When you become a parent, or a teacher, you turn into a manager

“When you become a parent, or a teacher, you turn into a manager of this whole system. You become the person controlling the bubble of innocence around a child, regulating it.” Thus spoke Kazuo Ishiguro, the master of quiet truths, whose stories often uncover the hidden currents of memory, duty, and human fragility. In these words, he offers not mere observation, but a solemn charge: to guide a child is to wield power over their innocence, to decide what truths are revealed and what truths are delayed, to become the keeper of their fragile world until they are strong enough to face the storms beyond it.

The meaning of this teaching is profound. For every child is born into a bubble of innocence, a sphere where the cruelties of life are muffled, where the world is filtered through the love of guardians. But this bubble is not eternal—it is constructed, tended, and eventually pierced by those entrusted with care. The parent and the teacher become regulators of light and shadow, determining how much reality enters, how much is held back, and when the time comes for the bubble to dissolve. To take on this role is to accept a burden both sacred and perilous.

History gives us living examples. Consider Anne Sullivan, the teacher of Helen Keller. She stood as the guardian of Keller’s innocence, shaping her first awareness of the world, deciding how to reveal truths about sound, language, and even suffering. With each lesson, Sullivan controlled what entered the child’s fragile bubble—too much harshness would overwhelm, too little truth would stunt. By balancing these forces, she allowed Keller to grow into strength without losing the core of her humanity. Sullivan exemplifies Ishiguro’s vision of the teacher as manager of innocence, holding the key to the child’s encounter with reality.

The origin of Ishiguro’s thought lies in his lifelong exploration of memory and truth. In his novels, characters often live within protective illusions, bubbles carefully maintained by themselves or others, until the weight of truth can no longer be avoided. He understood that childhood itself is such a bubble, sustained by adults who shield children from the rawness of suffering, death, and injustice. To be a parent or teacher, then, is not merely to instruct, but to regulate reality—to decide how much of the world’s weight a young soul may bear at each moment.

There is both heroism and danger in this responsibility. For if the bubble is kept too tight, the child may emerge unprepared, brittle before the trials of life. Yet if it is broken too soon, innocence is lost before wisdom can replace it, and despair may take root. The guardian must walk a narrow path, balancing truth with protection, light with shadow. This is no ordinary task, but a sacred stewardship, one that demands courage, patience, and discernment.

The lesson for us is this: if you are a parent, a teacher, or any guardian of the young, recognize the weight of your power. You are not merely imparting facts or providing care—you are shaping the very world the child perceives. Ask yourself daily: What truths must I shield them from today? What truths must I reveal? And how can I do so in a way that nurtures both resilience and compassion? In this balance lies the foundation of their character.

Therefore, dear listener, heed Ishiguro’s wisdom. When you hold the innocence of a child in your hands, you hold the future of humanity itself. Regulate it with tenderness, reveal truths with wisdom, and remember always that your role is not to preserve the bubble forever, but to prepare the child to step beyond it with courage. For the world is vast, and innocence cannot remain untouched—but if guided with love, the child will emerge not broken, but whole, ready to face life’s storms with a soul both wise and uncorrupted.