Lessons from childhood
In 'The Seventeen Traditions,' Ralph Nader revisits key learnings from his early years and draws from them inspiring lessons for today's society
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What shapes the mind, the personality, the character? For activist Ralph Nader, some of those answers can be found by looking back at one’s childhood experiences.
In his new book “The Seventeen Traditions,” Nader revisits key traditions he absorbed from his parents, his siblings and the people in his community, and draws from them inspiring lessons for today's society.
Here is an excerpt:
The Landscape of My Boyhood
The bell rang at Central School one early autumn day, signaling that our eighth-grade classes were over. The other schoolboys and I headed boisterously for the exit doors. As we passed a girl in our class, one of the boys cocked his head toward her, looked at us, and said pointedly, “What a pig.”
She heard him, of course, and as I looked back I saw her shattered expression before she walked away. The boys just laughed loudly. “Ugh,” one of them added, seconding the remark. I was stunned. This girl was one of our friendliest, and most helpful, classmates. We’d all been in the same class with her since the first grade. Everyone liked her. As I walked home, I found myself unable to shake off this sudden episode. What was her crime, I asked myself? She wasn’t one of the beauties in our class, but was that her fault? Did she deserve this boy’s casual cruelty? Nothing of this kind had happened when we were in the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, or seventh grades. Why now?
For the rest of that day and into the evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about that girl’s crestfallen expression, and the sneering, insensitive look on the boy’s face. The fellow who’d made the comment wasn’t a class bully or a loudmouth. But that afternoon, glancing at an innocent thirteen-year-old girl, he was hurtful to her. She was just another girl in the class, perhaps a little plain-faced and pale. What had she done to warrant his verbal fury? Was his real goal to impress us, by demonstrating that he knew who was attractive and who wasn’t? Whatever the explanation, I suspected that the onset of puberty had taken over the boy’s mind — that the lower half of his growing body was taking over his top half, where his brain lived, displacing years of looking at the girl for who she was and not how she looked. In this respect, that boy had been a better person at nine or ten than he was that day.
I’d like to think that my siblings and I weren’t guilty of such behavior. But when we did act up, my mother had a standard response. Whenever she felt we’d let our baser instincts stop us from thinking for ourselves, she’d say, “I believe it’s you.” There’s nothing wrong with that girl, she’d have told that thoughtless boy. But there is something wrong with you, for prejudging her that way. That always set us straight.
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In these times of widespread conformity and self-censorship, I find myself thinking back upon my childhood, recalling what made it special for me and for my brother and sisters. Recently I’ve found myself thinking that I should share these memories with others, in the hope that they might offer guidance and inspiration for the parents, children, and grandchildren of today. And what I hope will be especially helpful, in this very different world we inhabit, are my memories of the traditions in which my childhood was immersed — traditions that remain vivid in my mind, and that guide me to this day.
I am often asked what forces shaped me. Rather than trying to give a full answer to that question — which would take longer than a limited interview would allow — I often reply simply, “I had a lucky choice of parents.” My brother, two sisters, and I had a remarkable father and mother, who cared for us in both direct and subtle ways. The examples of their lives set us on the solid paths we have explored ever since.
Among other things, my parents were responsible for passing down the traditions they had learned from the generations before them — traditions they refined and adapted to the unfamiliar country and culture to which they had emigrated early in the twentieth century. These traditions arose from the received wisdom and customs they had learned during their own childhoods in Lebanon, elaborated by their own judgments, sensibilities, and changing circumstances. In turn, they were nourished by regular feedback from their acculturating children, which they encouraged.
Mother and Father each lived to be just short of a century old; we benefited from their seasoned perspectives and wisdom for many, many years. They were forever young, exemplifying my mother’s strong belief in the importance of remaining “interested and interesting.” And they succeeded in doing this throughout their lives, attracting ever-younger friends to visit, whether we children were home or not. They created the strong family base from which my siblings and I sallied forth into the wider world, full of new experiences and high expectations.
That base was, in part, a matter of locale. My parents made a conscious choice to move to Winsted, a small town nestled in the Litchfield Hills of northwestern Connecticut, where I was born in the middle of the Depression.
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