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Twenty

Sunday 7 August 2011

We jostle about in our adolescence, bumping against others and ourselves, usually questioning where we stand with others, often unsure of where we stand with ourselves. Such tumultuous times of identity formation, questioning, and reformation. We make and remake ourselves year after year, month after month, even day after day, and we’re all nagged by the same question: is the me I see in myself what others see? Or more to the point, is the me I see in myself the real me?

Sociologists and psychologists tell us that adolescence is a relatively recent cultural phenomenon, a product of the same innovations that created the leisure class and free time. In the past, one’s position in life was fairly well determined generations before one was born. Once born to generations of farmers, always a farmer; once born to a family of wealth and position, always an aristocrat. These days we wake up and find ourselves in possession of a driver’s license and a handful of friends, unsure what to do with either, and we struggle to make decisions that weren’t even available ten decades ago.

Every year, as an eighth grade teacher, I see my own students going through this, yet with seemingly infinitely more choices that I had. Their thumbs can move at over a phone’s small keypad at the speed of gossip, and last week is ancient history. They come to class sometimes with tears in their eyes, and I think, “Someone broke someone’s heart, and they’re both sure they’ll never survive it,” and I smile to know they will, because I did, and a hundred and twenty kids in my cohort did as well. “Love is blindness” I mutter under my breath.

I want to say, “Twenty years from now, you won’t worry so much about this. Like precipitates in a Chem II experiment, love and your personalities will seem somehow to have settled and congealed.” I want to tell them, “You’ll quote the Beatles: ‘I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together,'” until I realize that U2 is their Beatles. (A student mentioned to me that he likes U2: “My friends think I’m crazy for listening to that old music,” he confided. Thanks.) I want to confide, “You’ll think to yourself, ‘Love is blindness,’ go to your twenty-year reunion, and find that you had more in common with everyone in your class than you ever realized.” But I know the words will do no more for their shattered hearts (egos?) than such words would have done for mine, and I’ll hope that some day, perhaps they’ll invite me to a reunion.

Heading Home

Saturday 6 August 2011

I grew up in a border town — half in Virginia, half in Tennessee — about three hours north of where we presently live.

In the last fifteen years, I’ve only gone back a handful of times. Today, K and I are making the trip to meet with people I haven’t seen in twenty years, most of whom I knew only in passing, and many of whom I probably won’t recognize, and if I do, I likely won’t remember their names immediately. Yet there are a few, and to see them again will be worth it.

I wonder, in the age of social networking, will future generations have twenty-year reunions?

Independent Hands

Sunday 10 April 2011

It’s only expected that a four-year-old grows more independent daily. Lately, that independence has moved out of the normal realms of the everyday, personal actions — bathing, brushing hair, cleaning teeth — and into more wide-ranging spheres: cooking and buying.

She wanted a quesadilla the other day, so I asked if she’d like to help make it.

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When it was done, she ate it with more relish than I’d seen her eat anything in recent memory.

During our first spring zoo outing today, we stopped for an ice cream. L needed to pay by herself — it was imperative.

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The “I can do it!” phase is thankfully far from over.

Treasure

Sunday 6 March 2011

A four-year-old has treasure stored up in every corner of the house. There’s the princess umbrella that sits in the toy basket downstairs, ready for deployment. There’s the scooter downstairs, festooned with princess regalia, parked by the pink bike. There’s a bookshelf packed with books, new and old, tall and short, thick and slim.

And then there’s the jewelry.

All L’s treasure had its own, proper, fitting place before today except for the jewelry.

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A small but colorful cardboard from Ikea held L’s beads and rings, her bracelets and necklaces, her charms and her gems. And so when she saw the jewelry box at Barnes and Noble this afternoon, there was no question. She’d come with money sent from Poland with the intention of buying a book.

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She left with a new treasure,

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to hold all her other treasures.

Journals

Wednesday 5 January 2011

Frustration Bliss
Image via Wikipedia

Reading eighth-graders’ journals is like jumping in a time machine: all the angst, all the broken hearts, all the frustration with school. I see myself a thousand times over. Bored with this. Frustrated about that. Irritated with him. In love with her.

“Nothing new under the sun.”

They’ll find this out for themselves. But when I leave comments in their journal, how can I say this without being dismissive? It’s a fine line.

Questions

Monday 29 November 2010

I was drying off the Girl when she began asking me some rather basic questions.

“Why do we grow up?”

Why indeed? Really, who wants to grow up when a child in the Western world? Still, I thought to continue the conversation: “Why? Don’t you want to grow up?”

“Because I don’t want to get old and go to work.”

Sunday Afternoon

Sunday 21 November 2010

“Tata, I want to help!” she calls as she hops down the deck stairs. With an armful of branches and twigs, I’m agreeable, but I smile, wondering how much help I’m actually going to get.

“Grab a couple branches,” I explain, “and follow me.”

We march to the street, L chattering all the way, explaining how she’s going to explain tomorrow how she helped her daddy.

Suddenly, behind me, I hear it: “Ouch!” She’s rubbing her eye; I’m wondering when she’s going to ask for a bandage. It’s been her obsession lately: no matter the wound, no matter the location, there must be First Aid.

“The stick went in my eye,” she says, with concerned voice. After so many months of learning her various voices, I know it’s nothing serious. It’s not quite play — something did happen — but perhaps her concern is exaggerated. She sees K and me hurt ourselves, and she models the reaction.

“Come on,” I say offhandedly. “You’ll be fine. Little things happen when you work as hard as you’re working now.

She plods along, amending the story she’s going to tell tomorrow, practicing the Tragedy of the Stick.

As we’re returning to the backyard, the late afternoon sun reflects off the golden autumn leaves, and it’s as if she’s walking into pure light or developing a halo. I walk about twenty paces behind, watching her hair bounce and sway as she dances into a golden November afternoon.

Inevitable

Thursday 18 March 2010

It’s a nightly occurrence: a few minutes after we put the Girl to bed, she calls one of us. It’s usually “Mama!”

We take turns answering the call, and L doesn’t seem to matter who responds.

“Yes, sweetheart,” I say as I open the door, and I immediately one of several possible answers. Sometimes it’s just a fragment of a story she remembered; sometimes it’s something straight from her imagination. It could be that she needs juice or that she wants to rock with me in the rocking chair for a moment. Occasionally she’s not pleased with the sleeping music.

“Yes, L,” I say tonight as I enter her room.

“We didn’t rock,” she replies calmly.

I take her out of her bed and sit with her own my lap. Usually she’s a little squirmy. Tonight she’s too tired to squirm.

Out of the blue, she opens the age-old conversation: “Tata, I don’t want to grow up.”

“You don’t have a choice. None of us do.” I think this, but I certainly don’t say it. Instead, I simply ask her if she likes being three.

“Yes,” she says quietly. She snuggles a little closer, pauses, and leaves me speechless, whispering, “Three’s easy.”

Jarring Reminder

Saturday 22 August 2009

Checking a post’s formatting, I noticed a picture in the Flickr bar at right.

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“Has she changed so much?” I gasped as I clicked on through. No teeth; short hair; such a very young face — she looks like a different child.

I click through the set — “LMS (First Year)” — and I see a terrifying picture.

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I would never put L in a setting like that now: she’s entirely too mobile and to hard-headed. She’d be tumbling down the rocks within moments.

Or would she? She’s a big girl; she has a fairly developed sense of balance. She might not. The old protectiveness clashes with the new, maturing reality.

Jack

Friday 2 January 2009

Jack

Very quickly, it became a favorite, though I’m not sure how. The name’s origin was simple enough: unable to say “jacket,” L turned it into a shorter “jack.” The rest, though, is mystery.

Jack came to be for L what blankets and teddies are for other toddlers: her grounding. She had to have it with her, and when she was not wearing it (which was rare, if she had her way, even in summer), she was carrying it. Getting to her to agree to hang it in the closet was a Herculean task, and we simply decided that there was no reason why it should hang in the closet if it caused much turmoil in her life.

One parting was inevitable, though, and it happened soon enough. She outgrew it, and we introduced a new jack. She liked the new jack just as much as the old one, and quickly developed the same bond. Red jack was stowed away and quickly forgotten.

Until K decided to do some rearranging and repacking. And then, this morning, L discovered red jack. The original jack, the mother of all jacks.

Fast as her little increasingly nimble fingers could manage, she unzipped the plastic storage back that held jack, pulled it out, and held it close and tight, crying, “Jack!” as if she’d encountered a friend she hadn’t seen since school days.

“Oh, no, sweetie,” I said. “This jack is entirely too small.”

The prospect of losing jack a second time — “I’ve been looking everywhere for you” her babbling seemed to say — was too much for her. L fell in the floor, distraught and screaming.

“But you have another jack,” I reminded her. “Do you want to get it?”

The fussing quickly subsided and she meekly answered, “Tak.”

That jack was held close for the rest of the morning.

I do this on a daily basis: in my teaching, with my interpersonal skills, in my parenting. The old seems to be so comfortable that, even when something new is working better, the old slips up and takes hold before I know it.

Perhaps L’s rediscovery of the original jack suggests a goal for the year: to be more conscious about slipping into old, comfortable habits.

Skills, Part II

Tuesday 8 May 2007

L is gaining increasing control over her hands — so much so that she now can use her fist as a substitute when she’s lost her pacifier.

I originally wrote this several weeks ago, then put it on hold for some reason or another. Now it’s off hold, but I forgot to change “three months.” As of today, she’s just a little more than a week shy of five months.

Translation: we have a budding thumb-sucker.

Now, sucking a thumb is not bad. All parenting books I’ve read say as much. In fact, once L starts teething, our pediatrician informs us, it’ll be better if she sucks on her thumb than on her pacifier.

But for some reason, whenever that cute fist goes partially into her mouth, K and I instinctively pull it back out and re-insert the pacifier.

Why?

After all, a thumb is much more convenient than a pacifier.

  • It never falls to the floor.
  • It never gets lost.
  • It never gets left behind.
  • It’s readily available in the dark.

I suppose it’s an unfounded worry that, by letting our little girl start sucking her thumb, she’ll have a hard time later stopping. As she’s only three months old, it’s about like us worrying that she’ll want to go to a school known more for partying than learning.

It’s called “exaggeration.”

Learning to say “Okay”

Friday 16 February 2007

For many of the young people in the program where I work, one of the formal goals that forms part of the forest of paperwork about them is “Learn to say “Okay.'” What that means in practical terms is fairly simple: many of them are unable to accept criticism — broadly defined as anything even apparently critical of them or their actions — of any kind from adults.

A scenario from not so long ago illustrates how many things are going on that can make it difficult for someone just to say, “Okay.”

Two boys, in class, are doing something disruptive. Fidgeting with something, throwing it back and forth (maybe a jacket?) or something. I couldn’t see clearly what it was, but it caught my attention and I deemed it a distraction.

“Hey, guys, stop doing that, please.”

“Doing what?” one asks simultaneously with the other’s plea of innocence: “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’!”

Now it really doesn’t matter what they were doing. It really doesn’t matter if they were doing anything at all. The best response to bring the whole exchange to an end, to prevent it from escalating into something more serious, to ensure not getting into trouble, is to say, “Okay.”

“If you have a problem with that,” we tell them, “you can talk to the teacher afterward. If you don’t know exactly what the teacher is asking you to do, you can ask for clarification after saying “Okay.’ But getting defensive, taking it personally, exaggerating it into a personal affront will only make the situation worse.”

And so going back to the above scenario, I reminding the boys that one of the skills they’re working on is simply saying “Okay” and moving on.

“I ain’t sayin’ “Okay’ to something I didn’t do!” one replied indignantly.

“Why not?” I asked. “In saying “okay’ you’re not admitting to guilt. You’re not doing anything other than acknowledging that you heard and understood what the person in authority — be it a teacher or not — is saying.”

“But I didn’t do nothin’!” he protested.

“But that doesn’t matter.” I responded. “In protesting it, particularly in the manner you’re doing now, you’re not doing anything to help your situation.”

“Are you telling me that if someone accused you of doing something…”

“Whoa, wait — I’m not accusing you of doing anything. I simply asked you both to stop. If you weren’t doing anything, then clearly I wasn’t talking to you. Even if I was addressing you alone and said “Stop doing that” and you were behaving perfectly, the best response is to say, “Okay’ and move on.”

“Move on?! You’re the one making an issue of this” he said, voice pitching upward into a virtual screech, eyebrows raised just enough to say — inadvertently or purposely — “You’re an idiot for saying that.”

“No, I’m using this moment to remind you of a skill you’re working on and to try to get you to practice it.”

The boy couldn’t accept that saying “Okay” even if you’re completely innocent is anything more than an admission of guilt. And to prove his point, he brings up a most fascinating example: “So you’re sayin’ that if you walking down a street and cops come up to you and say, “You look like this guy who just robbed a bank,’ and arrested you, that you’d just say, “‘Okay.'”

The discussion is starting to get less and less productive as we range farther and farther off topic. Or are we off topic? Is this how the boy equates all these things? I decide to play along.

“Yes, I would. Or at least I hope I’d have a cool enough head to say that.”

“But you didn’t do it. Are you saying that if they said, “You robbed this bank,’ that you’d just say nothing, that you wouldn’t tell them you’re innocent? They’ll take you to jail and what — you’ll end up spending ten years in jail for something you didn’t do?!”

Right here, though I suspected it moments earlier, I realize the young man didn’t have a firm grasp on the workings of our criminal justice system. And another thing begins dawning — we’re really getting off track. Does this help the young man understand the situation? Is he just trying, like so many of the boys do, to get me so wrapped up in a discussion argument exchange that it’s just a matter of whoosh! blink! and the whole class is over? I decide, somewhat against my better judgment, to continue.

“Just because they arrest me doesn’t mean I’ll be spending ten years in jail. There’s a trial first, and in the meantime, I can be released on bail. But think of what they say, what you hear on TV, every time they arrest someone.” Almost together we recite the Miranda warning. Then I continue, “Now if I’m an idiot, I’ll start blathering on about how I’m innocent and how I didn’t do anything and then, in court, that will be used against me, because the irony is, it makes me look guilty. If I’m smart, I’ll shut my trap completely until I can get a lawyer.”

“But if you didn’t do nothin'””

“Especially if I hadn’t done anything,” I replied.

Finally things are winding down, and a boy enters from the other group.

“Hey, Mr. S, let’s ask him if he’d just say “okay.’ ‘Eric, if someone framed you.'”

And now everything is mixed up. Nothing is as it started. We’re no longer talking about whether or not saying “okay” helps you in a situation even if the request is relatively arbitrary; we’re no longer talking about whether or not saying “okay” is an admission of guilt — we’ve moved off into the netherworlds of arbitrary, six-sixty-degrees-of-separation tangents that suck up time and accomplish nothing.

Or is it simply that he doesn’t understand what I mean? Are all these scenarios that we’ve been bouncing off of each other identical to him?

In the end, he simply says, “Well, if that’s a skill, I guess it’s a skill I won’t use.”

And I think, “Okay — we’ll try again tomorrow.”

Three Random June Thoughts

Tuesday 31 May 2005

One

June is finally here — the month of our return. After four years in Poland, I’m moving back to America. After twenty-some years in Poland, Kinga is moving to America. Big transitions for both of us.

“You’re more European now,” she said last night, not commenting though on what I’m more European than. I suppose than I was. She mentioned the almost cliche change some Muslim men exhibit when, after marriage and returning home with their new wife, they suddenly revert to ultra Islam and become a new person — much to the bride’s dismay. I suppose that’s what she meant — more European than American, and her concern was about me becoming a fast-food bubba.

Two

In the process of packing, I found the old photos I’d taken before coming to Poland the first time, almost ten years ago now.

They were intended to be spare identification photos, though I doubt they’d suffice. Looking at them, I’m shocked at how much I’ve changed and how little I’ve realized that. I look in the mirror every day, after all, and so the changes — receding hairline, more mature eyes, lack of the scars of adolescence — slipped by me. I imagine that’s how it’ll be with Kinga as time passes. “What will she look like when she’s forty?” I ask myself, knowing the answer will still be “beautiful.” But it’s hard to imagine the marks time will make, and now I see it’s doubtful I’ll even notice until I look at our wedding album.

Three

Back to America. I haven’t been to the States in three years — too-busy summers and a lack of money will do that to you. “Reverse culture shock” is something you hear about from time to time, and I’m wondering if it’s hovering there, a few weeks in the future. When I went back for the first time in 1998, after two years in Poland, the difference was profound. The quality of roads was something I’d totally forgotten about, so used to bumping along I’d become. The ability to understand almost everyone around me without trying felt almost like a dirty secret. “Do they realize I understand everything they’re saying?”

But most shocking was the choice — fifty-seven varieties of everything. The entire row of paper products (paper towels, napkins, etc.) at Super Wal-Mart literally stopped me mid-stride. Channel after channel on the television, all in English. Restaurants for every conceivable palate and wallet.

And so I know the feeling of “My oh my” that awaits Kinga.