Yo-Yo Diplomacy: The Art of Seeing the Kid Behind the Scowl
“Mr. Rhoads, you have a visitor!” my secretary chirped, her voice laced with the kind of glee usually reserved for reality TV eliminations. Translation: one of my frequent flyers had landed in the principal’s office again. And sure enough, in stomped Jovan—a fourth grader from Mrs. Williams’ class—wearing a scowl so fierce it could sour milk and curdle a good mood.
The offense? A refusal to do his work. Or, as Jovan proudly clarified, “I wasn’t doing her work.” The emphasis on her was less about grammar and more about a declaration of war.
Jovan was one of our city kids, bused in through the St. Louis County Desegregation program. Friends were scarce, smiles even scarcer, and his emotional forecast? Perpetual thunderstorm with a chance of side-eye.
I asked him to chill in my office while I popped into the counselor’s room. “Grab a book,” I offered. Did he? Of course not. When I returned fifteen minutes later, I found him mid-performance—hands flying, eyes locked in concentration. It took me a second to realize he’d unearthed a yo-yo from my desk, a leftover trinket from a motivational speaker who believed character development could be taught through string tricks and dramatic pauses.
I’d dismissed the yo-yo as gimmicky. Jovan, however, was spellbound. For five glorious minutes, he was in flow—experimenting, failing, trying again. His face lit up like a Christmas tree plugged into a power surge. When I finally stepped in, he dropped the yo-yo like it had betrayed him. “Pick it back up,” I said. “You’ve got a gift.”
And then it happened. The smile. Not a smirk. Not a half-hearted twitch. A full-blown, ear-to-ear grin that made me wonder if I’d accidentally stepped into an alternate universe.
“Did you play with yo-yos as a kid?” he asked, suddenly curious, suddenly open. We Googled tricks, history, even the ancient Greek origins of the yo-yo (turns out it’s older than most of my jokes). Jovan was hooked. And I was floored. Was this the same kid who’d refused to engage just hours ago?
Naturally, I shared this breakthrough with Mrs. Williams, expecting a parade. Her response? “You’re rewarding him for not doing his work?” Sigh. Some folks can’t see the magic even when it’s doing an Around the World right in front of them.
The next morning, I showed Jovan a letter from the yo-yo guy. “You should write back,” I said. “You can be the leader of this project.” His eyes widened like I’d handed him the keys to Hogwarts. And with a little guidance, he wrote a somewhat thoughtful, articulate letter. He even addressed the envelope himself, proudly adding my office number.
Days passed. Jovan checked in daily, buzzing with hope. Then came the call. “It’s the yo-yo guy!” my secretary whispered like we were in a spy movie. Jovan was summoned to the office, took the call, voice cracking with nerves and excitement. After ten minutes, he hung up, vibrating with joy. “We can have the assembly,” he said breathlessly, “but it costs $500. Where are we gonna get that kind of money?”
Enter the PTO. I explained we had funds, but Jovan would need to pitch the idea. “You want me to talk to them?” he asked, equal parts terror and thrill. “All you,” I said. “This is your show.”
And oh, did he deliver. He secured the funds, reviewed the contract, wrote morning announcements, and became our resident Yo-Yo Guru. At recess, he dazzled younger kids with tricks. On assembly day, he introduced the speaker, helped sell yo-yos, and counted profits like a Wall Street prodigy.
Jovan owned it. He gained confidence, respect, and a new identity—no longer the kid who refused to do “her work,” but the kid who made something happen.
Even Mrs. Williams admitted he was doing his assignments now. Did she credit the yo-yo project? Of course not. Some victories are best enjoyed quietly, with a smirk and a string trick.
As I watched Jovan twirl his yo-yo surrounded by admiring peers, I realized something: the magic wasn’t in the toy. It was in the moment someone saw Jovan not as a problem to fix, but as a person to understand.
That’s the heartbeat of Empathy on the Rocks—the belief that every kid has a key, and sometimes it’s hidden in a yo-yo, a story, coffee and cookies, or an accordion. The trick is to keep looking. Keep listening. And when the moment comes, hand them the string and say, “Show me what you’ve got.”