Posted By Daisy on January 6, 2011

We hear everywhere that it is important to teach tolerance to our children. Why, exactly? Who in the world is eager to be tolerated? You don’t often hear people fondly recalling, “I loved high school — I was so well tolerated!” It’s not that I don’t get that tolerating difference can be necessary. It’s more that I want to aim higher. When classes of people are being slaughtered, abused, interred, and otherwise subject to active maliciousness, tolerance – defined in Webster’s as “the act of allowing something” – is a bold move forward. I just like to think we’re past that now (or we damn well should be) with respect to most classes of people, and it is time to re-set the bar.

Empathy is what I’d like to aim for. It’s active, not passive in the way that tolerance seems to be. This doesn’t mean I want my child (or myself) to “love everybody” or even “like everybody.” Some people just won’t be his or my or your cup of tea. Even so, almost everybody has something to offer, even if on balance that person isn’t someone we want to invite to our dinner parties — we are, after all, very complicated creatures. And if we assume that everyone’s basic fundamental personhood must and will be afforded some respect (a word I also take issue with, but here it serves nicely as a better and more noble substitute for tolerance), the rest can take care of itself. Learn about differences, and then enjoy them (or don’t).

I think this is actually a more real approach, too. I don’t like to be fake, and I think sometimes those who preach “teaching tolerance” would require that we muffle our true selves in order to promote an “everybody’s groovy” sort of world. I’m fine letting my son know that I find someone distasteful because of their behavior or attitude, or perhaps a little hard to warm up to because they don’t share my sense of humor, or whatever…while other people I find quite likable.

How will this translate in the context of raising a kind and interested child? Two examples.

If the Bear comes to me and says, “I don’t like Stavros because he is mean,” I expect I’ll ask about what Stavros does that’s mean, and if it sounds like the kid actually is mean, I’ll probably say, “I get it. I don’t think I would find him much fun either. You can choose to play with other kids instead, but don’t be mean back — that’s not cool.” (And then the Bear will laugh at me for using the word “cool.” But you get my drift, I hope.) It might seem like splitting hairs, but I do believe that abstaining from being mean isn’t “tolerance” — it’s just part of being a decent human being.

Now let’s say the Bear tells me he hates Stavros because he speaks with an odd accent. I’ll no doubt ask why he would hate someone based on the way they speak. But that’s not really enough. I’d find out if there are other reasons he might not like this fellow, and try to discern whether the accent is being used as a convenient but inappropriate cover. Or I’d probe deeper to find out how much the Bear really knew about Stavros. Does he like to dance? Play soccer? Build with Legos? I might ask him to observe a bit more and come back to me with more details about this kid. My goal would be to get to a radically more rounded out picture of the fellow, and then my guy could freely choose whether to enjoy him, or find him interesting, or neither. But I’d be clear that being a jerk to Stavros is not an option.

In short, tolerance implies a kind of superior, long-suffering forbearance, a granting of permission to another to exist (as if anyone had that power or right). Setting an expectation that one should not be unkind is just a basic human principle, along the lines of “First, Do No Harm.”

Thoughts? (Bueller?)

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