They were kinderpaul, cohabitants of small design. Like the most vulnerable creatures, mice or voles, were experts at hiding. Being quasi-human, they had to accomplish this with an added touch of subtlety, within the confines of mere bodies. At first glance a kinderpaul might seem an aunt or nephew or coworker, a person caught up in satisfied acts of personhood. If the ruse was successful, none might know. If truly a success, even they might forget who they were and fool themselves. Having left the company of people, secured their safety, they might wake from the spell of a performance, float to the surfaces of their face again, blink and look around. Who had they been while deceiving others?
Since they could never quite know what it was like to be otherwise, it was not a question that could be answered.
A secret race. Integrated among the rest. Who could say how long they'd been circulating without detection, quietly accomplishing their work, whatever that might have bene. Much of what’s known about their motivations was attributed to testimonies of defectors, kinderkind who chose to expose themselves, admit their otherness, describe the movements of their subspecies among people. Why would these few step forward? Tired of hiding, some said, embarrassed by the trust and goodwill extended to them, said others. People were undeserving of such deceits, they explained, should know who they are keeping company with.
What did they want?
To be accepted.
Why did they feel they weren’t?
Fear they were born from said they weren’t.
And why the fear?
Persecutions of yore, public burnings, stonings. Exiled from their families and towns into hungry wilderness.
One kinderkind shivered as it described itself. Appearing as a middle-aged auto worker, brawny, taller by a head than its interlocutors, it admitted the unease it stirred to talk from a genuine distance. Not a person as they were, not indistinguishable from the common ilk. It’d worked at the factory for five years. Had eaten lunch with them, drank alongside them at the bar after second shift. It’d savored the warmth of their kinship and for brief stretches in their company had forgotten the misfortune of its difference. Buying another round and complaining about mortgages and upper management and the fuckuppery of children. Look, who would say it hadn’t been in those moments a real person? It would do anything for its brothers, except sacrifice its place in the family. So it kept the secret of its otherness for years, attending weddings and funerals, until a certain feeling fell upon it, a kind of emotional snow. Guilt. It felt guilty. The goodwill it lived for had been gained dishonestly.
To relieve itself and cross the last threshold between kinderhood and personhood, it confessed to friends, coworkers, loved ones: it was more than what they felt or believed. It was like them but different. Sorry to keep itself secret for so long, could they ever forgive it? It didn’t intend harm. Did not mean to insult the trust they extended to it.
Foolish turncoat, the kinderkind thought, deserving of every punishment. Had it forgotten what they’d taught it? Sentimentality was a luxury afforded to those who could take belongingness for granted. Had it spent too long a time among people, as a person, and lost touch with its fear. Now it would know what it was truly like to be kinder. And did. Sitting in that kitchen at 2 A.M., surrounded by friends and six beers deep, it asked for silence and offered its confession. The friends changed as they listened. Harder, weirder, colder. By the time it’d finished, they’d been pushed far away, observed it from a skeptical distance. What’s that, one asked. What now, asked another. When morning came, it was found beaten to death in an alley two blocks from where it’d last enjoyed its anonymity.
Such were the cautionary tales kinderfolk circulated among one another. Never trust the warmth of assimilation. Keep hidden, keep apart while remaining close.
Since they could never quite know what it was like to be otherwise, it was not a question that could be answered.
A secret race. Integrated among the rest. Who could say how long they'd been circulating without detection, quietly accomplishing their work, whatever that might have bene. Much of what’s known about their motivations was attributed to testimonies of defectors, kinderkind who chose to expose themselves, admit their otherness, describe the movements of their subspecies among people. Why would these few step forward? Tired of hiding, some said, embarrassed by the trust and goodwill extended to them, said others. People were undeserving of such deceits, they explained, should know who they are keeping company with.
What did they want?
To be accepted.
Why did they feel they weren’t?
Fear they were born from said they weren’t.
And why the fear?
Persecutions of yore, public burnings, stonings. Exiled from their families and towns into hungry wilderness.
One kinderkind shivered as it described itself. Appearing as a middle-aged auto worker, brawny, taller by a head than its interlocutors, it admitted the unease it stirred to talk from a genuine distance. Not a person as they were, not indistinguishable from the common ilk. It’d worked at the factory for five years. Had eaten lunch with them, drank alongside them at the bar after second shift. It’d savored the warmth of their kinship and for brief stretches in their company had forgotten the misfortune of its difference. Buying another round and complaining about mortgages and upper management and the fuckuppery of children. Look, who would say it hadn’t been in those moments a real person? It would do anything for its brothers, except sacrifice its place in the family. So it kept the secret of its otherness for years, attending weddings and funerals, until a certain feeling fell upon it, a kind of emotional snow. Guilt. It felt guilty. The goodwill it lived for had been gained dishonestly.
To relieve itself and cross the last threshold between kinderhood and personhood, it confessed to friends, coworkers, loved ones: it was more than what they felt or believed. It was like them but different. Sorry to keep itself secret for so long, could they ever forgive it? It didn’t intend harm. Did not mean to insult the trust they extended to it.
Foolish turncoat, the kinderkind thought, deserving of every punishment. Had it forgotten what they’d taught it? Sentimentality was a luxury afforded to those who could take belongingness for granted. Had it spent too long a time among people, as a person, and lost touch with its fear. Now it would know what it was truly like to be kinder. And did. Sitting in that kitchen at 2 A.M., surrounded by friends and six beers deep, it asked for silence and offered its confession. The friends changed as they listened. Harder, weirder, colder. By the time it’d finished, they’d been pushed far away, observed it from a skeptical distance. What’s that, one asked. What now, asked another. When morning came, it was found beaten to death in an alley two blocks from where it’d last enjoyed its anonymity.
Such were the cautionary tales kinderfolk circulated among one another. Never trust the warmth of assimilation. Keep hidden, keep apart while remaining close.
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