.

Children are as intelligent as they are receptive. They learn the way and rules, but before they do, there is a crucial moment where they do not understand. It is in this lack of understanding in which their wisdom lies. “Why?” A question asked over and over by the kindergarteners in school. “Why are we this way? Why is it like this? I do not understand. Why?” They do not understand because they have not folded themselves into a neat little pile of “be quiet and stay still” yet. They have not broken down their face into collapsible parts, their body squeezed into a tight mold, with the penalty for not fitting into this mold the loneliness living outside what the mold wants from you.

We teach them how to survive in our world, the one we created based on efficiency, and the concept of more, the selling of beauty and happiness and love and living sold in bottles and needles and little boxes dropped outside by a drone. Tied up with a bow, we hand these children a package stamped with a lifetime of work. “To succeed, we must work. To work is to succeed.” And they will listen, because they are ordered by that part of them that longs to belong, to be loved, even if it means casting aside their imaginations for the chance to attempt for an end where they might be happy due to a lifetime of calloused hands and gray eyes.

But why? Why must their questions be answered with simplicity? Why must they change to fit our life? Why don’t we listen to their questions, their stories, their creations? Because, we say. Because, someone will always take advantage of that type of innocence. People will always need to be on top, and the only way to rise above a crowd is to crush their limbs on your ascent. Without power, we have nothing. Without division, we crumble.

Because, we say, because we are nothing without our wisdom. We are nothing without our little bottles, our obedient children, following with their backs straight and heads down, mouths sewn shut with twine made of respect and authority. We need society because we need someone to lose. Because, without a loser, no one gets the chance to win. And why do we need to win? If we do not win, we are as useful as the worms in the soil, as the leaf that crunches under your dress shoes as you walk down the street to work.

Behind us, the children play in the grass with those same worms. They collect the dead leaves in their pockets, they scream at the birds, they talk to the wind, they roll with the bees. They have the same wisdom as the mice hidden in the corners of the street, as the sparrows nestled into their nests during the storm. They know the cruelty of being nothing but the undeveloped, the ‘in progress’, the small. For below the knees, under the counters and tables, weaving through your feet, the children play.

They smile and they beg their questions of why with each other. They conspire and look up at the tall people, with their eyes cast forward, away from the pretty clouds and the first fresh drop of rain. The children see the faces of the tall people, and ask why again, ask why they don’t smile.

The children answer.
They answer with a shrieking laugh, filling the air with their joy, filling the skies with their wisdom. ∎
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