“We learned more in a three minute record baby, than we ever learned in school…”

-“Bobbie Jean,” by Bruce Springsteen

Good afternoon, friends. Today’s post is accompanied by Stone IPA, a beer out of San Diego. It’s tasty, but not as tasty as the next one I will have after this, which is Hop Burglar by Wicked Weed of Asheville, NC.  A shout-out to our beloved beer hound friends who gifted us after their road trip. Kinda going out of my Michigan zone today, but that’s okay. Beer is all good, as I’m fond of saying. 

Those of you who are on Facebook may have seen that I mentioned composing a letter to the editor yesterday, and to keep a look out for it in the local paper. The bad thing about submitting these kinds of letters is that there’s this pesky little drawback called editing. And in the hands of someone who is incompetent, one’s treasured words can be chopped up like hamburger. Trust me when I tell you that even though writers know this could happen, writers would also like to disembowel those who take such liberties. So I decided that along with some other commentary, I would include the letter in its’ entirety here. But first, a bit of backstory.

About seven years ago I wrote an essay about school awards night. I have revisited it a few times since and found it to be little more than a rambling eight page rant, but at the time of composing it I kept thinking, “Oh, this is good! This will show ordinary people what it’s like to sit through three hours of bullshit pomp and pageantry, watching the same Amanda and Zachary parade across the stage fifteen times, while the rest of us bimbos wonder what the &$@$ we’re doing here.” Re-reading the piece now I only want to edit and improve its’ message, because I’m much more removed from the emotions that held me hostage for ten years. I’ll try to weave in a little of what I was aiming for then, in this post. 

Some of you know of our family’s journey through reading the aforementioned essay, and from another one that’s in this blog’s archives. They both concern my experience as the parent of Danny: a wonderful, funny, loving kid who is cursed with learning disabilities. I originally wrote the awards essay not only as a means to vent my frustration, but to spread awareness to Mr. or Mrs. Joe Schmo about life in the D and F lane.  I might have accomplished that for a few people in my writing group, who were the first to lay eyes upon it, but even some of them were like, “huh?”  Writers tend to be a scholarly bunch (except for moi), and didn’t quite know what to make of my spin on an institution all of them aced through.

Then again when I think back, my husband wasn’t too impressed either. I remember he read it, and scrunching his beautiful blue eyes he said, “Well. It’s a bit…harsh.” I’m pretty sure I got mad and said something like, well this is MY story, this is our family’s saga, and it isn’t all sugar and spice. And then I probably stalked off to re-write. Dear God, it was anything but sugar and spice. A lot of the time, life sucked. 

The truth was I was angry, though time and distance have softened the edges.

In any case Danny graduated, and after battling in the bullpen I was burned out. I didn’t want the soapbox anymore, and I backed off the constant reading and research about school issues. I quit a job with the local intermediate school district (which I took to ostensibly help parents who might face what I had), partially because I felt like a fraud. I was becoming part of a machine that was helping to mold kids into what the school deemed as “ready”, rather than getting schools to meet kids where they were. I decided I would start writing instead. 

So the things that used to dig at me about how ignorant the public is regarding special education, about teachers who need to retire, and about what makes a good student or a successful-in-life student, I usually let go now. And then I read the lovely little newspaper article that, while perfectly nice if a bit boring, struck my dormant nerve. Why? It’s truly hard to explain if you haven’t done the walk in my moccasin deal. But I can tell you it’s the same prickly nerve that made me want to rear end every single minivan sporting a “I’m a proud parent of an honor student!” bumper sticker. I guess if you have one you’re safe from me, because I don’t see them where I live anymore.  

Anyway, I digress. A short synopsis: the newspaper story featured a senior who is the sixth person in his family to be crowned valedictorian in his class. Yes, that’s it in a nutshell. Nothing draconian or sinister here,  and so what’s wrong with giving some press to a hard working young man and his Einsteinian clan? Well, in theory, nothing, except that I’m not interested. And that’s the problem in our culture. We don’t see a problem with three hours of homework a night; we eat these accolades up like they’re candy, and frame them and caress them like lovers, and if we are PARENTS of the recipients? What a huge validation of all our efforts! Talk about hitting the Facebook motherlode! The stroking continues on and on, and nobody questions why it’s such a great feat to become an expert at filling in test circles if it means getting into one’s college of choice. 

Now, before you get your panties in a bundle, I know there’s more to a successful student than that. You may also wrongly assume I criticize those who post updates of their kids. Not so. If you’re obnoxious and prone to excessive bragging of any kind you’re not my friend, either on Facebook or otherwise. I love to see kids’ activities and their art, especially. We are all proud of our children and all they do, and rightly so. I am no exception. But it is long past time that we give a deep look into our priorities, and what we consider praiseworthy, and how to balance all of this with a serious dose of humility. And of course somewhere in there, shine a little light on the troopers who aren’t getting an audience, who nobody interviews because there’s nothing special to report.  Well, I know better, so anything goes. Maybe those nonexistent interviews will be ones I make happen.

Without further adieu, here is my letter:

Editor, 

I had a few reactions to the May 16 article in the HP, regarding Connor Reed being the sixth member of his family to become valedictorian. First of all, congratulations to him. He sounds like a good kid with a good family and a bright future ahead. Bravo. That being said, how does something like this make the paper and deemed newsworthy? Certainly the kudos should be acknowledged among family and friends, but what is the point of the community paper’s front page? To show the readers brainy people applied “gentle pressure” to brainy kids, who then graduated at the top of their class? To be brutally honest, I. Don’t . Care. 

Here’s one rub: for every kid that’s as seemingly well-adjusted as this one, there’s another ready to put a rope around his neck for fear of failure in the factories we call schools now. Check out the depression, anxiety and suicide rates for teens if you’re skeptical. So I don’t understand why we continue to glorify and trumpet academic accomplishments that in the end mean…what? Persistence and hard work pay off? No doubt about it, they do. But I am sincerely waiting for the news articles featuring teens who are persistently driving their grandparents to the doctor, or grocery shopping, or working a job to help their family, all while still facing three hours of NON advanced placement homework every night. Or babysitting siblings so a parent can attend night classes, or graduating themselves while in the throes of chemotherapy or another life threatening disease. How about this kicker? A kid who graduates in spite of learning disabilities or a horrific home life? You likely won’t hear about them because they are quietly going about their lives unrecognized, and wouldn’t have it any other way. They and their parents don’t want the participation medal, believe me. They are too busy with their heads down just getting through.

 Yeah, my son was one of those kids teaches dreaded. Unorganized, inattentive, “doesn’t try hard enough.” And before you accuse me of sour grapes, I will say this: I was too preoccupied, fighting like a tiger to see him graduate, than to worry about jealousy or GPA’s. Imagine that! Those days are thankfully over, but it still upsets me to think of the hordes of bright kids who get lost without that parental support. You know, the ones who aren’t trying hard enough? Our son, a smart, sweet guy, would’ve been squashed flat in the system, were it not for us and a select few dedicated staff. I don’t say this so I can get my pat on the back or day in the sun; I say it for the thousands who never will.

You want to talk about unsung heroes, interview the guidance counselors and students who accomplish things amidst adversity. Interview teachers who, rather than making jokey hints to kids about whether they can keep the family valedictorian legacy going, lay awake at night wondering how to make a calculus lesson work for students who will never, ever use it. Personally, those are the stories I want to read about. 

+the end. 

And that, my friends, is that. I really could write a book about what we’ve been through, what I’ve observed over the years. Maybe when this current novel-in-the-making is over I’ll consider it. I don’t know. A big part of me wants to show other people’s stories, so time will tell. Until next time, cheers. And an extra cheers to you if your kid gets all the bells and whistles in school. Just don’t be calling and trying to make a big splash at the Herald Palladium, or if I meet up with you in one of those gross high school bathrooms I might have to give you a swirly. 

…”I’m the sound of money washing down the drain,

I’m the pack of lies, baby, that keeps you sane,

I am your one true love that sleeps with someone else,

I am your Nemesis,

Baby I’m life, sweet life, itself…”

….Nemesis, by David Gray

Good afternoon, friends. Today’s post is accompanied by a delicious brew called “Michigan Stout,” put out by the delicious brewery Tapistry. Every ingredient has been culled from Michigan in some form, a concept you foodies out there go orgasmic for. Me, I don’t really care if the vine the hops come from is from Alaska as long as it tastes good. But I guess the Michigan ingredient thing IS kinda cool, and the bottle itself is way cool. Let me assure you this stout is very, very good, and it’s also fortunate that I don’t think twice about drinking something that looks like motor oil ( thanks for that description, Kristin K.). Plus, it’s a bomber! And I’m alone! Which means I can drink twenty two ounces all to myself. I know what you’re thinking. Uh-oh…drinking alone, isn’t that a warning sign? Well, I’d share if you were here with me. Which you kind of are, if you’re reading this. And anyway, I’m having….one of those days.

The lyrics above are from one of my favorite songs and songwriters, David Gray. And when I went for my daily trek with my pain-in-the-ass dog, I kept listening, because it hit so close to home. How many different ways do you feel overwhelmed by your every effort? More importantly, because of what you tell yourself?

This post is really dedicated to we “creative types”, but honestly, it doesn’t matter. I think every one of us has been gripped by the demons of self-doubt at one time or another. Well, except for my husband. How I have envied him for his lack of second guessing and his seemingly effortless confidence in his abilities and decisions. He just charges forward and doesn’t look back, and yet he is the least arrogant person I know. That, my friends, must be a gift from above, because I am sure the forces that fill one’s mind with uncertainty are from below.

So. I’m sort of in the throes of a head-banging thing with my writing. Most of you know I have embarked on a novel, and everyone close to me is very supportive. “That’s so great! You’re so talented! Good for you for going for it!” All comments appreciated and duly noted. But in the meantime, I’ve been hacking away at this monster (I’m calling it that today), for over a year. I’m more than halfway through a first draft, but have revised it a million different ways already, which you’re not supposed to do. You are advised by writing pros to just write, write, write, and get to the end. Then, go back and revise. Well, I can’t. I must have enough OCD in me that if something is off to me, I’m like a shark with a piece of a surfer in its mouth. I won’t let it go. So it’s back to my notebook and my computer to delete and move and re-do and obsess over scenes, ad-nauseum. And I feel such a lack of progress as a result.

This isn’t atypical, mind you. I belong to enough writer groups to know this is par for the course, and so is what I am feeling right now. Which is, namely, thinking I’m f$&$ing crazy for thinking I can do this. That spending hours sweating over paragraphs and dialogue is the most colossal waste of time known to Man, while wondering who in the f%#k is EVER going to read this other than my four friends and family, let alone find an agent, a publisher, a way to market it, etc. The negativity catapults if I find myself blocked, too. I start thinking, “you can’t do this because you’re too stupid. Only SMART people can put plots together that are engaging best sellers. You can’t even remember what you had for breakfast today, let alone get characters and story lines straight. You’re an imposter and an idiot all in one.”

I know, boo-hoo. Writers and artists in general are notorious for their insecurity, their narcissistic whining, weirdness, and inability to produce genius works without being soused or high, or heartbroken. Like all stereotypes, there is probably a grain of truth in there somewhere. I keep thinking I’m like the guy on TV…” I don’t ALWAYS drink when I write, but when I do, it’s…craft beer.” Now, c’mon. Don’t get all worried. If I drank whenever I wrote, I’d be half in the bag by ten AM. And back in bed.

I don’t know. I think the appeal of substances lies in their ability to kick out inhibitions and let inspiration in. Because artists are desperate for inspiration, wherever we can find it. And we are desperate to beat down the beast known as Resistance. Yes, there is a term for the self-induced head-banging I described above. Through one of my writer’s groups I discovered the author Steven Pressman, who wrote a book called, “The War of Art.” It’s a quick read, a fascinating book and I highly recommend it. Not just for artists, but for anyone who struggles with believing in themselves and their endeavors. So he coined the term,”Resistance,” as an evil force that has the strength to bury us, if we let it.  It is “the enemy within,” whose aim is to prevent us from doing our work. He doesn’t call it satanic, but he comes close.

In the book, the author refers to Hitler. Did you know that he wanted to be an artist? Neither  did I. He apparently had an inheritance and moved to Vienna, applying to the Academy of Fine Arts and went…nowhere. Pressman says, “Resistance beat him. It was easier to start World War two, than it was for him to face a blank canvas.”

Wow, I think. That must be some powerful thing, I think. And it is.

Resistance comes in the form of believing I am delusional for this undertaking, that I should just chuck this whole damned manuscript and go bartend and learn how to pole dance or something.  It comes in the form of dismissing any accolades, such as getting published in an anthology, and dismissing any positive reinforcements. In my defense, I will say this much: it’s not in my makeup to enjoy attention or praise, and I fear I have passed this down to my adorable sons. They don’t care for it, either. Perhaps there is a nirvana where humility meets assertiveness. Let us hope.

In any case I can’t let this Resistance force consume me, and if you have similar issues, you shouldn’t either. So I will use one of my weapons against this, which is prayer, to soldier on. I also believe in the power of my current story more than anything I’ve ever done, even as I get an ache from the head bang. I truly think it’s bigger than any of my little petty complaints, because its coming from a source that I can’t comprehend. And so maybe this belief will be my salvation. For I sit down day after day and not only am I trying to tune out Resistance, but the constant distractions of animals, Facebook and email. The good news is I have at least gotten myself disciplined to looking at electronic items twice a day only, so that’s a start.

I am at the end of my pint now,  and so it signals the end of my post. I ask for your prayers, if that’s your thing, to give me strength to continue on this journey. And if not, send some good karma my way.  May your heart be bigger than the thoughts that threaten to defeat you, my friends. A healthy bomber is a hell of a good defense, by the way.

Cheers!