My grandfather was an engineer. He learned engineering in the Navy during World War II on the U.S.S. Roosevelt in New York. After the war, he became a hydraulics engineer in Chicago. The Boy, as you may know, is really into Lego Robotics, Rocket Club and most things mechanical. He has taken apart old computer keyboards and such. I was thinking the other morning about what it would be like if my grandfather and my son met.
My grandfather died in October of 1999 when I was pregnant with Claire Adele. He never met any of his great-grandchildren. I wondered what it would be like if my grandfather and the Boy met in some post-Einsteinian world where we can float into different points in time (see: the movie Interstellar) and didn't know they were related. Would they get along? Would my grandfather take an immediate liking to the Lego EV3 robot and want to work with the Boy's lego team and help them design a robot to get through the obstacle course? I'd like to think he would, even if he didn't know one of the kids on his team was his great-grandson.
I think it is interesting that a vast majority of people develop a fondness for people they are related to. It's remarkable, a miracle perhaps. My friend Eleanor Owen is a major mental health advocate and she has a few close relatives with major mental illness. She thinks sanity is a miracle, and is surprised that mental illness isn't more common than it is.*
Let's say my grandfather spent three hours with an eleven year old boy, going to the park, playing with robots, watching a soccer game. Let's say that ofter three hours, someone told him that boy was his grandson. Would he have instantly more affection for the boy than he did at the beginning of the three hours? I would imagine so, even though the only thing different would be a new piece of information that they were related and the kid was the same kid.
Let's say my grandfather were able to watch the Boy grow up. I think the two would have gotten along really well.
I am sorry the two of them never will have the chance to meet.
* Maybe there is some evolutionary effect with mental illness. Maybe during famines centuries ago, societies only fed the sane, and thereby decreasing the frequency mental illness was passed down in the gene pool. Maybe mentally ill people were shunned, and the effect of being alone made them unable to survive. Or, maybe ancient societies had a greater tolerance of the varieties of mental states, and people with schizophrenia and bipolar found it easier to find their place in society.
This blog is about the little and big thoughts that pop into my head. I once read that when Flannery O'Connor walked into a bookstore, she would want to edit her published works with a red pen. In the digital world, we have the luxury of tweaking things up after we've hit the publish button. I can be a perfectionist/procrastinator, where waiting for the ideal means little gets done. Here I will share what is not--and likely will never be--perfect.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Monday, March 30, 2015
Misunderstood Metaphor
I recently found out that I misunderstood the meaning of a metaphor that I had heard for years. Carla, Jane and I worked together with a particular woman. Jane would say this woman "knows where the bodies were buried." I had thought this meant this person knew everyone's secrets, and used those secrets to establish herself in a prominent position.
I was reading "Where the Bodies are Buried"* in the March 16, 2015 edition of The New Yorker. It is a fascinating story about Gerry Adams and the Irish Republican Army. In 1971, the I.R.A. abducted Jean McConville, a mother of ten, from a Belfast housing project. She was a widow, and her ten children were orphaned. When the kids grew up, they started to wonder what became of her. When a person is missing, the family doesn't know if their loved one is dead or not, which then makes mourning their death complicated. The oldest son suspected his mother was dead right away. Some of McConville's other children were hopeful she was alive someplace, struggling to get home.
But I digress. It turns out that the person who knows where the bodies are buried also likely called the hits. They are the ones responsible for the death and hiding the bodies. It is interesting to find out this subtle difference in meaning after so many years. I didn't make that full connection until I read this article.
* Full Disclosure: I am in the middle of this article, but wanted to write about this before I finished. New Yorker articles are crazy long.**
** I am not in the middle. I am five pages into this article and have fourteen to go.
I was reading "Where the Bodies are Buried"* in the March 16, 2015 edition of The New Yorker. It is a fascinating story about Gerry Adams and the Irish Republican Army. In 1971, the I.R.A. abducted Jean McConville, a mother of ten, from a Belfast housing project. She was a widow, and her ten children were orphaned. When the kids grew up, they started to wonder what became of her. When a person is missing, the family doesn't know if their loved one is dead or not, which then makes mourning their death complicated. The oldest son suspected his mother was dead right away. Some of McConville's other children were hopeful she was alive someplace, struggling to get home.
But I digress. It turns out that the person who knows where the bodies are buried also likely called the hits. They are the ones responsible for the death and hiding the bodies. It is interesting to find out this subtle difference in meaning after so many years. I didn't make that full connection until I read this article.
* Full Disclosure: I am in the middle of this article, but wanted to write about this before I finished. New Yorker articles are crazy long.**
** I am not in the middle. I am five pages into this article and have fourteen to go.
Friday, March 20, 2015
Hoarder Mom
I am painting several rooms in my home, including the living and master bedroom. Painting is the easy part. The hard part is moving everything out of the way to find the walls. I did some sorting and recycling, but I mostly did what my father calls a "crap transplant:" you take a pile of unsorted junk mail, meeting notes and whatnot, and move it to another place untouched.
One of the largest piles of stuff is artwork done my kids. I don't know why I feel compelled to keep so much of their stuff, even after it lived long past its shelf date. There are art projects that are broken or have fallen into a state of disrepair that I no longer recognize what it was originally supposed to be.
This week, I started to jettison some of the stuff. I found a shoe box painted orange and green. I have no idea what it was supposed to be, yet I kept this shoe box in my room for years. Why did I keep this stuff? Was I holding on to this in case my kids one day became president and this could be added to their files? I am sure that would be a big hit -- random and unidentifiable stuff from elementary school. I don't even know which kid painted this box, so I doubt the presidential library would take it.
I started to think What would this say about my kids? What would people learn about them from this project? The answer would be that their mother was a quasi-hoarder, unable to throw out things that have fallen apart. This was not the story I wanted to tell, which made the trips to the recycling bin easier and more frequent.
One of the largest piles of stuff is artwork done my kids. I don't know why I feel compelled to keep so much of their stuff, even after it lived long past its shelf date. There are art projects that are broken or have fallen into a state of disrepair that I no longer recognize what it was originally supposed to be.
This week, I started to jettison some of the stuff. I found a shoe box painted orange and green. I have no idea what it was supposed to be, yet I kept this shoe box in my room for years. Why did I keep this stuff? Was I holding on to this in case my kids one day became president and this could be added to their files? I am sure that would be a big hit -- random and unidentifiable stuff from elementary school. I don't even know which kid painted this box, so I doubt the presidential library would take it.
I started to think What would this say about my kids? What would people learn about them from this project? The answer would be that their mother was a quasi-hoarder, unable to throw out things that have fallen apart. This was not the story I wanted to tell, which made the trips to the recycling bin easier and more frequent.
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
In Defense of Competitive Colleges, and the Wizard of Oz
A friend on mine posted Frank Bruni's recent article "How to Survive the College Admittance Madness" from The New York Times on Facebook. I agree with all of the points about how one's future, destiny and happiness is not determined by where one goes to college. Or if one goes to college. I agree that a child's worth should not be determined by where they get accepted. I agree that many parents are crazy, and I think it is tragic that they think they have failed if their child doesn't get into an Ivy League. I know lots of colleges are about branding and marketing and selling a label. I've read Malcolm Gladwell's (or was it Steven Levitt's?) analysis of kids succeeding in science depending on where they went to college. (Spoiler: Most kids interested in science in high school who went to competitive colleges bailed on science and ended up majoring in economics.)
I happened to be reading Sheryl Sandberg's Lean In on the same day that I read Bruni's article, and I had a massive case of cognitive dissonance. While I haven't read the whole book yet, Sandberg encourages girls and woman to work towards leadership positions. Don't take the easy path -- look for challenges. Have faith that you can be a leader. She isn't saying "You must go to Harvard," but she encourages and supports ambitious women.
I went to a college with a very competitive entrance process, so I have mixed feelings about all of this. First, I wanted to go to a competitive college. This was all driven by me, not my parents. Having gone to a competitive college, I can't imagine anything worse than not wanting to be there. It would be torture, and I knew it. I am glad people want to be Marines, firemen and ambulance drivers. I could not withstand the physical and psychological pressure of those jobs. Likewise, I don't think it is fair for parents to push their kids into something that does not fit their personality.
I liked where I went to college. I was happy there and made great friends. I had a challenging and rigorous major. I worked my butt off. I landed a good job after graduation. Would I have made friends, worked hard, and learned a lot at a state school? Probably. So what was the difference?
Like Sandberg, when I was growing up in the 1970's, I was given the strong impression that girls had four choices of a career:
1. Teacher
2. Nurse
3. Mom
4. Nun*
Here was the list for boys:
1. Doctor
2. Lawyer
3. Astronaut
4. Policeman
5. Fireman
6. Accountant
7. Senator
8. President of a company
9. Electrician
10. Painter
11. Bricklayer
12. Engineer
13. Architect
14. Major sports star, and so on...
While I respect teachers and nurses, I couldn't see myself in either profession. Being a mom wasn't high on my list, so nun made it to the top. Sister Mary Lou would come over for lunch and she was hilarious. Sister Barbara was a badass, super feminist nun. She had all of the qualifications to be a priest should the Pope give the green light to ordain women. She was awesome. Who wouldn't want to grow up to be like Sister Barbara? At some point, I discovered boys, and a life without male companionship didn't seem appealing. I had to figure out something else. I knew I wanted to do something important and meaningful, but I had no idea what that looked like.
So I went to college. My senior year, I remember my dad taking me to college night for my now alma mater. I have to admit I really liked the picture of the windsurfer gliding along the lake in the first slice of the presentation, but I liked the rest of the presentation, too. An admission officer was there, and I asked question after question. My dad and I were the last people there. At the end, I turned to my dad and said, "This is it. I want to go here."
It wasn't so simple after I was accepted. My dad was fine with my choice; my mother wasn't. First, she wanted me to go to a different college. Second, she had a problem with me attending a school that was so expensive. "Why spend all of that money if you are someday just going to be a stay-at-home mom? I don't need the mother of my grandchildren to be that educated." My dad, however, saw the glow in my eyes during the college night meeting. There was no further discussion if I should go or not. I signed the acceptance letter and my dad mailed in the check.
Fast forward to my second job after college. I worked in the consulting branch of a major accounting firm. I was one of two women in a group of about ten, not counting the secretaries. I was the youngest person in the group by seven years. I was intimidated, and at times afraid to open my mouth, because of both my age and gender. During one meeting, I had an idea, something worth sharing with the group of all men who were older than me. The idea bounced back and forth in my mind of a few minutes, before I got the courage to speak. I thought, "I went to a competitive college. I am not an intellectual slouch. I could be wrong, but I might be right." With that thought, I straightened my back and spoke my mind. I felt like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. I know I had brain, but it was nice that an large institution thought I did, too. I leaned back on my diploma and leaned into the meeting. It was my shot of confidence in the real world.
While I think the college admissions process has probably gotten out of control, there is something to be said for leaning in, and going to the best college that meets your interests. We shouldn't shy away from a challenge, or for trying something that is hard. That is true for many things in life, not just applying to college.
I think of all of this when I think of my daughter. She wants to go to school in New York, and I am all for it. I want her to go to the most challenging place she can go. I want her to have that boost of confidence that I had.
And then I think of the Boy. Like my mother's double-standard, I have one, too, but it is different. With my daughter, I follow Sandberg. With my son, I follow Bruni. I think the Boy will be fine and succeed wherever he goes. He is more unconventional than my daughter. She tries hard at everything; my son puts in an extraordinary amount of effort into things he is passionate about. The rest gets his leftover attention. He knows his direction, and follows his compass.
Isn't that all the more reason I should let him follow his dreams, even if they take him to a fancy college?
____
* Sandberg is Jewish, so she likely had three choices.
I happened to be reading Sheryl Sandberg's Lean In on the same day that I read Bruni's article, and I had a massive case of cognitive dissonance. While I haven't read the whole book yet, Sandberg encourages girls and woman to work towards leadership positions. Don't take the easy path -- look for challenges. Have faith that you can be a leader. She isn't saying "You must go to Harvard," but she encourages and supports ambitious women.
I went to a college with a very competitive entrance process, so I have mixed feelings about all of this. First, I wanted to go to a competitive college. This was all driven by me, not my parents. Having gone to a competitive college, I can't imagine anything worse than not wanting to be there. It would be torture, and I knew it. I am glad people want to be Marines, firemen and ambulance drivers. I could not withstand the physical and psychological pressure of those jobs. Likewise, I don't think it is fair for parents to push their kids into something that does not fit their personality.
I liked where I went to college. I was happy there and made great friends. I had a challenging and rigorous major. I worked my butt off. I landed a good job after graduation. Would I have made friends, worked hard, and learned a lot at a state school? Probably. So what was the difference?
Like Sandberg, when I was growing up in the 1970's, I was given the strong impression that girls had four choices of a career:
1. Teacher
2. Nurse
3. Mom
4. Nun*
Here was the list for boys:
1. Doctor
2. Lawyer
3. Astronaut
4. Policeman
5. Fireman
6. Accountant
7. Senator
8. President of a company
9. Electrician
10. Painter
11. Bricklayer
12. Engineer
13. Architect
14. Major sports star, and so on...
While I respect teachers and nurses, I couldn't see myself in either profession. Being a mom wasn't high on my list, so nun made it to the top. Sister Mary Lou would come over for lunch and she was hilarious. Sister Barbara was a badass, super feminist nun. She had all of the qualifications to be a priest should the Pope give the green light to ordain women. She was awesome. Who wouldn't want to grow up to be like Sister Barbara? At some point, I discovered boys, and a life without male companionship didn't seem appealing. I had to figure out something else. I knew I wanted to do something important and meaningful, but I had no idea what that looked like.
So I went to college. My senior year, I remember my dad taking me to college night for my now alma mater. I have to admit I really liked the picture of the windsurfer gliding along the lake in the first slice of the presentation, but I liked the rest of the presentation, too. An admission officer was there, and I asked question after question. My dad and I were the last people there. At the end, I turned to my dad and said, "This is it. I want to go here."
It wasn't so simple after I was accepted. My dad was fine with my choice; my mother wasn't. First, she wanted me to go to a different college. Second, she had a problem with me attending a school that was so expensive. "Why spend all of that money if you are someday just going to be a stay-at-home mom? I don't need the mother of my grandchildren to be that educated." My dad, however, saw the glow in my eyes during the college night meeting. There was no further discussion if I should go or not. I signed the acceptance letter and my dad mailed in the check.
Fast forward to my second job after college. I worked in the consulting branch of a major accounting firm. I was one of two women in a group of about ten, not counting the secretaries. I was the youngest person in the group by seven years. I was intimidated, and at times afraid to open my mouth, because of both my age and gender. During one meeting, I had an idea, something worth sharing with the group of all men who were older than me. The idea bounced back and forth in my mind of a few minutes, before I got the courage to speak. I thought, "I went to a competitive college. I am not an intellectual slouch. I could be wrong, but I might be right." With that thought, I straightened my back and spoke my mind. I felt like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. I know I had brain, but it was nice that an large institution thought I did, too. I leaned back on my diploma and leaned into the meeting. It was my shot of confidence in the real world.
While I think the college admissions process has probably gotten out of control, there is something to be said for leaning in, and going to the best college that meets your interests. We shouldn't shy away from a challenge, or for trying something that is hard. That is true for many things in life, not just applying to college.
I think of all of this when I think of my daughter. She wants to go to school in New York, and I am all for it. I want her to go to the most challenging place she can go. I want her to have that boost of confidence that I had.
And then I think of the Boy. Like my mother's double-standard, I have one, too, but it is different. With my daughter, I follow Sandberg. With my son, I follow Bruni. I think the Boy will be fine and succeed wherever he goes. He is more unconventional than my daughter. She tries hard at everything; my son puts in an extraordinary amount of effort into things he is passionate about. The rest gets his leftover attention. He knows his direction, and follows his compass.
Isn't that all the more reason I should let him follow his dreams, even if they take him to a fancy college?
____
* Sandberg is Jewish, so she likely had three choices.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Rocket Mom
This week, I attended The Little Mermaid at my daughter's high school. At the musical, there was a mom who appeared to be in charge of the front of the house, hanging out in the lobby, checking on ticket sales and the ushers. (The back of the house was likely managed by the drama, choir and orchestra teachers.) At the end of the show, the mom made a short presentation asking families to attend a Drama Club fundraiser coming up in a few weeks.
I got me thinking -- this woman is a Drama Mom. The likelihood of me becoming a Drama Mom at this point is slim to none, along with not being
I find it interesting that we don't get to choose what kind of mom we become. Our kids choose, and we follow. We belong to club of parents based on the interests of our kids, which makes me
Jack has taken the lead with Claire Adele's activities, making him
While I enjoy these different flavors of motherhood, I sometimes tire of being dragged along to countless activities. In most cases, I don't mind hanging out making small talk with the other parents on the sidelines or in the field between launches. Most of the time, it is fun. Last week, however, the Boy had three soccer games in one weekend, and all of them were far away from home. I began to wonder if this were a waste of time, spending eight hours of the weekend watching my kid exercise while I sat on my duff. What could I have done instead?
But what do I gain?
Today was Rocket Club. All of these events have drama, not just Drama Club. Soccer is win or lose, First Lego League is watching a robot run through an obstacle course collecting points. Will the robot crash, or miss its mark, or will it be well behaved and have a perfect run? Rocket Club is no different. Today's launch didn't take off on the first try, and almost fell apart on the second. The Boy was pushing the launch button, and the crowd was holding its breath. Five seconds after the first countdown, "There was a deafening roar," according to the Boy. And off went Mantra, into the sky, reaching 810 feet, missing its goal of 800 feet by just a bit. The flight time was just one second off the goal, too. The team went wild. I recorded the launch on my camera, and the boy watched it a dozen times when we came home.
A common job interview is to ask someone where they want to be in ten years. Ten years ago, I never would have imagined that I'd be standing in the middle of Sixty Acres Park watching middle schoolers shoot off rockets, but there I was. Likely, the Drama Mom didn't know ten years ago that she'd be in stage, promoting a fundraiser for Drama Club. But here we are, living the unexpected, in a most happy way.
I got me thinking -- this woman is a Drama Mom. The likelihood of me becoming a Drama Mom at this point is slim to none, along with not being
- a Football Mom,
- a Cheer Mom,
- a Hockey Mom or
- a Baseball Mom.
I find it interesting that we don't get to choose what kind of mom we become. Our kids choose, and we follow. We belong to club of parents based on the interests of our kids, which makes me
- a First Lego League Mom,
- a (former) Math Champs Mom,
- a Soccer Mom and most recently,
- a Rocket Mom.
Jack has taken the lead with Claire Adele's activities, making him
- a Chess Dad,
- a Cross Country Dad and
- a Track and Field Dad.
While I enjoy these different flavors of motherhood, I sometimes tire of being dragged along to countless activities. In most cases, I don't mind hanging out making small talk with the other parents on the sidelines or in the field between launches. Most of the time, it is fun. Last week, however, the Boy had three soccer games in one weekend, and all of them were far away from home. I began to wonder if this were a waste of time, spending eight hours of the weekend watching my kid exercise while I sat on my duff. What could I have done instead?
- Grocery Shop
- Regular Shop
- Exercise
- Hang with Claire Adele
- Write
- Paint
- Garden
- Did I say exercise?
But what do I gain?
- I get to see a different part of town
- Run into people I haven't seen in ages
- Follow the dramatic arc of the game
- See the goals he saved, and the goals he missed.
Today was Rocket Club. All of these events have drama, not just Drama Club. Soccer is win or lose, First Lego League is watching a robot run through an obstacle course collecting points. Will the robot crash, or miss its mark, or will it be well behaved and have a perfect run? Rocket Club is no different. Today's launch didn't take off on the first try, and almost fell apart on the second. The Boy was pushing the launch button, and the crowd was holding its breath. Five seconds after the first countdown, "There was a deafening roar," according to the Boy. And off went Mantra, into the sky, reaching 810 feet, missing its goal of 800 feet by just a bit. The flight time was just one second off the goal, too. The team went wild. I recorded the launch on my camera, and the boy watched it a dozen times when we came home.
A common job interview is to ask someone where they want to be in ten years. Ten years ago, I never would have imagined that I'd be standing in the middle of Sixty Acres Park watching middle schoolers shoot off rockets, but there I was. Likely, the Drama Mom didn't know ten years ago that she'd be in stage, promoting a fundraiser for Drama Club. But here we are, living the unexpected, in a most happy way.
Saturday, March 7, 2015
Smart Phones v. Teenage Hormones
Claire Adele and I went to see her high school's production of the Disney Musical, The Little Mermaid Wednesday night. It was adorable, and perhaps the humor was a little more biting than in the movie. One of my favorite lines was from Ursula, the villainesse:
Ursula: I forgot there is one thing more powerful than the black magic of my shell...
Flotsam: True love?
Ursula: No. Teenage hormones.
Which got me thinking as I put my daughter on the bus for a high school band trip yesterday. What kind of fraternization would occur on this trip? I was guessing not too much, as the trip would be mostly during daylight hours.
They went to Ellensburg, which is about two hours from Seattle. The estimated arrival time home was 8:00 p.m.. Jack, the Boy and I went to an early dinner in case the busses got back sooner than expected. We weren't too worried, though. If the busses came back early enough, she could have walked home.
During dinner, Claire Adele texted us. The group was going to be delayed due to an accident on I-90 that closed down the westbound lanes. Instead of arriving in Seattle at 8:00, they would likely leave Ellensburg at 8:00. The highway finally opened, but was slow as it was down to one lane. There was a period of 30 minutes where the bus didn't move. Jack picked her up at the high school at 1:45 a.m..
Between the time she found us she was delayed and getting home, she texted us 24 times and called us twice. I am not complaining about her over-communication, though I was worried her phone would run out of change and she wouldn't be able to reach us to tell us to pick her up. By the end of the night, her battery level was 3%.
I was glad I didn't have to chaperone a bus load of high schoolers on an unexpected 5-plus hour ride. I wondered how much fraternizing might occur, but then I thought of my daughter texting me every 20 minutes with an update. This raised the question: are smartphones more powerful than teenage hormones? All of these kids probably had their noses glued to their screens, unaware of members of the opposite sex (or same sex, depending on one's preferences). How do kids date these days if they spend so much time looking at their smart phones? When I was growing up, we couldn't hide behind a screen. I wonder if there is a decrease in teen promiscuity and pregnancies for kids with smartphones. While I think there is a thing as too much promiscuity, I also think it is kind of sad if they miss out on interesting relationships because they can't connect in the real world.
I asked my daughter if everyone looked at their phones on the bus the whole time, or if they talked to each other. She said it was mixed. By late in the evening, everyone's battery was almost run down. They had no choice then but to communicate the old fashioned way: face-to-face.
Who knows where it might have lead?
Ursula: I forgot there is one thing more powerful than the black magic of my shell...
Flotsam: True love?
Ursula: No. Teenage hormones.
Which got me thinking as I put my daughter on the bus for a high school band trip yesterday. What kind of fraternization would occur on this trip? I was guessing not too much, as the trip would be mostly during daylight hours.
They went to Ellensburg, which is about two hours from Seattle. The estimated arrival time home was 8:00 p.m.. Jack, the Boy and I went to an early dinner in case the busses got back sooner than expected. We weren't too worried, though. If the busses came back early enough, she could have walked home.
During dinner, Claire Adele texted us. The group was going to be delayed due to an accident on I-90 that closed down the westbound lanes. Instead of arriving in Seattle at 8:00, they would likely leave Ellensburg at 8:00. The highway finally opened, but was slow as it was down to one lane. There was a period of 30 minutes where the bus didn't move. Jack picked her up at the high school at 1:45 a.m..
Between the time she found us she was delayed and getting home, she texted us 24 times and called us twice. I am not complaining about her over-communication, though I was worried her phone would run out of change and she wouldn't be able to reach us to tell us to pick her up. By the end of the night, her battery level was 3%.
I was glad I didn't have to chaperone a bus load of high schoolers on an unexpected 5-plus hour ride. I wondered how much fraternizing might occur, but then I thought of my daughter texting me every 20 minutes with an update. This raised the question: are smartphones more powerful than teenage hormones? All of these kids probably had their noses glued to their screens, unaware of members of the opposite sex (or same sex, depending on one's preferences). How do kids date these days if they spend so much time looking at their smart phones? When I was growing up, we couldn't hide behind a screen. I wonder if there is a decrease in teen promiscuity and pregnancies for kids with smartphones. While I think there is a thing as too much promiscuity, I also think it is kind of sad if they miss out on interesting relationships because they can't connect in the real world.
I asked my daughter if everyone looked at their phones on the bus the whole time, or if they talked to each other. She said it was mixed. By late in the evening, everyone's battery was almost run down. They had no choice then but to communicate the old fashioned way: face-to-face.
Who knows where it might have lead?
Thursday, March 5, 2015
Where Did His Happiness Go?
The Boy is about to turn twelve in the next few months. This past week, we were looking up pictures for a project for his french class. He has to make a family tree, and needs pictures of aunts and cousins and grandparents.
As we were looking through the pictures, I saw many of the Boy and Claire Adele went they were half the age they are now. I have pictures of them at the North Carolina Museum of Natural Science building fantastic creations with Kiva blocks. The Boy got his Junior Ranger badge at Mt. Rainier, and wore a headdress he made at camp. There are pictures of him digging the dirt and showing off her Lego creations. Claire Adele was Cinderella in one of her camp plays, and loved wearing dress up clothes. Her pictures tend to show a wide range of emotion: thoughtful, pensive, concentration, in addition to joy. The Boy, on the other hand, was happy and nothing but happy.
In all of these pictures, the kids are generally in a positive mood. That makes sense, given these pictures were taken on vacation, holidays, trips to the park, and birthday parties. I did not photograph tantrums or other emotional disasters. There are no pictures of the Boy recovering from his tonsillectomy, or Claire Adele getting her wisdom teeth out.
Nevertheless, I wonder where the Boy's happiness went. He used to be so joyful and upbeat. Now that he is almost twelve, he has so many more moments of seriousness and sullenness. He is moody.
I am sure this is just a pre-adolescent hormonal situation, but I didn't expect it. I had a younger brother, and I don't recall him being a moody teenager. Likely, I was too busy in my own funk to pay attention to his funk, but still. Teenage girls are famous for their moodiness, but the angst and sorrow boys feel at times but be just as real.
Will his happiness come back? Will the bouncy Boy return? I talked to a woman at a meeting last night, and she said she saw is return in her 24 years old son. Another friend said I should be glad I have Fox. Dogs don't have sullen teenage years.
As we were looking through the pictures, I saw many of the Boy and Claire Adele went they were half the age they are now. I have pictures of them at the North Carolina Museum of Natural Science building fantastic creations with Kiva blocks. The Boy got his Junior Ranger badge at Mt. Rainier, and wore a headdress he made at camp. There are pictures of him digging the dirt and showing off her Lego creations. Claire Adele was Cinderella in one of her camp plays, and loved wearing dress up clothes. Her pictures tend to show a wide range of emotion: thoughtful, pensive, concentration, in addition to joy. The Boy, on the other hand, was happy and nothing but happy.
In all of these pictures, the kids are generally in a positive mood. That makes sense, given these pictures were taken on vacation, holidays, trips to the park, and birthday parties. I did not photograph tantrums or other emotional disasters. There are no pictures of the Boy recovering from his tonsillectomy, or Claire Adele getting her wisdom teeth out.
Nevertheless, I wonder where the Boy's happiness went. He used to be so joyful and upbeat. Now that he is almost twelve, he has so many more moments of seriousness and sullenness. He is moody.
I am sure this is just a pre-adolescent hormonal situation, but I didn't expect it. I had a younger brother, and I don't recall him being a moody teenager. Likely, I was too busy in my own funk to pay attention to his funk, but still. Teenage girls are famous for their moodiness, but the angst and sorrow boys feel at times but be just as real.
Will his happiness come back? Will the bouncy Boy return? I talked to a woman at a meeting last night, and she said she saw is return in her 24 years old son. Another friend said I should be glad I have Fox. Dogs don't have sullen teenage years.
Monday, March 2, 2015
Dear Theo and Ryan
Dear Theo and Ryan,
I've had you both as writing teachers in the past, Theo for a year in the UW Certificate in Memoir program and years after in her seminar classes and tutoring. I've had Ryan for one six week course at the Hugo House. While the amount of experience is different, I have been taught by both of you.
Ryan recently wrote an article published in The Stranger entitled: "Things I can Say about MFA Writing Programs Now that I No Longer Teach in One." Theo was upset at your attitude that people can't be taught to write. I am trying to figure out who is right.
Having met Ryan and taken a class from him, I will say he isn't a bad guy. Yet, I am somewhat surprised at what he wrote. He is funny and the class was engaging. Most of the class was crazy writing prompts to help us get our juices flowing. For example, he brought in 30 pieces of random stuff from him apartment and we had to pick two and write a story. Go. After 10 minutes, we had to pick something else and work that into the story. Go. And again.
Were the exercises teaching me to write? No. Was it fun? Yes. Did I write something I otherwise would not have written? Yes. One could argue that no one taught Shakespeare to write. He wrote in groups and had feedback from his audiences. He didn't study Shakespeare because he was Shakespeare. Shakespeare didn't have an MFA, but that doesn't mean teaching people to write is a waste of time.
Nevertheless, did I learn to write from taking writing classes? Eh. Have I learned to be a better writer from writing classes? Absolutely. Learning to write as an adult (and likely as a child) is an exercise is reading stuff that is considered good and then trying it yourself and getting feedback. Are there techniques and craft that can be taught? Yes. Does it make someone a better writer? Not by itself. Ryan is right. Writers need to spend time in the woodshed. I don't think Theo would disagree. The hardest part of writing as has been so often acknowledged is getting one's butt in the chair. Like the Boy and his practice of the saxophone, he'll start out with the goal of practicing for ten minutes, and then forty-five minutes later I am telling him to put the horn away because dinner is on the table. (Nothing like live music to help one's mood while cooking dinner.) Try writing for ten minutes. Likely you'll go for much, much longer.
Ryan made several points, some of which I agree, others I don't.
Writers are born with talent. Perhaps they are, but if you never spend time in the woodshed, it won't happen. I am sure there are lots of talented writers out there who have never written a word. What does that mean? A lot of writing is sweat. Does sweat by itself make you a good writer? No. Writers still need something interesting and/or important to say.
I believe solid writing instruction can help people be better writers. I'll look at the sample of people in my family. When I was growing up, we learned tons of grammar in English classes. My kids have learned how to capture small moments, how add details and how to structure a story. My son is studying Joseph Campbell's The Hero with a Thousand Faces in sixth grade. Both of my kids are far better writers than I was at the same age, and I would argue it is due to how they were taught. Why can't I learn these same things as an adult that I didn't learn thirty years ago? Will my kids have a greater head start on writing the Great American Novel than I did? Yes.
If you aren't a serous reader, don't expect anyone to read what you write. I agree with this one. Someone (I wish I remember where I heard this -- Ira Glass on NPR?) said that what makes a good artist is taste. Within their medium, they know what is good and what is great. They aspire to greatness. You have to know the genre to know what is awesome and what isn't in order to do better.
No one cares about your problems if you are a shitty writer. This is probably true, but there are exceptions. Here Ryan suggests most memoirists are narcissists who want people to feel sorry for them. I know several dozen people who are working on memoirs, and I only know one who is a bona fide narcissist. I've known a few "shitty" writers who changed verb tenses every two sentences who had freaking awesome stories to tell. Ryan argues that some people do use writing as therapy. So what? Writing is probably better than turning into an alcoholic. If writing makes you feel better and doesn't bother anyone, isn't that a good thing?
If you didn't decide to take writing seriously by the time you were a teenager, you probably aren't going to make it. The GOATs (Greatest of All Time) probably all loved writing since they were twelve but there is plenty of room in the world for the rest of us. I am sure Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Victor Hugo loved writing as teens. I am sure they had a large dose in talent, too.
While there might be problems with MFA programs, there is likely a difference between the potential of a writer and where they are when they decide to study to be writer. How would Hugo and Garcia Marquez have faired in an MFA program in their early twenties? These two people created their masterpieces when they were older, not while they were in their twenties and in an MFA program. Hugo was born in 1802 and published Les Miserables in 1862. Garcia Marquez was born in 1927, and published One Hundred Years of Solitude when he was forty. Love in the Time of Cholera was published in 1985, when he was 58.
Finally, is the problem not with MFA programs or teaching adults to write, but with something else? Perhaps the problem is with young people deciding what they want to do when they are twenty-something. What can we expect of young people with no experience? This probably applies to many people in many fields, not just MFA programs. Many are foolish and don't have enough life experience to say anything interesting.
I know there are a few young folks out there who know what they want to do with their lives and have it all mapped out when they are 20. Did Stephen Colbert? No. How did he end up? Back in the day when I worked at a consulting firm, I knew a young man about my age who had an MBA. (My guess is he was paid more than I was, which really frosts me, but I digress.) He couldn't find a mistake in this column of numbers:
$500K
+ $200K
____________
$300K
Did he have an advanced degree? Yes. An ounce of common sense? No. Likewise, I had another colleague who wanted to "help with the strategy of the practice" three months into his first real job. I am not saying we need to write these people off. Instead, we need to let them grow up. Do these folks exist in MFA programs, too? Probably.
Back to the main point: Does that mean we should stop trying to teach people to write? I hope not. If nothing else, taking a writing class can be emotionally satisfying and a great way to meet other writers. At worst, we share a little piece of our soul with another person. As E.M. Forster says at the beginning of Howards End "Only Connect." At best, you never know. One of us could become a GOAT.
Sincerely,
Lauren
I've had you both as writing teachers in the past, Theo for a year in the UW Certificate in Memoir program and years after in her seminar classes and tutoring. I've had Ryan for one six week course at the Hugo House. While the amount of experience is different, I have been taught by both of you.
Ryan recently wrote an article published in The Stranger entitled: "Things I can Say about MFA Writing Programs Now that I No Longer Teach in One." Theo was upset at your attitude that people can't be taught to write. I am trying to figure out who is right.
Having met Ryan and taken a class from him, I will say he isn't a bad guy. Yet, I am somewhat surprised at what he wrote. He is funny and the class was engaging. Most of the class was crazy writing prompts to help us get our juices flowing. For example, he brought in 30 pieces of random stuff from him apartment and we had to pick two and write a story. Go. After 10 minutes, we had to pick something else and work that into the story. Go. And again.
Were the exercises teaching me to write? No. Was it fun? Yes. Did I write something I otherwise would not have written? Yes. One could argue that no one taught Shakespeare to write. He wrote in groups and had feedback from his audiences. He didn't study Shakespeare because he was Shakespeare. Shakespeare didn't have an MFA, but that doesn't mean teaching people to write is a waste of time.
Nevertheless, did I learn to write from taking writing classes? Eh. Have I learned to be a better writer from writing classes? Absolutely. Learning to write as an adult (and likely as a child) is an exercise is reading stuff that is considered good and then trying it yourself and getting feedback. Are there techniques and craft that can be taught? Yes. Does it make someone a better writer? Not by itself. Ryan is right. Writers need to spend time in the woodshed. I don't think Theo would disagree. The hardest part of writing as has been so often acknowledged is getting one's butt in the chair. Like the Boy and his practice of the saxophone, he'll start out with the goal of practicing for ten minutes, and then forty-five minutes later I am telling him to put the horn away because dinner is on the table. (Nothing like live music to help one's mood while cooking dinner.) Try writing for ten minutes. Likely you'll go for much, much longer.
Ryan made several points, some of which I agree, others I don't.
Writers are born with talent. Perhaps they are, but if you never spend time in the woodshed, it won't happen. I am sure there are lots of talented writers out there who have never written a word. What does that mean? A lot of writing is sweat. Does sweat by itself make you a good writer? No. Writers still need something interesting and/or important to say.
I believe solid writing instruction can help people be better writers. I'll look at the sample of people in my family. When I was growing up, we learned tons of grammar in English classes. My kids have learned how to capture small moments, how add details and how to structure a story. My son is studying Joseph Campbell's The Hero with a Thousand Faces in sixth grade. Both of my kids are far better writers than I was at the same age, and I would argue it is due to how they were taught. Why can't I learn these same things as an adult that I didn't learn thirty years ago? Will my kids have a greater head start on writing the Great American Novel than I did? Yes.
If you aren't a serous reader, don't expect anyone to read what you write. I agree with this one. Someone (I wish I remember where I heard this -- Ira Glass on NPR?) said that what makes a good artist is taste. Within their medium, they know what is good and what is great. They aspire to greatness. You have to know the genre to know what is awesome and what isn't in order to do better.
No one cares about your problems if you are a shitty writer. This is probably true, but there are exceptions. Here Ryan suggests most memoirists are narcissists who want people to feel sorry for them. I know several dozen people who are working on memoirs, and I only know one who is a bona fide narcissist. I've known a few "shitty" writers who changed verb tenses every two sentences who had freaking awesome stories to tell. Ryan argues that some people do use writing as therapy. So what? Writing is probably better than turning into an alcoholic. If writing makes you feel better and doesn't bother anyone, isn't that a good thing?
If you didn't decide to take writing seriously by the time you were a teenager, you probably aren't going to make it. The GOATs (Greatest of All Time) probably all loved writing since they were twelve but there is plenty of room in the world for the rest of us. I am sure Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Victor Hugo loved writing as teens. I am sure they had a large dose in talent, too.
While there might be problems with MFA programs, there is likely a difference between the potential of a writer and where they are when they decide to study to be writer. How would Hugo and Garcia Marquez have faired in an MFA program in their early twenties? These two people created their masterpieces when they were older, not while they were in their twenties and in an MFA program. Hugo was born in 1802 and published Les Miserables in 1862. Garcia Marquez was born in 1927, and published One Hundred Years of Solitude when he was forty. Love in the Time of Cholera was published in 1985, when he was 58.
Finally, is the problem not with MFA programs or teaching adults to write, but with something else? Perhaps the problem is with young people deciding what they want to do when they are twenty-something. What can we expect of young people with no experience? This probably applies to many people in many fields, not just MFA programs. Many are foolish and don't have enough life experience to say anything interesting.
I know there are a few young folks out there who know what they want to do with their lives and have it all mapped out when they are 20. Did Stephen Colbert? No. How did he end up? Back in the day when I worked at a consulting firm, I knew a young man about my age who had an MBA. (My guess is he was paid more than I was, which really frosts me, but I digress.) He couldn't find a mistake in this column of numbers:
$500K
+ $200K
____________
$300K
Did he have an advanced degree? Yes. An ounce of common sense? No. Likewise, I had another colleague who wanted to "help with the strategy of the practice" three months into his first real job. I am not saying we need to write these people off. Instead, we need to let them grow up. Do these folks exist in MFA programs, too? Probably.
Back to the main point: Does that mean we should stop trying to teach people to write? I hope not. If nothing else, taking a writing class can be emotionally satisfying and a great way to meet other writers. At worst, we share a little piece of our soul with another person. As E.M. Forster says at the beginning of Howards End "Only Connect." At best, you never know. One of us could become a GOAT.
Sincerely,
Lauren
Saturday, February 28, 2015
First Love, or Asher
I just got my latest copy of The Sun magazine. My favorite part is "Readers Write," where readers write a few paragraphs on a given theme. I always read this section first. Jack reads it, too.
This month, the topic is First Love, which remind me of the story of Asher. I met Asher one day at U Village. Claire Adele and I were shopping at U Village a few years ago when I saw him in the Seattle Humane Society mobile shelter. Asher was a German Wirehaired Pointer mixed with a shepherding dog. I walked in the mobile shelter, and Asher snuggled against my thigh, as if I were his. "Just letting you know I am here," he said as his back met my leg. He wasn't jumpy or trying to get my attention. He was a comfortable and confident dog. And he was so ugly he was cute. He was white with a big lopsided head. He had one blue eye and one hazel eye. His body is a patchwork of colors. It was love at first sight. I had a dog growing up that I loved, but Clancy belonged to my mom. I was being a little selfish in wanting a dog who loved me most.
I rubbed Asher's back, and my hand was covered with fur. This was a bad sign. I am certainly allergic to cats, and allergic to some dogs. Would my love for Asher last if I were to spend the next next years miserably sneezing? I wasn't sure, so I paused. Jack was at home with the Boy, and I am sure he would not have been pleased if I came home with a dog, especially one who weighed about 50 pounds.
When I got home without Asher, I read up on Asher's breeds to see if he would be reasonable. According to my research, Asher's breed is loyal, friendly, intelligent, affectionate, active and willful. All good things, I thought. The Humane Society's description of Asher matched the breed traits, which was good. I stalked the Seattle Humane Societies website to see if Asher was still there. I showed my family his picture. I have never done online dating, but I imagine it is close to looking for a dog online. You can read all about someone in the digital world, but chemistry is real.
A few days later, I got my haircut. My hairdresser has dogs, so I asked him what he thought about Asher as his dogs were of a similar breed.
"Do you have horses?" he asked.
"Ah, no," I said. It should have been obvious. I live in the city in a small house with a small lot. No horses. I am not a country girl.
"That dog was bred to keep up with horses," he said. "It is a hunting and cattle herding dog. Unless you have horses, I would not recommend a dog like that. They can run for hours and still want to run for hours."
"But he is so cute and I love him and he loves me..." I said.
"Do you have horses?" he replied.
I got the point. He was right. Asher descended from dogs who were bred to work. The description of dog breeds are euphemistic. "Intelligent" means he will eat your furniture if he doesn't get enough exercise. He will figure out how to get in your garbage can to find the leftovers from last night's steak dinner. "Loyal" means they only obey a small number of people. "Affectionate" means they jump on you. "Active" and "willful" straight forward, and are traits you want in a dog who can keep up with horses for eight hours a day. The total picture: "We warned you this dog is a handful."
Even though Asher was the wrong dog for me, I continued to follow him online. One day I went to the website, and Asher was gone. The good news for the Seattle Humane Society is that good dogs go fast. He who hesitates is lost. Or loses. Asher was not to be mine.
A year later, we got Fox. Hooray! But that is not the end. Like many of the "First Love" stories in The Sun, the write someone finds his or her first love years later.
I was at tea with a friend who lives in Maple Leaf, and we started talking about our dogs. I told her about my first love, Asher, and how we were kept apart by my fear of allergies and lack of horses.
"How long ago was this?" she asked, so I told her.
"What does Asher look like?"
"His eyes are off center, and his head has an odd shape. He is kind of ugly..." I said.
"...so ugly he's cute?" she asked.
"Yes!"
"Asher lives down the street from me."
I couldn't believe it. I found Asher, and Asher found a home. "How much exercise does he need?" I asked.
"His owner is a runner, and takes him out every day."
I was glad Asher was happy. His new family was probably a better match, as Fox is a great match for us. But there will always be a little spot in my heart for the dog so ugly he's cute.
This month, the topic is First Love, which remind me of the story of Asher. I met Asher one day at U Village. Claire Adele and I were shopping at U Village a few years ago when I saw him in the Seattle Humane Society mobile shelter. Asher was a German Wirehaired Pointer mixed with a shepherding dog. I walked in the mobile shelter, and Asher snuggled against my thigh, as if I were his. "Just letting you know I am here," he said as his back met my leg. He wasn't jumpy or trying to get my attention. He was a comfortable and confident dog. And he was so ugly he was cute. He was white with a big lopsided head. He had one blue eye and one hazel eye. His body is a patchwork of colors. It was love at first sight. I had a dog growing up that I loved, but Clancy belonged to my mom. I was being a little selfish in wanting a dog who loved me most.
I rubbed Asher's back, and my hand was covered with fur. This was a bad sign. I am certainly allergic to cats, and allergic to some dogs. Would my love for Asher last if I were to spend the next next years miserably sneezing? I wasn't sure, so I paused. Jack was at home with the Boy, and I am sure he would not have been pleased if I came home with a dog, especially one who weighed about 50 pounds.
When I got home without Asher, I read up on Asher's breeds to see if he would be reasonable. According to my research, Asher's breed is loyal, friendly, intelligent, affectionate, active and willful. All good things, I thought. The Humane Society's description of Asher matched the breed traits, which was good. I stalked the Seattle Humane Societies website to see if Asher was still there. I showed my family his picture. I have never done online dating, but I imagine it is close to looking for a dog online. You can read all about someone in the digital world, but chemistry is real.
A few days later, I got my haircut. My hairdresser has dogs, so I asked him what he thought about Asher as his dogs were of a similar breed.
"Do you have horses?" he asked.
"Ah, no," I said. It should have been obvious. I live in the city in a small house with a small lot. No horses. I am not a country girl.
"That dog was bred to keep up with horses," he said. "It is a hunting and cattle herding dog. Unless you have horses, I would not recommend a dog like that. They can run for hours and still want to run for hours."
"But he is so cute and I love him and he loves me..." I said.
"Do you have horses?" he replied.
I got the point. He was right. Asher descended from dogs who were bred to work. The description of dog breeds are euphemistic. "Intelligent" means he will eat your furniture if he doesn't get enough exercise. He will figure out how to get in your garbage can to find the leftovers from last night's steak dinner. "Loyal" means they only obey a small number of people. "Affectionate" means they jump on you. "Active" and "willful" straight forward, and are traits you want in a dog who can keep up with horses for eight hours a day. The total picture: "We warned you this dog is a handful."
Even though Asher was the wrong dog for me, I continued to follow him online. One day I went to the website, and Asher was gone. The good news for the Seattle Humane Society is that good dogs go fast. He who hesitates is lost. Or loses. Asher was not to be mine.
A year later, we got Fox. Hooray! But that is not the end. Like many of the "First Love" stories in The Sun, the write someone finds his or her first love years later.
I was at tea with a friend who lives in Maple Leaf, and we started talking about our dogs. I told her about my first love, Asher, and how we were kept apart by my fear of allergies and lack of horses.
"How long ago was this?" she asked, so I told her.
"What does Asher look like?"
"His eyes are off center, and his head has an odd shape. He is kind of ugly..." I said.
"...so ugly he's cute?" she asked.
"Yes!"
"Asher lives down the street from me."
I couldn't believe it. I found Asher, and Asher found a home. "How much exercise does he need?" I asked.
"His owner is a runner, and takes him out every day."
I was glad Asher was happy. His new family was probably a better match, as Fox is a great match for us. But there will always be a little spot in my heart for the dog so ugly he's cute.
Friday, February 27, 2015
What are my Kids Reading? or Young Adult
I was at a dinner and reading with Maria Semple, author of Where'd You Go Bernadette, which is now one of my top ten favorite books. At this dinner were two people who worked in publishing. One was a sales rep for a publisher of Young Adult books (YA for short). The other worked in the YA department of a bookstore. They were both delighted when I told them I had an eleven year old son and a fourteen year old daughter.
"What are they reading?" they asked. They probably assumed my kids were voracious readers since their mother was a big enough geek to go to a dinner event focused on a writer.
"Uh..." I said. "I don't know." I was slightly appalled at my own answer. I should have a vague idea of what my kids are reading. I don't need to monitor or censor what they read, but I should be a clued in parent who has an interest in what my kids like. Why don't I know what my kids are reading?
They both have e-readers, the Boy a Kindle and Claire Adele a Nook. Claire Adele's Nook has a peacock blue cover that is now kind of ratty. The Boy's Kindle has a basic black cover. These covers give me no indication of what's inside. I seriously doubt they are reading Fifty Shades of Gray, but when they left their paper books around the house, I could tell what they were reading. My kids still have analog books. I am usually involved in the acquisition of them, too, whether I pay for a book they picked out at a bookstore or I take them to the library.
Fortunately, the two carried the weight of the conversation, and gave me several recommendations, both for me and my kids.* I could contribute to the conversation of what my kids were reading, but I was aware there was a major gap in my knowledge. I didn't feel quiet like a fraud, but almost.
The other thing I found slightly distressing is that there is a whole genre of Young Adult. I am not saying this is a bad thing, just different from when I grew up. I remember visiting the Schaumburg Library when I was a kid. It has a large children's section, which I outgrew when I was eleven or twelve. After that, I went upstairs to the main part of the library to get books to read. I went straight from children's books to regular books--there was no special section for kids between the ages of 10 and 16. I felt like a right of passage to get books upstairs instead of in the basement. It was wonderful to wander in the tall stacks. The children's section was bright and colorful, with arts and crafts on display. The main floor was serious. It was just about books.
I've read some of the YA books my kids have read. I've loved some (Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell is lovely) and been bored to tears by others (I won't name names.) The YA books are filled with loud crisis, like poverty and abuse (Eleanor & Park), cancer (The Fault in Our Stars), disfigurement (Wonder), or are dystopian fantasy (The Hunger Games). They bring kids to the brink of disaster and back.
I still love Bernadette and her quiet crisis. She was lost, both literally and figuratively. I won't spoil it, but something my friend said yesterday reminded me of the ending. She described her current stage of middle age of life after the kids are reasonably able to look after themselves: I am metamorphosis-izing back to me.
Quiet crises are subtle and perhaps harder for young readers to grasp. Even in my twenties I didn't understand some of Wallace Stegner's work, including Crossing to Safety about people in late middle age. I read the whole thing, but missed the point. I wonder if I try it again if it will speak to me.
Young people missing the point of adult stories isn't always the case. My daughter read Bernadette, and liked it. I am trying to get both of my kids to read The Boys in the Boat, but they are reluctant, I am not sure why. Kids are so wrapped up in YA these days, but they should read books about what it is like to be a grown-up. What will be their right of passage into regular literature? Will they wander in the tall stacks, or will they read YA for the rest of their lives?
_______
* In case you are wondering, here are the reading recommendations from my dinner conversation. Some of them were based on what my kids have liked in the past, so the recommendations might be somewhat specific. I won't tell which recommendations are for kids or for me.
"What are they reading?" they asked. They probably assumed my kids were voracious readers since their mother was a big enough geek to go to a dinner event focused on a writer.
"Uh..." I said. "I don't know." I was slightly appalled at my own answer. I should have a vague idea of what my kids are reading. I don't need to monitor or censor what they read, but I should be a clued in parent who has an interest in what my kids like. Why don't I know what my kids are reading?
They both have e-readers, the Boy a Kindle and Claire Adele a Nook. Claire Adele's Nook has a peacock blue cover that is now kind of ratty. The Boy's Kindle has a basic black cover. These covers give me no indication of what's inside. I seriously doubt they are reading Fifty Shades of Gray, but when they left their paper books around the house, I could tell what they were reading. My kids still have analog books. I am usually involved in the acquisition of them, too, whether I pay for a book they picked out at a bookstore or I take them to the library.
Fortunately, the two carried the weight of the conversation, and gave me several recommendations, both for me and my kids.* I could contribute to the conversation of what my kids were reading, but I was aware there was a major gap in my knowledge. I didn't feel quiet like a fraud, but almost.
The other thing I found slightly distressing is that there is a whole genre of Young Adult. I am not saying this is a bad thing, just different from when I grew up. I remember visiting the Schaumburg Library when I was a kid. It has a large children's section, which I outgrew when I was eleven or twelve. After that, I went upstairs to the main part of the library to get books to read. I went straight from children's books to regular books--there was no special section for kids between the ages of 10 and 16. I felt like a right of passage to get books upstairs instead of in the basement. It was wonderful to wander in the tall stacks. The children's section was bright and colorful, with arts and crafts on display. The main floor was serious. It was just about books.
I've read some of the YA books my kids have read. I've loved some (Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell is lovely) and been bored to tears by others (I won't name names.) The YA books are filled with loud crisis, like poverty and abuse (Eleanor & Park), cancer (The Fault in Our Stars), disfigurement (Wonder), or are dystopian fantasy (The Hunger Games). They bring kids to the brink of disaster and back.
I still love Bernadette and her quiet crisis. She was lost, both literally and figuratively. I won't spoil it, but something my friend said yesterday reminded me of the ending. She described her current stage of middle age of life after the kids are reasonably able to look after themselves: I am metamorphosis-izing back to me.
Quiet crises are subtle and perhaps harder for young readers to grasp. Even in my twenties I didn't understand some of Wallace Stegner's work, including Crossing to Safety about people in late middle age. I read the whole thing, but missed the point. I wonder if I try it again if it will speak to me.
Young people missing the point of adult stories isn't always the case. My daughter read Bernadette, and liked it. I am trying to get both of my kids to read The Boys in the Boat, but they are reluctant, I am not sure why. Kids are so wrapped up in YA these days, but they should read books about what it is like to be a grown-up. What will be their right of passage into regular literature? Will they wander in the tall stacks, or will they read YA for the rest of their lives?
_______
* In case you are wondering, here are the reading recommendations from my dinner conversation. Some of them were based on what my kids have liked in the past, so the recommendations might be somewhat specific. I won't tell which recommendations are for kids or for me.
- The new Ishiguro
- I'll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson
- Counting By 7s by Holly Sloan
- Noggin by John Corey Whaley
- The Wallcreeper by Nell Zink
- The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman
- Under the Egg by Laura Marx Fitzgerald
- stuff by Brandon Mull
- Beautiful Boy by David Sheff
- The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin
- The Dark is Rising by Ellen Cooper
- Hausfrau: A Novel by Jill Alexander Essbaum
- stuff by Gail Forman
- The Chronicles of Prydain by Lloyd Alexander
- The Silo Saga by Hugh Howey
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Dammit, I forgot
I had a brilliant idea for a blog post this morning and I completely forgot it. Argh. I'll keep thinking.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Teenage Drug
Claire Adele is 14, and spends time at home alone. Jack and I will take the Boy to a soccer game, and Claire Adele gets to stay at home, sit on the couch, and read books and check her phone.
I recently discovered a new concerning habit of hers. She is getting into my stash. I can control my consumption, but apparently she can't control hers. I caught her this morning in a conversation.
Me: What happened to all of the chocolate chips?
Claire Adele: There is another unopened bag in the pantry...
Me: And you know there is an unopened bag which means you are tracking the amount of chocolate chips we have in the house.
She didn't argue, which is the opposite of what she usually does, which means she is guilty. She didn't disagree.
I went to the grocery store this morning and complained to the checker that my daughter was eating my chocolate, digging into the pantry and cleaning me out. She polished off half a box of Valentine's Day chocolate (bought the day after at 50% off) and ate a bag of jelly beans. I thought the chocolate would last more than a week, even sharing it with the three other people I live with if we each ate one piece a day. What gives?
"Sugar is favorite drug of teens," he said. I guess I should be happy she is into sugar and chocolate and not other things. Given Washington's recent legalization of marijuana, it is easier for teens to get weed than beer.
This reminded me of a conversation I had earlier in the day. I was walking Fox and ran into a neighbor outside the coffee shop around the corner from my house. This man also has a chihuahua, so we started to talk about how hungry our dogs are all of the time.
"Dogs are motivated by food," he said, "But so are we. People just don't admit it." He told me how his wife is capable of rationing Oreos, but whenever he sees one, he has to eat one.
"They are just too delicious," he said. "I tell her we can't have them in the house or else I'll just eat them. It is not like we live in a place where we are deprived of treats and once a season if we are lucky we get a peanut butter cookie. We live in the city where we can get a treat anytime we'd like," nodding at the coffee shop. He's right. In the meantime, I'll have to keep my chocolate stash low while Clair Adele is in the voracious stage.
Or I'll have to hide it.
I recently discovered a new concerning habit of hers. She is getting into my stash. I can control my consumption, but apparently she can't control hers. I caught her this morning in a conversation.
Me: What happened to all of the chocolate chips?
Claire Adele: There is another unopened bag in the pantry...
Me: And you know there is an unopened bag which means you are tracking the amount of chocolate chips we have in the house.
She didn't argue, which is the opposite of what she usually does, which means she is guilty. She didn't disagree.
I went to the grocery store this morning and complained to the checker that my daughter was eating my chocolate, digging into the pantry and cleaning me out. She polished off half a box of Valentine's Day chocolate (bought the day after at 50% off) and ate a bag of jelly beans. I thought the chocolate would last more than a week, even sharing it with the three other people I live with if we each ate one piece a day. What gives?
"Sugar is favorite drug of teens," he said. I guess I should be happy she is into sugar and chocolate and not other things. Given Washington's recent legalization of marijuana, it is easier for teens to get weed than beer.
This reminded me of a conversation I had earlier in the day. I was walking Fox and ran into a neighbor outside the coffee shop around the corner from my house. This man also has a chihuahua, so we started to talk about how hungry our dogs are all of the time.
"Dogs are motivated by food," he said, "But so are we. People just don't admit it." He told me how his wife is capable of rationing Oreos, but whenever he sees one, he has to eat one.
"They are just too delicious," he said. "I tell her we can't have them in the house or else I'll just eat them. It is not like we live in a place where we are deprived of treats and once a season if we are lucky we get a peanut butter cookie. We live in the city where we can get a treat anytime we'd like," nodding at the coffee shop. He's right. In the meantime, I'll have to keep my chocolate stash low while Clair Adele is in the voracious stage.
Or I'll have to hide it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)