There is a little bit of Lennie in all of us.

“Can I tend to the rabbits, George?” Is there any line written in the 20th century that better encapsulates innocence and curiosity? John Steinbeck’s novella Of Mice and Men, which many of us had to read in high school, presents a poignant picture of juvenile honesty.

The lumbering, childlike protagonist Lennie is lovable, touching and tragic. Lennie dreams. He voices the fundamental longings of men with clarity. He is remarkable because he simply states what is on his mind. He protects what he loves and strives for what he wants, which in the story’s case is simply to follow his best friend George and pet objects.

Lennie is strong as an ox and has the mind of a 5-year-old.

I must be honest. The idea of Lennie has inserted itself into my own life in quite a few ways. To me, there is no better embodiment of power unbridled by reason than Lennie. Why? Because Lennie doesn’t know his own strength. Not knowing one’s own strength is a paradox that shows up everywhere in our world. When you begin to apply it, the deep truth inherent in Steinbeck’s classic character comes through.

There are Lennies in all of our lives. When someone you know knocks over a Ming Vase, he is just showing his inner Lennie. When he goes to great lengths to fawn over a small animal, accidentally crushes something frail, or jokingly pushes someone too hard, he is Lennie incarnate. When someone makes an overbearing blunder, she is “pulling a Lennie.” You can also confidently call somebody a Lennie when he drags his feet, eats too fast, pets a mouse or tends to a rabbit.

Think about China and the Olympics — a subject admittedly beat to death by The Daily and every other media outlet. But opinion columns, criticisms and protests aren’t even necessary. If we all simply agreed that China was just a big, cumbersome Lennie, we could move forward. Think about the manufactured counter-protests and its blurting denunciations of the Dalai Lama. China is just a continent-sized Lennie, futzing around with Tibetan mice.

On a personal note, I have seen many Lennies. I saw them every day when I worked at a ski and snowboard rental shop. Many of our customers were adolescent boys and girls. Not since middle school had I encountered so many gawky, emotional 12-year-olds with size 13 feet. I labeled our boot section above size 11 “Lennie.” Young teenagers are perhaps the purest embodiment of Lennie readily visible to the eager seeker. They throw their weight around, unaware of their surroundings. Their growing frames and newfound self-consciousness plague them with insecurity.

But haven’t we all been there? I know I was a textbook Lennie in my day. Not only did I lumber around to the injury of myself and others, but I blabbed what was on my mind without thinking. I acted on whims and stood dumbstruck in the presence of female beauty.

My peers were Lennies as well, and we playfully punched each other too hard, hurt each other’s feelings and dreamt of ideal lives. Some people, I soon found, were emotional Lennies, who blindly harm those around them with insensitive remarks or a general lack of awareness.

I was introduced to the idea of Lennie long before I read Of Mice and Men. As a young, awkward middle schooler in the Boy Scouts, I studied for merit badges with an older homeschooled boy. He crushed my hand with his blue-collar grip, wore half-tint glasses and barely had enough time between games of Magic: The Gathering to teach me Scouting basics. He certainly had the social ineptitude and hulking presence of a Lennie, which was highlighted by his hiccup laughter.

But being a Lennie isn’t always a bad thing. The idea of Lennie is valuable because it is all about blatant honesty. There is something peculiar about a person who speaks their mind without fear of what others think. Lennie is an example for us to follow, if only to believe in our deepest longings and voice them openly. Sometimes this unleashed honesty can be destructive, like Lennie’s unpredictable strength, but truthfulness can be of tremendous value.

I hope this article finds you wondering what the heck I’m talking about. I’m wondering as well, as I pet my lucky rabbit foot. As I step across the street into Leny’s Place Pub (no joke), I am realizing that life is about complex truth in a simple package, just like Lennie. So my admonition is to be honest. Call your friend a Lennie when appropriate. Call me a Lennie for writing a heavy-handed article that I hold onto with a crushing grip.

But never forget the simple pleasure found in always telling the truth, and occasionally tending to the rabbits.