I don’t know if this post meets the quality standard I aim for, but here goes nothing.

As we move through life, we often label others as “smart” or “stupid.” Most of the time, we do this by comparing them to ourselves — our own experiences, our own understanding.

The other day, I was at my girlfriend’s parents’ house. Her cousins were visiting with their two kids — a 9-year-old girl and an 11-year-old boy. They’re from a much poorer neighborhood, and from what I was told, the kids don’t go to school.

I grew up very differently, and hearing that made me feel a mix of things — sadness, frustration, and helplessness. I knew it wasn’t my place to intervene, even if I wanted to.

Trying to connect with them, I found a deck of Spanish playing cards and asked if they knew how to play.
The girl said, “Yes.”
“What game do you know?”
She answered: “Cards.”
That told me all I needed to know — she didn’t know any actual games, but she was eager to play.

Before I could teach one, she made up her own. She dealt 13 cards to each of us. The rules? Each player puts down the highest card they have — whoever plays the highest wins.

Simple enough.
I played a 12 (the highest number in the deck).
Her brother played a 10 and said, “Dang, I lost,” which made me laugh.
Then it was her turn. She looked through her cards for something higher than 12.

She had two jokers.
She asked me what they were, and I told her: “They can be whatever card you want.”

She almost played one, hesitated, then kept it in her hand. I explained it again, and I could see the idea click. She smiled, placed the joker on the table, and said, “Thirteen?”

I smiled back. “Yup, you win.”
She celebrated and then gathered all the cards from the table and put them back in her hand.

That’s when I realized: this game wasn’t going anywhere. She had unknowingly created a game she couldn’t lose. She didn’t mean to cheat — she was just figuring things out in her own way.

That’s the part that ties into the title of this post: “Detail Oriented.”

Sometimes, what we see as ignorance is just a lack of guidance — not a lack of intelligence. In this case, no one had taught these kids how to play anything, yet their minds were clearly alive — inventing, adapting, trying.

That’s the detail I saw.

It also made me reflect on something broader. Here in Argentina, there are government programs that give financial aid to unemployed parents with children. It’s a generous idea on paper — but in reality, it sometimes creates unhealthy incentives. I’ve met people who say openly they plan to have more kids just to increase their aid.

When I walk through the city, I see families — parents and five or six kids sleeping on the street, on mattresses, - the kids, trying to make the best of a broken system. It's heartbreaking, and it's hard to ignore when you start noticing it.


![20190813_172211.jpg](https://images.hive.blog/DQmav3LaaRNXFm5aAKwVwYC2GwcMwULRzRDpw8BWKrmPHQ4/20190813_172211.jpg)


This post wasn’t meant to go in this direction, but my thoughts often drift like this — one thing leads to another.

What I originally wanted to talk about was something smaller, but very personal:
How it bothers me when people leave out important details. I’ve always noticed this, even as a kid.

I was talking to my dad about it in the car recently. I told him how it always bugged me when something important happened, and then I’d hear my parents talk about it to other adults and skip over parts I felt really mattered. Has anyone else ever felt that?

My dad gave me a more complete perspective. He said that sometimes, depending on who you're telling the story to, not every detail is necessary. And what seems huge to a kid may not be as important in the bigger picture. Or sometimes, adults simplify things because they already know how much context the other person needs.

That helped me see it differently — but it didn’t erase the feeling. I guess I’ve always been wired to notice the little things. The pieces people leave out. The parts that could change the whole picture if you just paid closer attention.

And maybe that’s why I notice what I do.