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My friend Ernest was reminiscing about when his son was
a little boy. Ernest had noticed that, when asked about what happened
in his day, his son was very elusive. He found a way around that. When
he’d get home, in the evening, he’d kneel down to be on
the same level as his son, put an arm around his shoulders, and begin:
“Let me tell you about my day”.
Before long, the son was excitedly telling Ernest all about his day,
including such things as: “And the teacher got mad at me”.
And Ernest would ask: “Now, why would she?” And the boy
would recount a mischief of his…
You can read this and conclude that this is a good recipe for getting
a child to reveal what they’d otherwise keep hidden. If so, you’d
be missing the point.
What’s missing from my writing about the story is all the warmth
that radiates from Ernest as he tells the story. It is quite obvious,
as you listen to him, that he doesn’t see this as a trick. The
lesson he means to convey is that, the more open he was himself, the
more his son would open up. He was building trust.
Now, let’s assume you say: “Aha. I get it. If I want
people to open up, I need to fake openness”. Well, that might work, to
some extent. The way canned friendliness works for car salesmen.
The mirth in Ernest’s eyes wasn’t about pulling a fast
one on his son. It was more like the enjoyment of how he had stumbled
into a great thing, a way to be even closer to his son.
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