By Rich Harshaw

For some reason, I have a Forrest Gump-like ability to remember specific dates.

And not just the usual stuff like anniversaries and birthdays, either. I can remember a whole host of major and minor events that most people would be lucky to even remember in what year it happened. For instance, I remember that my family moved to Dallas from Denver on April 11, 1977—when I was just 7 years old. Then we moved from Dallas to Grand Prairie on June 15^th, 1984. I left home to serve as a missionary in Taiwan precisely four years later, on June 15^th, 1988, and returned to America 727 days later on June 12^th, 1990. I remember October 19^th, 1991, was the day I first laid eyes on my wife, and I asked her to marry me on January 7^th, 1992. Yea, I know, that’s moving pretty fast. You’d have to have gone to BYU to understand.

Some of the dates I remember are quirky, like the last time I ever drank caffeine: May 31, 1997. Or the last time I ever ate raw celery—February 2, 1982. It gave me a really bad rash, and I’ve never given it another try since.

Funny thing about that date, February 2, 1982. It also happens to be the day my parents inexplicably let me go to an AC/DC concert with my older brother at Reunion Arena in Dallas. By today’s parenting standards, this would have been a Top-10-All-Time-Worst-Parenting-Decision worthy of a CPS custody hearing. But the early 80’s were a different era, specifically, one of parenting naivety. Nancy Regan hadn’t implored anyone to “Just Say No” yet. We didn’t even have cable, so we were still watching Brady Bunch and Leave It to Beaver reruns, not MTV. Apparently it never occurred to my parents that an AC/DC concert might be a marijuana-fest of epic proportions for most of the fifteen-or-so-thousand crazed teenagers in attendance.

Then there was poor little me. And by little, I mean that at age 12 I was a whopping 4’ 6” and 82 pounds. Maybe less. My ticket said I had a $4 seat in the upper balcony, but thanks to my brother’s artistic skills and a cheap set of markers purchased from Albertsons on the way to the show, I “magically” found myself with a hand stamp authentic-looking enough to get me access to the floor. Not having a reserved seat on the floor turned out to be a non-issue; as soon as the lights dimmed, the entire throng “rushed the stage” and I found myself pinned between three thousand drunken and high lunatics with floor seats and the stage. I spent the next two hours fighting for my life as I stared straight up at Angus Young—no more than 6 feet away from me—through a haze of reefer smoke thick enough to choke Cheech and Chong. It’s a wonder I wasn’t crushed, asphyxiated, or both.

And yet through it all, somehow, I was convinced that the rash I got that night was caused by the raw celery I ate before I left for the concert.

Funny how the mind of a child selectively remembers things and draws conclusions based on flimsy evidence, isn’t it? Which isn’t all that big of a deal if the flimsy conclusion is to quit eating celery. I never really liked it all that much before February 2, 1982 anyway.

But what if the stakes are higher—like issues of self confidence, self esteem, and self image?

Did you realize that the smallest, most seemingly insignificant comment could unknowingly send a kid—or an adult for that matter—down a road that could change his or her life forever? For better or for worse?

Evidently the little neighborhood boy Chad Kubat told my wife she had elephant legs when she was only 7 years old. She worried about her weight pretty much from that day forward. Thirty years later she still remembers that mean-spirited comment. One little comment.

Of course, kids are just mean to each other sometimes, and they’re going to say mean things. That’s just life. But what about when adults get in on the “one little comment” act?

My mother came home humiliated from “Meet The Teacher Night” when I was in the fourth grade. She had waited patiently in line while my teacher, Mrs. Mitchell, heaped praise on the parents of my classmates for everything from book smarts to penmanship to good behavior. When my mom finally got to the front of the line, she was informed, within earshot of the other parents, that “Richie Harshaw is the worst kid I’ve ever had in my entire teaching career,” which was saying a lot, because she was really old. I knew that my best friend Lance and I always had a lot of fun causing Mrs. Mitchell grief—but now it was official: I was the worst kid in the history of teaching. Ouch.

From that day forward, based on the flimsy evidence of that one comment, I never really tried very hard in school. After all, I was the worst kid in the history of school, and that was a pretty big reputation to live up to. So I focused my efforts on terrorizing Mrs. Simms in 5^th grade, Miss Lemming in 6^th grade, Miss Dewey in 7^th grade, Mrs. Moore in 8^th grade, Mrs. Sessions in 9^th grade, and Mrs. Abrego in 10^th grade. My grades were mostly B’s with a few A’s sprinkled in, mostly from the fear of my dad grounding me for life if my grades slipped down to C level. My “citizenship” and “self discipline” scores, however, always came in at a suspect “N” (needs improvement) or “U” (unsatisfactory). Fortunately for me, dad apparently only looked at the scholastic side of the report card.

Then 7 years later in a moment of Andy Dufresne redemption (sorry, 2^nd Shawshank reference in as many Personal Edge columns!), Mrs. White, my 11^th grade math teacher, changed the course of my life again. Same as before, it happened during Parent-Teacher night at the school. But this time, my teacher gave a different report. Apparently, Mrs. White told my mother that she noticed that I never took notes in class or seemed to study much, but I always got a good solid B anyway. She told my mother she thought I was a bright and intelligent student and with just a little bit of effort, I could make straight A’s.

I can honestly tell you that the thought of getting straight A’s had never crossed my mind before that moment. And guess what? It stuck. I never got another B for the rest of my high school career. My freshmen year in college I got a 3.91 GPA, and earned a scholarship because of it. I didn’t even know you could get scholarships after you got to college. But I did—thanks to Mrs. White’s seemingly flimsy little word of encouragement.

I could give more examples—like the time I overheard Doug Jensen’s dad tell somebody at halftime of one of my youth league basketball games “That little Richie is one heckuva ball player.” For a kid half a head shorter than the next shortest kid on the floor, that flimsy little comment cemented a confidence in that sport that lasted 3 decades. Or the football coach in 6^th grade who teased me mercilessly about being the “Next great Mormon quarterback like Danny White” to the point where I quit 3 weeks into the season and never played again. Ever. You’ve probably got your own set of examples.

Do you have kids? Do you work with kids in sports or scouts or church?

Your words will have a profound impact on how these kids feel about themselves and the world for years to come. The old adage “Measure twice, cut once” is particularly salient in this context. Look for opportunities to genuinely encourage, genuinely compliment, and genuinely praise. I’m not talking about that fake “everybody gets a trophy even if you and your team suck just so your self esteem will be bolstered” encouragement. I’m talking about genuine encouragement.

In 2005, I attended Boy Scout camp for a couple days with my oldest son, Sam. I got there just before dinner on a Tuesday—forgive me, I don’t actually remember the exact date for this one—and met a 13-year old boy from another troop who went by the nickname “Pinky” while waiting outside the mess hall. He earned the nickname because of a pink bandana that he liked to wear on his head. And it was painfully obvious that Pinky had been given a heck of a reputation to live up to. He was doing a fine job of being an obnoxious jerk—the center of attention in a negative way. I talked to him for a few minutes and immediately perceived he was a critical moment in his life at age 13—should he grow up to be a loudmouthed screw-up… or a decent, respectable, productive human being?

At dinner, Pinky’s troop was sitting at the table right next to ours. One of the kids in my troop took an empty milk carton, closed it tight, and stepped on it, causing a loud boom to echo through the dining hall. Truth be told, it was pretty funny—but to do my duty as an adult leader, I loudly said to the table, “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Please. Control yourselves.” (Okay, I admit it. What I said was an inside joke the boys were telling—I was actually mocking what one of the other adults had said the day before when another kid had stomped a milk carton. I would never say “gentlemen, gentlemen, please!” I’m way too fun for that.)

What happened next, though, was extremely telling about Pinky. His troop leader had automatically assumed it was he who had stomped the carton, and had also assumed that I was serious (and upset) when I had admonished the boys to control themselves. The scout master immediately kicked Pinky out of the dining hall, and came over to me and profusely apologized for Pinky’s behavior and explained that he was a troublemaker and they were having a hard time controlling him. Really? He didn’t even do anything.

I immediately turned my attention to this young man—recognizing that his own adult leaders were more like the Mormon-hating football coach that the intelligence-spotting 11^th grade math teacher. I went and found him and got to know him a little bit. He hated scouts but had gone to camp because his grandmother—who he lived with—had made him go. He couldn’t remember how he got the nickname Pinky, but he wore the bandana so everyone would think that had something to do with it. I invited Pinky to hang out with our troop that night (with his scoutmaster’s relieved permission). We played dodge ball, had a campfire, and told jokes and ghost stories. He made friends with some of our boys who didn’t know his reputation. We all kind of liked him. And it was obvious he liked being in this new, safer environment.

The next day I had to leave, but I returned on Friday for the camp’s closing ceremony. Before I came back I went to the mall and found a vintage Dr. Pepper t-shirt and bought it for Pinky as a gift. When I saw him on Friday, I gave him the shirt, told him to remove the pink bandana, and in the spirit of Saul of Tarsus and Alma the Younger, I told him that I was hereby changing his nickname from Pinky to Pepper and from that day forward he no longer had to be everybody’s whipping boy. Stand tall, and go forth and do good I told him.

Pepper didn’t know it, but I saw his address on his backpack and made a note of it. A month later I sent him a short letter, simply encouraging him, and telling him he could have whatever he wanted out of life. He sent me a note back in the mail thanking me for the encouragement and telling me how he was enjoying his new nickname. I’ve never heard from him or corresponded with him since.

So think about your relationships. Whether it be with your kids, somebody else’s kids, your spouse, your neighbors or your co-workers. What can you say that will encourage? What can you say that will build confidence? And what can you NOT say that might have a damaging effect? Because you never know—they might not remember the exact date—but they’ll remember the words and how they felt.

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