Don’t I Know You?
Growing up, I hated when people called me “kid.” For example, you might hear “Hey kid, can you grab that rope for me” or “that kid over there is new to school.” It always seemed so belittling and detached, as if “the kid” was an unsubstantial finger-puppet just be-bopping around for no apparent reason, kind of like those promotional “inflatable tube guys” that just teeter and flop to grab a passing glance. “Kid” was a four letter word in my book. Deep down, I knew it was not derogatory, but it would raise my pre-adolescent blood pressure. On the other hand, if my dad or mom called me “kiddo” it was a whole different story. It was a badge of connection and care that drew me in. I wanted to be their “kiddo” because it was familial and warm. It somehow tied my identity to them. But to be honest, the only true difference I can identify between my understanding of “kid” and “kiddo” is closeness, or to put it another way, “knowledge.” When I heard “kid,” it spoke the words