A Trip to See's Candy Shop

02.18.2011

I was at See’s candies yesterday satisfying a chocolate craving and in front of me were 3 boys. Initially, I thought they were at least 7^th graders but another woman in the shop struck up a conversation with them and I overheard that they were 6-th graders. I couldn’t believe it because they were so tall.

Anyway, I was observing their behavior toward the clerks and the woman who asked them questions about school and I was impressed with how polite they were.

It’s very difficult for me to look at boys without preconceived notions. Much of this is due to the fact that I grew up in a matriarchal environment, some of it is because of the views of boys and men that were passed down to me (some of which I assumed as my own beliefs while other conclusions I came to on my own based on my experiences). So there’s about 36 years of opinions I have to sort through and, oddly and for reason unbeknownst to me, I’ve only recently told myself to take a step back whenever I see a group of boys and find that I’m pleasantly surprised by what I see.

For example, I’m really enjoying working with the group of boys I teach on Saturdays. Then, there's observing the polite behavior of the boys at the candy shop. Also, a couple of weeks ago, I was coming into my building and a teenaged boy was walking out and held the door for me. I was pleasantly surprised and sent a mental “thank you” out to his mom for teaching him manners.

It gives me faith that even though I would have NO idea how to raise a boy, were we to have one, I don’t think I’d be as scared as I once thought.

Why Won't She Listen?

08.18.2010

While getting some work done yesterday afternoon, I heard a huge ruckus coming from the balcony of one of the apartments on the second floor. And by ruckus I mean stuff being thrown and slammed up against the wall. Then, the screen door got pulled open and slammed shut. The 7-8-year old boy who lives there kept yelling something about “not taking it.” I’ve been privy to this kid’s temper tantrums before but, this time, it was by far the most dramatic.

I could hear his single-mom’s voice react very calmly and soon, after one denial too many, he got sent to his room. After about 10 minutes of hearing nothing, I suddenly heard him shriek and then silence. I don’t know what happened or why but it’s enough to know this kid’s got issues. And he’s only seven.

And this fact isn’t news. The family moved in earlier this year and within days we had trouble with him. I started to notice different toys (some broken), pieces of pottery and an iPod shuffle tossed on our patio. I confronted his mom who, of course, denied recognizing the toys and claimed that her son (and daughter) wouldn’t toss stuff off their balcony. When I presented her with the pottery, she immediately recognized it as a project her son had done the year before. Interestingly, her focus was on how much she liked it and now it was broken. When I showed her the iPod shuffle she insisted that it wasn’t theirs. I later found out that it belonged to another neighbor’s daughter having gone missing after the boy came over to play.

My heart goes out to the mom only so far. I was raised with a single parent; I’m well aware of what kind of an environment those kids are in. But her son has problems and she won’t deal with it.

I saw two cops leaving our building not too long after his outburst and maybe they will serve as a wake-up call. I don’t know for sure if they went to her apartment but… The shrieking was gruesome.

I wish parents would listen to their kids. They might be little but they are humans who are very capable of feeling happiness, loneliness, and fear. Too many parents forget that.

"Tears for a Good Father" Article

06.20.2010

I was reading the paper this morning and came across this really touching story that I wanted to share especially because it’s quite a propos of my entry from a few days ago.

Tears for a Good Father / by Harlan Coben[1]

This may seem like a sad story, but it’s not.

“I found this upstairs.” My 16-year-old daughter Charlotte, the oldest of my four kids, enters the kitchen and hands me the 40-year-old photograph. “Is that you?”

“Yep,” I say. “I had hair once.”

It is a picture of my father and me standing on the front lawn at our house in Livingston, N.J. I look at my father in this photograph. My mom used to say that he was a dead ringer for Victor Mature, Dean Martin (“If only your father would get his teeth fixed”), and, mostly, Jerry Orbach. He was a big man, and in this photograph, with his smile wide, he looks strong and confident. I don’t remember the picture being taken. I wish I did, because I look pretty darned happy snuggled against him.

Then, without warning—still holding the old photograph, Charlotte by my shoulder—I burst into tears. I don’t mean well up or sniffle or feel tears running down my face or even cry. I mean head-down, body-wracking sobs. My daughter backs away for a moment, probably scared. I don’t think she has seen me cry before. Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever saw my father cry either.

I flash to the little things about him. The polyester double-knit shorts that were always too snug, like he was competing at Wimbledon in 1978. The too-big sunglasses that looked like he might have stolen them from Sophia Loren. I remember when he tried a fanny pack (that was a big no), the smell of his Old Spice, the way he steered the car with his wrists and whistled off-key, the AM news station playing in the steamed bathroom when he shaved, the white tube socks pulled up too high, the CB radio he loved for maybe four months. I remember how bad he was with tools and how that still didn’t stop him from taking on home projects best left to professionals or how every Sunday he would walk to Livingston Bagel or take me to Seymour’s Luncheonette for a milkshake and a pack of baseball cards. And I remember the way his cheek felt when I kissed him hello or goodbye, as I always did, no matter who was around, because that’s what we did.

I look at the 40-year-old photograph and see him so young, but of course he would never have a chance to grow old. I remember buying him an oversize Father’s Day card in 1988. For some odd reason, I bought it early. It was sitting near me when my mother called to tell me that my father had just called from his hotel room in Florida. He was there on business, and he felt chest pains. When I get him on the line, he puts on a brave front and tells me not to worry, he is fine.

That would be the last time I ever talked to him.

So what lessons did I learn when he died of a heart attack at 59? Unfortunately, the great insights are often the great clichés: Life goes by fast, don’t waste a moment, tell the ones you love how you feel, show affection every chance you get—because I would give anything to kiss that cheek just one more time.

I am still gripping the photograph and sobbing. I should make myself stop, but this feels, if not good, right. It’s been too long. My daughter, not sure what to do, tentatively approaches. She puts her arms around my shoulders and tries to quiet me.

“I know you miss him,” she says to me.

And I do. Still. Every day.

Wait. Didn’t I say this wasn’t a sad story?

So here’s the uplifting part: It’s okay to feel this pain. In fact, when you’ve been as lucky as I was in the father department, it would be an outrage not to cry. You can’t have an up without a down, a right without a left, a back without a front—or a happy without a sad. This is the price you pay for having a great father. You get the wonder, the joy, the tender moments—and you get the tears at the end, too.

My father, Carl Gerald Coben, is worth the tears. I hope that one day, to my children, I’ll be worth them, too. And if your father is worth them, let him know.

As the old proverb says, “When a father gives to his son, they both laugh. When a son gives to his father, they both cry.”

Happy Father’s Day, everyone.

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[1] http://www.parade.com/news/backpage/harlan-coben/100620-tears-for-a-good-father.html

Has "Girl Power" Gone Too Far?

06.17.2010

In the middle of grad school, I decided to take an adolescent psychology class to complete some pre-reqs for a secondary credential thinking that I’d give teaching one last try. It wasn’t until 1½ year later after many meltdowns I turned to my then fiancée and said, “I can’t do this. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but it’s not this.” Of all the education classes that I had taken up to that point, the two most beneficial were a technology-based course and the adolescent psychology course.

One of the books I read was Real Boys: Rescuing Our Sons from the Myths of Boyhood by William Pollack (1998). Event though the book can be labeled as pop psychology, I found it to be incredibly beneficial and it really opened up my eyes to the world of boys. I grew up without a father and very little male influence in my life so the world of testosterone is both a fascinating one and one that often scares me. I’ve gotten better over the past 9 years, thanks to my husband’s patience, but, nonetheless, it’s a relatively foreign territory for me.

I grew up in a world that emphasized “girl power” and while attending an all girls high school this was definitely a mantra. But what this book helped me realize is that in the process of society focusing on “girl power,” the boys got left behind. “Recent studies…show that not only is boys’ self-esteem more fragile than that of girls and that boys’ confidence as learners is impaired but also that boys are substantially more likely to endure disciplinary problems, be suspended from classes, or actually drop out from school entirely.” It continues, “…statistics now tell us that boys are up to three times more likely than girls to be the victim of a violent crime (other than sexual assault) and between four to six times more likely to commit suicide.”[1]

How many times have you seen in person or on TV/in movies, adults telling little boys to stop crying because it makes them look like a “sissy?” What this book points out is that just because a boy is a boy, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have fears or concerns. And starting at an early age, society labels boys a particular way and they are “trained” to grow up and be a certain way: the providers, the strong-ones, to have emotional-containment, etc. I’ve seen many times that when a man has more emotion than “normal,” he’s immediately labeled as “gay.” Why? Why is a boy/man not allowed to cry and to feel?

There is a difference between teaching a boy that his fears and concerns are valid and letting him cry over “spilled milk.” I wouldn’t allow my little girl to cry for no reason or not reprimand her for throwing a tantrum to get her way. These are educational moments; moments to help the child become a better person and to learn that sometimes things just are the way that they are and crying over them isn’t going to change the situation. But, e.g., if a boy wakes up from a scary dream, why do some parents tell the boy to “man up?” To any little kid, a scary dream is just that: scary. Hell, I get nightmares all the time and it scares the crap out of me when I wake up in the middle of the night and I’m sweating.

I think it’s important to remember that each gender has strengths and weaknesses but most importantly each person has strengths and weaknesses and that’s what should be focused on and worked on. Look at the high percentage of Asian men killing themselves because they can’t keep up with the demands on them that society has brought about. These “demands” and images of perfection are destroying the essence of who we are: being human.

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[1] Pollack, William, Real Boys, p. xxiii.