Cautionary

For a long while, I have had a small-yet-mighty crush on one of the NE Seattle Safeway checkers. This particular fellow’s not especially handsome, nor does he give me free produce. Nor did he card me the first time I bought Riesling. Nope, my crush is simply and directly related to his voice. And yes, by the way, Husbandio knows. He knows, and he thinks it’s funny . . . just one of about infinity reasons why I’m so glad I married him.

But let’s get back to the well-voiced checker.

I wish I could post a recording for your listening pleasure, maybe one where he is asking, “Did you find everything you were looking for?” (along with my response: “Why, yes. Yes, I did.”)

But since I think that might be both weird and illegal, I’ll say this: his voice is a vat of warm maple frosting, the kind Top Pot puts on its maple old fashioned donuts. Yes, take that frosting down two octaves, add a shot of bourbon, maybe one-two cups Nat King Cole and there you go. That’s this guy’s voice.

Well, at some point this winter, I happened to be standing in his check-out line, even though there were shorter lines on either side of me, even though waiting in his line meant waiting behind a lady who was using about a thousand coupons and paying with A CHECK.

But that was all right because this lady’s antiquated method of paying for groceries gave me time to think about the importance of compliments.

That sometimes, if you compliment someone on something, jut totally out of the blue, that makes that person feel good, and because he feels good, he may do some very small act of kindness to or for someone else, and then, that person goes on to ripple her goodness and kindness out to someone else, until, before you know it, everyone has put down his AK-47 and her Let’s Kill the Abortion Doctors sign and while we’re not exactly all holding hands, at least we’re not shooting and bombing and bullying and hating one another.

All because the Safeway checker with the very nice voice got a compliment.

Yep, that’s the way my brain works.

Feeling pretty certain that I could change the world with roughly eight words, I put all my courage up on the conveyor belt alongside my Gogurts and granola bars and Honey Nut Cheerios and wine and more wine and Annie’s Mac n’ Cheese.

I swallowed hard and gave him a bright smile. “You know?” I said. “You have a really nice voice.”

And this, my friends, is where my story becomes one of those cautionary tales. Like “Little Red Riding Hood” or that dark Edwardian poetry by Hilaire Belloc, admonishing rhymes directed at kids, with titles such as, “Matilda, Who told lies and was burned to death,” or “Jim, Who ran away from his nurse and was eaten by a lion.”

Here, dear readers, is my 21st Century cautionary tale, titled: “Sarah, Who Complimented a Safeway checker then turned into a mute, blushing idiot.”

Yes, children, think twice before you compliment the Safeway checker on his very nice voice, unless of course you happen to be the CEO of a Radio Voice Search company. Then it’s probably OK.

If you are not such a CEO, however, I suggest you avoid complimenting a stranger’s voice, especially in Safeway, because 1) suddenly you feel like you’ve just offered this compliment over the loudspeaker, and 2) complimenting someone’s voice, you realize too late, is one of those intimate compliments not meant for strangers.

You wouldn’t compliment a Safeway checker on her nice breasts or her nice toes or his nice shoulders, would you? No. Not unless you’re weird, you wouldn’t. And let me tell you, “voice” and “breasts” are in the same camp of intimacy. I don’t know why, but it’s true. TRUST ME.

To make matters worse, when you accidentally flirt with a Safeway checker at what feels like loudspeaker volume, you instantly feel like one of those lonely, 40-ish moms who, because her kids are finally in full-day elementary school, has the luxury of not pushing one of those stupid red car carts or hollering at her kids for trying to sneak the Lucky Charms into the car portion of the car cart. She can go to Safeway alooooone. Ready to flirrrrrt.

And then you realize, much to your chagrin, that on that particular day, you have dressed up a bit, not for the benefit of the well-voiced checker, but because you are going to Bible study, and while you are sure God wishes you’d spend more time cleaning up your potty mouth and serving those in need than you do buying EUC shoes on EBay, you feel better when you’re a little dressy.

Yes, I think I was probably also wearing a swishy skirt and perhaps a cheery scarf because a bit of color is nice in the dead of a Seattle winter when the whole world is the color of concrete and poi.

So of course, the moment I shouted my compliment over the Safeway PA system, I felt like maybe this guy thought I had dressed up for him, then ditched my kids and high-tailed it down to the Safeway, under the auspices of “buying groceries” when really my sole mission was aggressive, premeditated flirtation.

It was pretty much the only time I wished my kids WERE with me at the grocery store, because right as I realized the mistake of my overly-intimate compliment, I could have used my children as distractions.

I might have said, for example, something like, “Hey Buddy. This man has what we call “a radio voice,” meaning that he could easily do commercials and other nice things on the radio. Isn’t that cool? Wouldn’t that be cool to be on the radio?” and then Buddy would have nodded and said something like, “Yeah.” and then run off to join Sweetie at those tables of utter crap that they inevitably plead for as we are pushing the cart out of the store. That they really neeeeeeed the Moon Sand Excavation Simulator Easter Bunny Spraying Pool Toy. That it’s really the oooooonly thing they have ever wanted in their whooooole entire life! And this checker and I could have rolled our eyes and chuckled at the general goofiness of kids. And that would have been that.

But!

As he passed my bagels across the scanner, he gave me a very kind smile. “Thanks,” he said, blushing a little. “I’ve done a little radio . . . trying to break into it. It’s harder to do than most people assume.”

Well, shoot. Am I crazy, or was that just a very nice, very normal response to my compliment?

Perhaps this checker didn’t, in fact, see me as a lonely hussy trolling for men on a Thursday morning. Perhaps this is the first cautionary tale with a happy ending, which I suppose renders it just “a tale.”

Regardless, seeing him blush made me start blushing and there we two were, just a conveyor belt between us, in some sort of blush duet which just exacerbated both of our blushing, and man, talk about ripples!

Maybe not world peace ripples, true. But aren’t blush ripples a nice way to start? Because I think when you blush with someone, you create a bond, a connection with someone. And that is precisely how we get everyone to start being a little kinder to one another: we create bonds.

Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s a very, very small step. But I think even the smallest of steps is pretty good for a Thursday morning, especially whilst wearing cute shoes purchased (for a screaming deal) on EBay.

In fact, I think it’s just what The Dr. ordered.

Free

I might have also titled this post, “When Democracy Goes Terribly Awry,” or “You Have GOT to Be Kidding Me!” But as you know, I like to go with one-word titles. One-word titles make me feel chic and mysterious instead of what I really am: someone who has worn an inside-out shirt TWICE this week. I know!

So I like to go with one word blog titles.

Not to mention, there is a certain amount of judgement in the title, “You Have GOT to be Kidding Me!” and as I age, I am trying, often unsuccessfully, to be less judgmental.

But this post’s topic is, actually, about freedom. And how much kids have. And how much kids should have. The seed of this post comes from Public Radio’s This American Life, on January 14, one segment of which was based on The Brooklyn Free School, a delightful little intellectual utopia where, yes, democracy trumps all. A place where kids, age 5-18, have as much say and as much power as grown-up teachers who, presumably, have at least a little academic and professional experience regarding how to best educate children. And who, lest we forget, are GROWN-UPS. Did you catch a whiff of my judgement just then?

A bit of background: This American Life, if you are not a fan, chooses a theme each week. Ira Glass, the charming and affectedly nonchalant host, then moderates and/or narrates three to five “Acts” based on that theme. On January 14, 2011, the theme was “Kid Politics.”

ENTER The Brooklyn Free School, a paragon of democracy, a place that (according to the school’s mission statement on their website), is

. . . a true democratic school for children of all ages. Each child and staff member will have an equal voice in major decisions (and minor ones) affecting the day-to-day running of the school. BFS believes that all children are natural learners and they are fully supported to pursue any interest they have, in the manner they choose, at their own pace, and for as long as they want to, as long as they do not restrict any other person’s right to do the same.

BFS also believes the following:

There is no set curriculum except the establishment of an all-inclusive democratic system that runs the school, and the communication of that system to all members of the school . . . students are free to pursue their individual interests for however long they want and in whatever manner they choose . . . [t]here are no compulsory grades, assessments or homework. The students are in charge of their own learning and progress and are able to adequately assess themselves . . .

While certain parts of those paragraphs totally freak me out (I know; more judgement), I am intrigued by the concept. I taught public high school English before the arrival of Buddy and Sweetie, and I happen to believe that teenagers are about infinity times more capable and amazing than most adults assume. I believe that a largely democratic school, one where students feel valued and heard and empowered, is a neat idea. I, like the crunchy folks at BFS, believe that “all children are natural learners” and that kids learn more and learn better when they have a bit of intellectual freedom. I believe traditional classrooms are the absolute wrong place for certain kids.

But a place where students have “an equal” voice in all major and minor decisions that affect the school? That seems a little irritating, not to mention, inefficient. A few too many cooks in that educational kitchen. I know. Judgement.

Because, as This American Life went on to document a day in the life of a BFS student, it seems to be a place for kids who love meetings, sometimes up to six a day. Calling meetings, attending meetings, voting at meetings. There are meetings about screen time, meetings about classes kids would like to see offered, meetings about whether it’s acceptable to nap in class, meetings to decide whether This American Life should be allowed to do story, meetings with a fox in a box about socks. And yes, meetings about meetings:

So my very judgmental yet very sincere question is this: when do the kids, you know, actually learn stuff? Do some kids graduate from BFS without ever writing an essay? Without ever learning the quadratic equation? Without reading any Shakespeare or doing Chemistry or studying Picasso or running the mile?

And if they never do any of this stuff, does it matter? Is my life any better for having read a whole bunch of Shakespeare plays? Yes. But maybe that’s because I am weird.

OK, and what about a school that allows kids to learn at their own pace? That’s fine for someone like, I don’t know, Einstein. Or wee Elise Tan-Roberts who at age two years, four months, was reciting world capitals, hot on Einstein’s heels in the realm of Mensa. But when I picture my very own Buddy in a school like this, where his teacher might say, “What would you like to learn today, Buddy? Whatever it is, you can just take it at your own pace.” You know what Buddy would say? He’d say: “Farts. I’d like to learn about farts. And recess. How about this: I’ll learn about farts, but only when I’m NOT out at recess, except that I WILL be out at recess, all day, every day, because now I’ve decided I ONLY want to study RECESS, you sucka teacher-lady!”

I will not be coughing up the 15K annual tuition to send Buddy to such a school.

Yet one of the things I find most fascinating is the kids’ right to assess their own progress and skill. We are, after all, raising kids who are part of the Me Generation, a group of tots who are seen (by older generations) as narcissistic and entitled.  Here’s the sad thing: this Me Generation, AKA The Entitlement Generation, AKA the Trophy Generation (I know, there I go again), includes everyone born since 1970. AKA me, DOB 11/28/71.

In 2007 The Boston Globe published an article titled “The New Me Generation,” addressing this very topic:

Jean Twenge, a psychology professor at San Diego State University, says that this includes virtually everyone born after 1970. According to Twenge, these young people were raised on a daily regimen of praise and flattery from their baby boomer parents and from teachers who embraced a self-esteem-boosting curriculum that included activities like the Magic Circle game. Never heard of it? In this game, one child a day is given a badge that says “I’m great.” The other children then take turns praising the “great” child, and eventually these compliments are written up and given to the child for posterity. This constant reinforcement, argues Twenge, is largely responsible for those young co-workers who drive you nuts. At the University of South Alabama, psychology professor Joshua Foster has done a great deal of research using a standardized test called the Narcissistic Personality Inventory (NPI). The NPI asks subjects to rate the accuracy of various narcissistic statements, such as “I can live my life any way I want to” and “If I ruled the world, it would be a better place.” Foster has given this personality test to a range of demographic groups around the world, and no group has scored higher than the American teenager. Narcissism also appears to be reaching new highs, even within the Entitlement Generation, among American college students. Another national study involving the NPI, conducted by Twenge, shows that 24 percent of college students in 2006 showed elevated levels of narcissism compared to just 15 percent in the early 1990s.

So back to The Brooklyn Free School: it is these Gen Me’er kiddos who will asses and evaluate their own skills and progress? In a land where every kid gets a trophy for just showing up, in a society where kids are taught they are really fantastically wonderful just for breathing and blinking, I’m pretty sure that the BFS is going to be graduating a whole lot of Valedictorians (or, as Husbandio calls them, “Valevictorians”–the irony being that he WAS one).

This whole deal makes me assess how Husbandio and I are raising Buddy and Sweetie. We try to let them be who they are, within reason. They wanted to learn violin, rather than piano (my preference) so there I am, learning the proper bow hold and what one does with rosin and yes, there is ONE RIGHT ANSWER when the violin rental store lady asks, “And would you like to buy insurance?”

Any of you who have seen Sweetie knows that she tends to wear “bright” and “unique” outfits and lopsided, mixed-media hairstyles: one side pigtail, one “loopy thing” atop her head, and one braid. After I dutifully construct such a hair masterpiece, I watch her gaze at herself in the mirror. “I love it,” she says. “It’s perfect.”

Buddy, for his part, has decided he wants to attend a different Seattle Public School in the fall. So? Even though it means two kids in two schools, even though I have parents criticizing me for the fact that a different school means putting Buddy on the bus (the horror!), even though it means if there’s an earthquake or a nutball with a gun picking off students on campus, I am a 20 minute drive from Buddy, we’ve allowed him to make that decision.

But Husbandio and I get to make the call on what’s for dinner and how long the kids can play Wii each week and what they wear to church. When they shower. That they need to write thank you notes. That sometimes you have to say sorry even if you don’t feel very sorry. And you have to make it sound sincere.

Maybe if we had only had one kid, we’d feel comfortable giving that kid the chance to vote, but with two kids (and often only one parent present) a pure democracy would result in unlimited ice cream, no vegetables, no chores. Probably a coup as well.

It’s true that the idea of democracy is a little scary when you’re running a dictatorship. (Right, Hosni? Am I feeling you, Gbagbo?) But I don’t know; I kind of think a parent, a teacher, a coach sometimes just needs to play the role of dictator.

This, however, conflicts with the fact that Americans are crazy for freedom. We want the freedom to carry guns. We want the freedom to end a pregnancy. Me? I’d just like the freedom to take a shower without some small person coming in to give me the play-by-play of his recent Mario Kart race on the Wii.

But in my mind, there’s a limit to freedom. And, there’s a fine line between empowering kids and creating a whole nation of whiny dictators who have no respect for authority. Who don’t even acknowledge an authority exists.

What think you? Would our kids perform better in school if they had more choice, more freedom? Are there appropriate times to stifle a kid’s personality and creative freedom? Is it healthy or dangerous to teach kids that they have a voice, that their opinion is as important as that of an adult?

I really would love to hear your thoughts on this topic. You have no idea how much your comments mean to me.

Finally, on an unrelated note, I sincerely apologize for my lengthy blog silence. At the end of 2010, I was fortunate to get a fantastic agent who wants to try to sell my novel. So, for the past 3.5 months, I have forced myself to keep focused on her suggested revisions. I just sent the revised manuscript off yesterday so while she’s seeing if it’s ready to be put in front of publishers, I’ll be returning to the world of blogging, AKA, doing my duties as a Gen Me’er, one of a billion bloggers who assumes her ideas and thoughts are worth sharing with the entire world. How narcissistic of me! Finally, please excuse any and all type-os. My eyes are so bleary and SO SICK AND TIRED of editing my own writing that I’m tempted to sneak into the older generation, just so I can stop thinking of something other than ME and my own writing.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read.