Children: |
The youngest one is two years old. Yes, I know. My two older sons are 18 and 21. I have two daughters More…who came with my wife, both in elementary school, ages 9 and 11. I have had several other step-children and an adopted daughter (from India).
Here's an anecdote: Colin, my oldest biological son, now 21 and a junior in college in the San Francisco Bay Area, went to High School in the most politically liberal city in America ... Berkeley. Problem: He became a Republican at about age 10. It's lonely being a Republican in Berkeley High. Not P.C. at all. Plus he was the president of the Christian Club. Did I mention that Berkeley High has the most most athiest students per capita of any high school in America? the most two-Mom homes [to put things in perspective]? where abortion is an accepted means of birth control? So the kid had his work cut out for him. True to the rest of the persona, he started aligning himself with the NRA. Bought some Air-soft guns. Bought a shotgun and started going to the range and hunting. Now, if we had lived in rural Idaho or somewhere, no problem, right? But Berkeley? So he takes a photography course as an elective. Great teacher--half-Asian, like Colin [who was also president of the HAPA club]--and things started out very well. Then he got a fateful assignment: "Do a 3-picture autobiographical photo essay ... so the photos tell the story of who YOU are as a person right now." Colin took the assignment seriously. He turned it in on time, three black an white photos, mounted tastefully, etc. Then it was his turn to unveil the project to the rest of the class and the teacher. He goes to the front, takes off the cover, and there is an audible gasp. His 8x10 glossy photos show (1) his Bible on an American flag, (2) a picture of himself cloaked in darkness but with his ever-present black Oakland Raiders hat clearly visible above the shadow where his eyes are hidden, and (3) his black backpack with three Air-soft pistols lying on it. The teacher said, "Excuse me," to the class and left the room. A few minutes later, Colin was escorted by campus security to the Principal's office. His mother and I were both called. I was dating a lawyer, so after calling the ACLU [ironically, since Colin HATES them], I took "my lawyer" to the school. My talk to the school went something like this: "What? Isn't this Berkely, the epicenter of the FREE SPEECH MOVEMENT? What the hell HAPPENED to your guys? It was an ASSIGNMENT! He didn't bring GUNS to school, he brought a photo of three TOY guns! SUSPEND HIM? Are you insane? I want you to meet my lawyer!" Etc., etc. Needless to say, he got off with an explanation about why they had to take the steps that their policy dictated. Columbine and all that.
Okay, another anecdote, different son: My (now) middle boy, Robert, wanted to take a trip to China. His Mom's family is Chinese, so that's understandable. He heard that the school band was going to go there on an exchange with a Chinese high school. So he took up the oboe. He hated playing it. But he played it all the way to the Great Wall, and finished out the year in the band. ["One time at Band Camp ....]
One more ... about the 22 month old, Kevin: My wife, Alma, got me a harmonica on which I can still play the one song I ever knew on it [Ol' Suzanna]. I decided to teach Kevin how to blow into the instrument, but found that he could only hum through his nose while trying to mimic the sounds I made. So I tried blowing on his face which he soon picked up, and before you know it, he was blowing into the harmonica. A few days later--after a few accidental intakes produced sounds--and he was blowing both in and out. He liked it and played lots of in and out notes, standing up, kind of gyrating to his own inner beat. He watches the Wiggles and dances better than I do by imitating them ... "Put your fingers in the air and twist your feet," and so on. So then he was ready for his concert. When Alma and I and Kevin's sisters, Grace and Allyssa were all assembled in the living room, Kevin picked up his harp and let loose a long out blowing, and then a short in, two outs, three ins, and started varying the length of the sounds, and the strength of the blowing, bending and moving his shoulders while his little feet remained planted firmly. Up comes his head, the harmonica moving back and forth, the sounds start making like jazz, some kind of musical sense is being made, and I'm getting it. He's PLAYING ... not a tune, of course, but a thing. His thing. It's good. He knows it's good. One last long blow, bent almost double, facing the floor ... then he just stays there, waiting. Silent. The piece is over. And we all get that the piece is over. Then he bends his knees, still bent over facing the floor, places the harmonica on the ground and back up--smiling ... and applauding ... and signalling to us that it is time for us to clap, too. We do. He repeats these performances whenever he feels like it. When his brothers come over, for friends and neighbors.
So we go to Florida to visit my folks. We have a long layover in Atlanta. People are bored and sleepy. Kevin deserves to be allowed to walk around, so we risk letting him out of the stroller. He has been saying "Hi!" to everyone who passes by, everyone walking down the airport corridor ... hundreds of people. He has this smile. People respond. So he's walking around the little area we've carved out and he sees this young Black guy sitting alone nearby, wearing dark sunglasses, with headphones on--but making no movement to whatever he was listening to. This guy has a black cap on that goes sideways. He's all dressed in black, and had not yet looked up to smile or acknowledge us in any way. He seemed unfriendly to me. But Kevin, seeing the open seat next to the young man, walks up to him and says one of the only words he knows, the old faithful "Hi!" which he has said at leaast a thousand times today. The young man takes off his earphones and with a big smile, returns "Hi!" Kevin climbs up next to him and starts jabbering the unintelligible sounds of a pre-verbal toddler, smiling in the way that makes even the Grinch smile back. He engages the young man in a kind of exchange, so that he can't resist and finally asks me questions about Kevin ... how old is he? is he always so friendly? And I say, "He plays the harmonica" ... handing the thing to Kevin. Kevin scoots off the edge and centers himself in front of his new friend and begins to play some of his own kind of jazz. Long pauses, bending way over, leaning way back, long silences with the instrument held tightly to his lips, sounds, silence, sounds, bending, twiching at the shoulders ... it's all very cool. The guy and all the people around are watching this kid like he's from Saturn or somewhere. When Kevin's done, he does his trademark signal that the number's over by placing the harmonica on the ground. He, his friend, his amazed family and everyone else starts clapping.
An hour later, we're walking down past the other gates ... no hand-holding--that would slow him down too much. Kevin is holding his harp, scuttling along, looking at everyone, pointing, saying, "Hi!" when he spots a young Marine sitting against a pole on the floor, his buff camo pack supporting his back. Kevin approaches. The Marine smiles and says hello, and Kevin gets into position, unbidden, and lets loose with another evolving rendition of his version of the song of a frisky young whale, singing for an older boy about to go off to war. Something about that image makes tears come as I write this. This boy of mine and the way he seems to know something I have long ago forgotten.
One more: I have a stepson, Scott, who served in the FIRST war in Iraq. When he was overseas I wrote a poem about it. [out of space] See "POSTSCRIPT #17" in the COMMENTS section, below. |