If You Can Read This, I’m Thanking Some Teachers

My son is a high school senior, and like many parents at this juncture, I’ve been the proud parent at numerous awards programs over the years.

The best one yet? The one where I was most proud? That would be the one where he didn’t win a thing.

We spent Sunday afternoon at the Fayette County Public Schools’ annual FAME Awards, which recognize exceptional teachers, counselors and coaches. The winners are nominated by seniors, who are invited to write an essay about the educator who has been most influential to their success.

There were 86 honorees and 104 nominators (some multiples), and the students read snippets of their essays. From my son, Alex, we heard about Beth McKenzie, the Paul Laurence Dunbar High School teacher who taught him AP US Government and nurtured his love of national politics. She was the one who encouraged him to run for student council president, and is the adviser now helping ensure that neither he nor others regret that decision. She teaches him the value of hard work through example. And most of all, she has been instrumental in helping him grow from an introverted sophomore to a self-assured senior headed to Yale in the fall.

Alex and Beth McKenzie, after the ceremony

 

As Ms. McKenzie stood on the stage to receive her accolades, I got to thinking about how at that moment she represented every good teacher – and there have been many – that Alex has had from kindergarten to 12th grade in Fayette County. I was thinking too, about how I have never regretted my decision to stick with public school despite its detractors.

 

And there were detractors. Those who said that he’d never get the personalized attention he would at a private school. That he wouldn’t be challenged. Or worse yet, that he might not survive the hallways of middle school.

Hogwash. All of it.

Alex’s passage through Fayette County Public Schools has been, well, pretty much ideal. In 13 years, I can recall only one or two school employees who didn’t exhibit knowledge, dedication, compassion and responsiveness. That goes for Julius Marks Elementary (kindergarten through 2nd grade), JR Ewan Elementary (grades 3-5), Winburn Middle School (6-8) and PL Dunbar (9-12).

Full disclosure: Alex has the one-two punch of intelligence and self-motivation, and has been in an accelerated magnet program since third grade. I’m grateful that there were such options, and that those options existed within the public school system.

I’m grateful, too, for the many educators (underappreciated and underpaid) who fueled his interest in literature, math, history and politics, or rather, for learning in general. The French writer Anatole France had it right when he said, “Nine-tenths of education is encouragement.”

So it makes sense that as Alex and I look back at the teachers in his past, the most memorable are those who did just that. Such as Betsy Biddle, the 2nd grade assistant teacher at Julius Marks Elementary who led a reading discussion group with Alex and two other advanced readers. She accomplished what I considered impossible: she got Alex to love reading even more than he already did. Her care and attention included mailing him handwritten cards of encouragement throughout that year and afterward. I don’t think it’s overstating to say that his academic success was born at that table in the back of the classroom. The year after, he broke JR Ewan’s Accelerated Reader school record with 736 points. (A record, he reminds me, will forever stand because the school no longer exists.)

Homecoming Queen Crowning Practice

In middle school, there was English with Chad Peavler, who turned him on to To Kill a Mockingbird; math with Devin Onkst, where he learned the quadratic formula song to the theme of Pop Goes the Weasel; and US History with Theresa Buczek, who took him to the national level of the National History Day competition.

At PL Dunbar, the quality of teaching is unparalleled. Among those teachers: Beverly Smith, who runs the Math, Science and Technology Center like it’s her baby (a super smart, well-cared for, baby); Paula Azzarito, who turned Alex’s favorite subject into his favorite classes: AP World History and AP US History; Kara Patterson, whose always sunny disposition is infectious even at a daily 7:25 a.m. calculus class; and Ben Zimmerman, who is so organized and so thorough that no second of AP Spanish is wasted.

Alex told me the story recently about how, in freshman English, he made an exceptionally good point and the teacher remarked, “You must have had a great teacher in the past.”

The truth is, he’s had a lot of great teachers. And we’re both very grateful.

Sometimes the Movie is Better Than the Book

I've been riveted by the tributes to Steve Jobs, dead this week at 56. Without question, the world lost a visionary who changed our lives.
But beyond all the news coverage of the tragic passing of the Apple Inc. co-founder who led the mobile computing revolution, all the pontificating on the loss of his unsurpassed intuition and innovation, I found the greatest sadness in the reason he authorized his biography.

"I wanted my kids to know me," Jobs reportedly told the biographer, Walter Isaacson.

No matter how long I live, it's unlikely that I'll do anything infinitesimally as impactful as Jobs. But I'm equally sure of something else: My son won't need to read a book to know me. I'd like to think that he could write it.

Alex is 17, and for the last seven years since I divorced his dad, we've strengthened our bond. He's responsible for his part now, but I set the stage in the early years. And it wasn't always easy.

At 10, Alex was an academically gifted kid more interested in science fiction and video games and Dragon Ball Z than spending time with his mother. And me, well, I would have had trouble feigning interest in those activities even if I hadn't been struggling with the end of a 16-year-marriage and everything that accompanied it.

So I did the one thing I could: I showed up. I was there, to set limits on the science fiction and video games and Dragon Ball Z. Then, for the basketball games (awful), the soccer games (even worse) and the piano recitals. Next came the academic team quick recall competitions, the 5th grade production of The Emperor's New Clothes, and a one-year stint in the marching band (enough fodder there for several blog posts of their own). Today, it's all about student government leadership activities, lab projects, volunteer tutoring, and college applications. Those are his interesting pursuits. Firmly in my "snooze" category: Taylor Swift, science fiction (sadly, he didn't outgrow that one), Kentucky basketball (don't stone me, and don't bother reminding me that I'm an alum), and political history. I try to show up even for those. Alex returns the favor by supporting my flavor-of-the-month self-improvement efforts (October's special: Emotional Brain Training!), and feigning a passing interest in Buddhism, meditation, Melissa Etheridge, and djembe drumming.

Lunch today, post senior portrait session.

In the end, it's true what many people say: good parenting (or really, a relationship of any kind) doesn't happen if you don't show up. Even if it's the last place you'd like to be. Because a funny thing happens when you show up regularly with anyone. You get to know something about each other. Maybe, if you're lucky, enough to fill a book.

My guess is that Alex could fill a book with my life story so far - the good, the bad, and quite a bit of the in-between. I know that I could do the same for him. Nowadays, we gather our research during hectic we-put-it-off-too-long-and-Grandma-is-coming cleanups and our efficient weeknight lunchmaking assembly line. We make runs for frozen yogurt, pad thai chicken, or palak paneer with garlic naan.  Alex monitors our DVR with the precision of an air traffic controller so that we can spend time with our friends: Jon Stewart, Alex Trebek, House, and our current fave, Dexter. (Yes, we bond over a serial killer. Don't judge.) We spoil our beloved dog, Annie. And we make fun of each other's taste in music.

And because we're human, we gather some of that research while arguing, usually over priorities and timing - when my impatience and high standards collide with an overflowing recycling bin, not-frequent-enough walks for the aforementioned Annie, or Alex's general procrastination. And because he's a teenager, and because I have my own friends and interests, when it comes to companions, we're clearly not always each other's first choice.

Europe train station, weird American tourist pose.

What comes to mind here is that overused platitude I usually avoid: "It's all good." Like people say, it's the ordinary moments that end up meaning the most.

For the sake of Steve Jobs' kids, I hope his biography contains some of those moments. We'll know soon. Publication has been moved up to Oct. 24, and the book is currently topping Amazon's pre-order bestseller list.

I also hope, even though he's not alive to savor it, that the book contains a couple of personal accolades for Jobs from his children. Parents are supposed to love and support their kids, but it's nice to get a little something back once in a while, no matter how it's delivered.

"Some of my friends hate their parents," Alex told me recently. "I don't get that."

Reason #347 I’m Glad I’m No Longer a Teenager

Boyfriend David K. and me

I never got asked to the prom.

Well, although that is technically true, I was not without a date to either my junior or senior prom. It was just assumed that my high school boyfriend and I would go together, so we did. Boys who didn’t have a girlfriend decided who they would ask, headed to her locker and said something provocative such as, “Wanna go to the prom with me?”

Things were much simpler 30 years ago. Today, everyone has to be asked, even longtime girlfriends. And The Ask has to be something special, something creative, something elaborate. Otherwise, it’s considered “lame,” according to the 17-year-old expert in my household.

On this subject, I’ve got to give him credit for walking the walk. Even though he and his date are just good friends, that didn’t give him license to be “lame.” He heard that she wanted to be asked via piano sonata, so he obliged with a bit of humor thrown in. He showed up at her door one night last month with a plastic toy piano that he pretended to play, a sonata on his iPod and a giant bouquet of flowers. No matter that it started raining and the iPod sonata was barely audible. He got a yes and they’re preparing for the big day on May 6.

Mom looks the same. Seriously.

He’s since told me stories of boys who posed their questions via glow sticks on driveways, icing on cupcakes and painting on bare chests. I mentioned this to a friend at work who has a same-age daughter at a different high school, figuring that it was just a one-school trend. No way. Her daughter’s prom date found out what her favorite flowers are (white roses) and presented her with an origami bouquet that he made himself. Another boy at that school tried to ask a soccer-playing girl via crepe paper on the soccer goal, but the letters kept disintegrating in the rain before she saw them. The girl also was a cheerleader, so he ended up asking the squad to do a special routine while he stood in the bleachers, holding a bouquet of flowers. Yet another boy enlisted the help of his math teacher, who revealed a portion of a white board and told class members they had one more problem to solve: to determine whether Jill (name changed to protect the fact that I don’t know it), would go to the prom with Jack (ditto on the name change).

As if my exhaustive research with my work pal weren’t enough, I hit the Internet. I Googled “Prom Ask Ideas” and immediately realized that I must have been living under a rock the last few years. There are thousands of entries, including an Ask.com page, blogs, forums, wikis – you name it. There are YouTube videos that capture the asking, and YouTube videos that themselves are the asking. An ehow.com article begins with “Prom season is for making memories, but the experience doesn't start with the dance. It begins with the invitation…” The article groups its suggestions into “Romance” categories, ranging from “Adventurous Romance” to “Old Fashioned Romance.” Old fashioned? What, the kids who aren’t yet 20 yearn for the good ol’ days? What are the good ol’ days for them, preschool?

Earlier this very month, a woman devoted a blog post to ideas designed to be both creative and inexpensive. Ironically, she’s also hawking for $10 a CD called “Asking in a Crafty Way” that promises 100 ideas. “Asking for a date just isn't what is used to be...especially if you live in Utah!” she says. Well, obviously. I always say, when it comes to dating trends, as Utah goes, so goes the nation.

A North Carolina teen convinced his AP US Government and Politics teacher to turn his prom ask into a question on a recent test. "I'm 29 and it hasn't been all that long since I've been to the prom," the teacher told the Charlotte Observer in an April 17, 2011 story. "I don't remember kids being this creative.” I’m with him. And not just because we 29-year-olds have to stick together.

So what’s to make of this phenomenon? On one hand, it certainly is a bit over the top. I’m wondering if some girls feel pressured to say yes since the guy went to so much trouble and maybe even became a public spectacle. I shudder to think of how far some men will have to go to outdo themselves when it’s time to ask a woman to marry him. And think about how many starving children could be fed or Habitat for Humanity homes built if these teens applied all that time and energy to loftier pursuits.

On the other hand, what’s the harm? At the heart of these creations, productions and presentations is a boy realizing that he wants to spend some time with a girl and deciding to take a chance. It’s one human being learning something about another human being and working to make that person feel special. There’s courage and grace and sweetness in that. And Ask.com be darned, that’s the kind of Old Fashioned Romance we all could use some more of.

Letters from Camp

When I was a teen away at camp, I was truly away. For the most part, I was in charge of how much, or what kind of information, got back to my parents. I wore what I wanted, ate what I wanted, hung around with whoever I wanted. There weren’t cell phones, or even land line calls allowed in non-emergencies. And depending on how long your stay was, it might not even be worth the effort to scribe a few cheery lines in an old-fashioned letter home to Muddah and Fadduh.

Flash forward 30 years. My 16-year-old son is away at camp for three weeks. His iPhone appendage was relinquished to his counselor, only to be brought out for 30 minutes a day. I get a quick phone call, an e-mail or a text, like this one, presented here in its unedited entirety: “Hey mamasita. Love ya. Check yo email. Lovin everything.”

Wait a minute – Is this academic camp or gangsta camp? Isn’t mamacita spelled with a 'c'? Aren’t you going into Spanish IV? But I digress.

The 30-minute “awkward phone time,” as my son calls it, is not all there is. Not by a longshot.

This camp has a daily blog complete with photos, candid and posed, of hundreds of campers. For three nights after he leaves, I peruse the previous day’s offerings. I flip through the line of tiny photos, looking for his familiar frame, that profile, those big brown eyes. I spot him, playing some kind of ice breaker game on Day 1, hamming it up at a meal with three other boys and at some kind of assembly another day. Sure, they’re only snapshots (literally). And it’s not like I’m watching live streaming video. But somehow, I’m an intruder, a voyeur, peeping into a world where I’m not a legitimate participant.

A little part of me is sad about that. As odd as it sounds to some, my son and I are tight. Since my divorce from his dad six years ago, we’ve built a relationship filled with laughter, love and mutual respect. He’s got his own life – and so do I – and on the outside, we’re very different people. But we’re close. And I miss him.

Of course I’m happy to see that he’s happy. I want to know more: I wonder what kind of pasta is in that bowl? Who is that kid sitting next to him? What game are they playing?

Then my mind starts to wander into judgmental territory: He would look better if he stood up straighter. He should be having water instead of soda.

It’s so absurd it gives me a jolt. What am I doing? How’s that for a question? You’ve got your own life (you just said it), so go live it. And let your 16-year-old live his.

So I decide to write a letter of my own:

Dear Camp I Shall Not Name (Except to say that it’s in Bowling Green, KY, and has a name that sounds like a blood-sucking reanimated corpse):

Thanks so much for creating a blog for us parents to follow while our beloved campers are in your care. It’s well done and I’m amazed at how many of the 200-plus campers you’re able to capture on film. When my son gets home, we’ll have fun viewing the photos. We might even order a couple.
But until then, sign me,

One mamacita who’ll be getting her news the old-fashioned way



P.S. to My Intro Post: I was remiss for not thanking my friends for their encouragement and putting up with my frequent declarations of “I really should write about this.” So thank you for your subtle and not-so-subtle (do it already!) prodding. Thanks to my friend Ron for the title and to my sis for her design expertise. Just so we're clear: none of this buys you any mercy in future posts.

P.P.S. Given the questions, I should have included that I don’t plan to post every day, maybe not even every week. I imagine the timing will be something more along the lines of twice a month. I know, but you’ll just have to wait….