SOAPBOX: Teacher Carly Davis explores the difference between being bad — and being authentic

On KJZZ's SOAPBOX, The Show turns over the the mic to listeners. In the latest series, listeners tell their own true stories on the theme of Misbehaving. Phoenix storyteller and teacher Carly Davis explores the difference between being bad — and being authentic.

SOAPBOX

On KJZZ's SOAPBOX, The Show turns over the the mic to listeners. Check out each season, with unique voices sharing about a single theme.

CARLY DAVIS: When I thought about having kids, I was sure I’d have girls. I'm a girl. My sister’s a girl. That’s what I knew. I imagined raising little feminists — tiny Gloria Steinems — who’d stand up for themselves and their friends and go out and change the world.

But I have three boys. And what I’ve learned is: I can still raise feminists. But those little adjustments we make as parents to our expectations? They’re not always just reframing. Sometimes, they take more care, more effort. And sometimes, they require help — from experts and specialists.

Take the Bee Kind Rally at my son’s school. I wasn’t there, but I heard all about it. The whole school was packed into the auditorium. I can picture the squeaky cafeteria chairs, the overly enthusiastic young people on stage, clapping, singing, handing out stickers and friendship bracelets.

And my 7-year-old? He stood up from his chair, turned to face the audience, raised both arms and flipped off the entire auditorium. Double middle fingers.

I got a text from the teacher. Then a call from the teacher. Then a call from the principal. By the time I got to the principal’s office, I was ready to take the heat. I was mortified. When she said, “We don’t know where he could have learned that. No one at this school uses the middle finger.”

Right, lady.

I confessed: “He probably learned it from me. I flip off the speed cameras on the way to school. I’ll stop.”

Then there was the time at the lake. Kids were picking up crawdads and making fishing poles out of seagrass and sticks. But my oldest wasn’t with the others. I finally spotted him, slowly rising from underwater, his little white baby chest covered in algae and muck. He looked like a swamp monster. It was funny — once. But he kept doing it. Alone. That family over there started looking at him sideways, and I felt it again: embarrassment.

The last time I was in the principal’s office, I sat across from her and a team of specialists. They shared their diagnosis, his brain is wired differently. He doesn’t always get social cues, but he’s highly empathetic. He prefers to talk to adults, and often thinks he is smarter than most of them. And, the quirkiness was part and parcel of it, too.

I cried with relief when I got home. Not because it changed him — but because it changed me. I finally understood. And I stopped feeling like I needed to apologize for him. He didn’t need fixing. He was fine.

Actually, he inspires me. When he’s had enough of a social interaction, he leaves — in the fastest way he knows how. Middle fingers. Swamp monster. Doing so, he reminds me to check in with myself. To say no when I need to. To take breaks. When he spends hours reading chemistry textbooks and tells me every fact about plutonium, he reminds me to dig into what I love. And when he refuses to fake a smile just to make others comfortable, he pushes me to be more authentic.

When I stand up for him, he learns to stand up for himself. And he might still change the world — just by being himself.