Benevolence

I was listening to NPR the day after the earthquake struck Haiti.  A man was praising the worldwide empathy for their situation.  Indeed, the media reached out and touched the world with imagery and narratives of suffering and bravery and strength; and in turn reports of great generosity from individuals and countries poured in.

Then all of a sudden this man turned around and decried his shock that it has taken a devastation of this magnitude to bring aid to a country that has been in a perpetual state of devastation for years. 

If I should be in an extraordinary situation and need assistance, I would feel honored if a perfect stranger made sacrifices to help me.  Humanitarianism can be a wonderful thing; but the idea that I am responsible for the needs of billions of other people is deeply offensive to me.  And let’s face it – there are billions; it’s not like Haiti has a monopoly on suffering by any means. 

I don’t think it’s selfish to say that a person’s first obligation is to himself.  Life begets life.  If I were to exercise even the smallest measure of generosity, I can’t do it if I am unhealthy (or dead).  If I don’t raise my son right, there is every indication that he will grow up to be an egomaniac incapable any empathy (let alone altruism) towards others.  Those responsibilities alone are gargantuan – and that’s only two of them. 

My society has organized itself according to a modicum of generally accepted morality that, enough of the time (because it’s not a perfect system or even a perfect world), precludes corruption.  Therefore, if I abide by general rules of right and wrong and live my life guided by some sense of conscience, then I should be able to conduct a respectable, responsible life.  If I can do that then I will have leftover time, energy and money to do good for others.

Other societies have access to intelligence and conscience and philosophy and history; but if they choose to run their governments carelessly – not thinking things through, not acting for the greater good, not taking into account the nature of humanity, and not studying the lessons of history – and large numbers of people suffer as a result, how can that schmuck on NPR justifiably make that my problem?

It seems to me that simple, periodical acts of generosity can create a snowball effect.  If I do a small act to help out a neighbor in need, he will be able to do the same for his friend; and that friend to another friend, exponentially increasing the pool of benevolence until it reaches someone like Dale Andreatta who is in the business of creating inexpensive, efficient stoves for every 3^rd world country inhabitant in order to create a better quality of life.  (Apparently half the world still cooks on fires, which have toxic health effects.  Fuel efficient cooking will reduce the consumption of fuel, and reduce the carbon impact on the earth – fascinating article in the January edition of The New Yorker.)

I haven’t make any donations in the name of any disaster relief ever.  On the other hand, I do little acts of good every day.  I’m proud of that.

Daunted

I’ve mentioned before how I have a great passion for the performing arts; how I grew up immersed in the arts and how I dabbled in all forms of dance, theater and musical instruments; how I feel more at home on a stage in front of hundreds of people than in a room with just 2 people; how I do not know what a runner’s high feels like, but I know what it is to be one with music; and how none of these facts ever bore any fruit that could even euphemistically be referred to as talent.

Part of the reason for this is that my muscles never fully developed.  I had a celiac-type condition for over 20 years of my life without being treated for it – which is to say, I was ingesting a harmful substance for decades without realizing its detrimental effects.  My first solid food as an infant – buckwheat soba noodles – was the beginning of a slow poisoning. 

The result is that my body always fell short of what my mind wanted it to do.  (I got through pregnancy, but I could barely carry my son after he was born.  Physical therapy revealed that I was literally skin and bones – my forearms and hands were completely devoid of any muscle development.  If I had a tendency towards contortionist positions, it was overcompensation for muscular weakness and not, as I had thought, a lack of discipline.  The chiding I had to endure as a result is quite a pity.)  Practicing anything – be it dance, clarinet, ukulele, voice or sports – has always been (and frankly, still is) an exercise in perpetual frustration.

Practice also has the quality of never quite being finished – because even for the most disciplined and skilled of practitioners there is always room for improvement. 

This morning, [which, by the time this is published, was over a week ago] while I was in and out of sleep between snooze-button depressions, I heard snippets of an NPR interview about a musician and his daily practice routine.  In a haze of half-sleep I realized unwittingly, that I am deeply motivated by a sense of accomplishment.  I need the satisfaction of tangible completion:  the empty in-box, the red rubber stamp, the start of a new fiscal session.  Moreover, I am de-motivated by endless cycles that regurgitate into themselves, that have no clear point of finality.  In that sense, as a student, I much preferred writing papers over taking exams:  I could keep pounding away at a paper until I sealed it with the final period and sent it to print; but at what point is one really done studying for a test?

My sense of persistence was felled on two fronts:  mental habits and physical limitations.  Would I have succeeded in my passions in the absence of even one of these barriers?  It’s hard to say.  They have both proved to be daunting. 

On the upside, though, nothing has stopped me from writing.

Idealism vs. Reactionism

At the age of seven I was as meek as an abused puppy.  (Incidentally, I did not inherit the earth.) My 7-year-old son suffers from the exact opposite affliction – and believe me, his is an affliction – of arrogance and over-confidence.

For a long time I thought this was partly generational.  I teach high school, and kids run around nowadays talking about condoms and safe sex, a tampon perched above the ear, questioning authority in ways that I would never have dreamed possible as a youth.  (Disclaimer:  I attended a conservative private parochial school from the 6^th grade.)

Don’t get me wrong – I am glad to know there are girls who “still carry their V Card.”  But, even though I am as liberal as a person can get (do whatever consensual, private act you want; there is no absolute morality; keep the government out of our homes; go Seth MacFarlane!), this behavior still catches me off-guard every once in a while. 

So my son will curse when something doesn’t go his way (sh*t – oh, the horror!), and stuff “pisses” him off; and I can’t believe he has the, well, the “balls” – his words – to speak that way in front of his mother (even though the intent is clearly to force a reaction out of me).  The irony is that, while my mother never held her tongue when I was growing up (a filthy mouth she had), some social force bound me to the rule that, come what may, children do not regurgitate that language in the presence of their elders.

My son, apparently, is bound by no such social force.  He is fearless and unapologetic.

Generational differences, however, apply as much to parenting trends.  My mother wasn’t quite the conscientious mother in the sense of applying the latest trendy social theory of child-rearing – she just followed wherever her personality and her mood took her.  And her mother was, to put it succinctly, Japanese.  (If you haven’t caught the gist of my childhood via innuendo, it was full of accusations and negativity and comparisons to younger, smarter, more talented kids and all that other good stuff that can beat the crap out of the emotional development of a child.)

I, on the other hand, have studied childhood development in the Teacher Education Program.  I have read the theories and followed the studies and analyzed the data and critiqued the results; and I have applied all these wonderful nuggets of information to parenthood. 

Therefore, I don’t resort to corporal punishment; I avoid negative commentary; I use the first person as a power pronoun (I don’t like your behavior) and the second person as a praise pronoun (you read so well!); I cut out all the swearing and yelling; I ask only deliberate questions that require thoughtful answers; I make statements rather than accusations; and I am as patient as the day is long (most times).

But the end result is that, whereas I was a “good,” controllable, acquiescent, obedient child, my son would bet money against the devil any day of the week, and very possibly win.

Somewhere, wedged between foolish idealism and careless reactionism, there must be a parenting technique that will nurture a child to some compromise between a submissive disappointment and an exasperating tyrant.

A pointless travail

One of the qualities I love about the school I currently work at is its ethnically and socially diverse faculty; there are blacks and “haoles” and Filipinos and Japanese and Chinese; and FOB’s and locals and mainlanders and accents of every sort to be heard.  It’s always interesting to look and listen as I walk across the campus.  This morning, on my way to the front office, I said good morning to a half-a-dozen people, who returned the greeting. 

As I was about to enter the office, W., a science teacher, opened the door on his way out.  I said good morning to him and he said nothing; he didn’t even look at me.  (Now that I think about it, when I helped his mom jump-start her car a few months ago, he didn’t look at me then – or thank me – either.)

W. looks pure Japanese – by his demeanor I’m guessing a very young sansei.  I mention the Japanese part only because I’ve experienced this behavior before.  The faculty of the school I taught at 3 years ago had a completely homogenous faculty – quite literally all local Asian, and mostly local Japanese.  For two years, nobody outside of my department gave me the time of day.  What W. did to me this morning happened to me on a daily basis at that other school.

Now, I can understand not liking someone for whatever reason; or judging someone by their first impression.  It is fair that a shamelessly bald woman would arouse suspicion or confusion or even cause one to take offence – visually, I imagine I am rather like an unexpected bucket of ice-cold water to the face. 

On the other hand, to ignore someone who makes eye contact with you and takes the time to say hello is, as far as I’m concerned, nothing less than boorish. 

The world is in the dénouement of a cultural collision.  With every passing decade more people have more access to farther places.  To my mind, mixing people together can be like making a wonderful, complex soup whose flavors will be new and unexpected.  However, even if a person does not enjoy this diversity, it doesn’t make sense, in this world as it’s evolving, to barbarically reject it outright. 

The person who succumbs to that urge to denigrate human variety – to pound down the nail that sticks out, as the Japanese saying goes – will occupy the rest of his life in an increasingly pointless travail, like a sweaty old man who stupidly persists in filling a sieve with water.

Romeo

Consider the following words:

• Analogue
• Intrigue
• Prologue
• Rogue
• Segue
• Synagogue
• Pedagogue
• Demagogue
• Catalogue
• Dialogue 
• Fatigue
• League
• Morgue
• Plague
• Vague
• Vogue

Now consider the following word – the surname made famous in Romeo and Juliet:

• Montague

That word is strangely mispronounced by every person I’ve ever met; and yet its prounciation – two syllables only – is predictable and logical.

Consumption

My son is due to leave in approximately 4 weeks. It may be more than a year before I see him again. Sometimes he makes me so crazy sometimes that I can’t wait for him to go. But then he says something sweet or witty or profound or loving, or he hugs me and I can’t imagine him going. I cannot predict what direction my life will take.

Sometimes I think that my son saved me from myself; in the dark days after my divorce my son – and the sense of responsibility I felt towards him – gave me a reason to maintain a certain modicum of existence. Will I fall into a slovenly lifestyle when he’s gone? Or will I be set free? The daily burden of responsibility will be lifted, certainly; and I also will no longer be beholden to my son’s grandparents – the conditional generosity of those who only give when they get what they want in return.

Will I drink more because I can? In the absence having to measure up to societal and familial standards of motherhood, I may conceivably drink less.

Will I become more selfish, more self-absorbed? Or will I end up taking my new-found time to take better care of myself physically, dietarily and mentally?

Will I become lazier because I have no one else to live for? Or will I become more ambitious because I have more control over the details of my life?

Will I become sloppier because I don’t have to think about anyone else? Or will I become neater because I have more control over my life?

Will I still have insomnia? Well, it depends on what has been causing my insomnia – is it my job? Or is it my son? Will I fall asleep in peace knowing that my daily well-being is not being threatened by the minutiae of childhood crises? Or is it his grandparents who never offer me any reprieve from fault?

Will I be lonely or will I enjoy my freedom? Will my spirit recover from the daily hammering of abuse? Or will my sorrow consume me?

Anatomy of a divorce

My son asked me the other day why I divorced his father.  He has no memory of us ever being together, because we separated when he was a toddler; but he had a theory about why we split up… which I can only presume he got from the ignorant inuendo of my father-in-law, who thinks he knows everything.   His [father-in-law & son] gist was that I was at fault.

Not that I’m not.  But neither was my ex.  Here’s how I see it.  I am a stupid person with lots to learn.  And boy have I learned a lot in the past 5 years.  I married at 25.  I expected things to be done for me.  I hated doing the dishes, but I also hated having dirty dishes in the sink – so I insisted that my husband do them.  This rule applied to all the other things I hated doing, which is a list too long to even consider.  I understand how I acquired this attitude (my mother did everything for me, whether she had to or not), which is a reason more than an excuse.

When I separated from my husband I realized that dishes don’t get done unless I do them; among other things.  I was a single mother and led a devastated life, startled by all these things that I suddenly had to do for myself.  Not that it was pleasant, but it was a necessary lesson for me.

For his part, my husband never complained.  He worked hard all day and came home and did everything I told him to do.  I don’t blame him for becoming angry with me.  His responsibility, however, was to tell me how he felt.  Nevermind that men are stereotypically non-communicative.  Previous to getting married everything had been taken care of for me; that was the lifestyle I had come to expect.  I deserved to be informed that this was unreasonable; and he deserved to be treated with respect.  That he did not stand up for what he deserved is his shortcoming.

In a way I am a better person for our divorce.  But I think it could have been possible for me to be a better person while still being married if he had taken responsibility for his own feelings.  In any case, I will be a better mate for whoever follows in his wake.

Creation

The French numbering system is truly an academic exercise.  So it is forgivable if my students’ attention is waning at 2 o’clock in the afternoon while I explain that after 60 the French numbering system switches from base 10 to base 20.

“Josette” is one of my brightest French students.  Once my explanation was complete, she retorted mockingly, “geffum”, which is a Hawaii colloquialism.  In a moment of inspiration I wrote on the board:

I understand it.

I get it.

I get them.

I get ‘em.

I geff’um.

Geffum.

As the evolution of language unraveled before my students’ eyes, thus arose a rare moment of complete attentiveness:  they were now privy to the special process of creation – the rise of a language.  We were Darwinian linguists watching evolution in motion.

Vermin

I told my mom that I am moving to the mainland this summer.  She handled it calmly, although my leaving, it turns out, is not really what upsets her.  It’s my son’s departure (to Europe to live with his dad) that she is upset about.  She suggested that I leave my son in her custody and keep it a secret from the other grandparents, whom she despises.

Even though she regrets not being a good mother to me, she promises she will (somehow, magically) become a good parent to my son.  But as I look at the way she conducts her life, the idea of leaving my son in my mom’s custody is even more appalling than allowing him to live with his paternal grandfather.

• She has 30-year-old bottles of calcified spices in her kitchen, and ginger root sitting on the window ledge that is so old it collapses into powder when you touch it.
• She lackadaisically suggests that maybe my son doesn’t have to go to school every day.
• I had to threaten her to make sure that she allot time for my son to get his homework done every day.
• She can’t smell spoiled food. 
• She’s let my son eat cat food.
• She smacks and pinches my son when she can’t control him (even though she never once smacked or pinched me).
• Every drawer in her house opens to a scurry of vermin. 

She also hasn’t filed a tax return in well over ten years – which suggests to me that she takes responsible action only when it suits her.  And how does that kind of behavior translate into molding a young boy into a decent human being?  Well, it doesn’t.  I didn’t want to say it to her face, but her lifestyle is disgusting and indulgent.  And I’ll be damned if I ever give custody to her.

A Star Wars Conflict

Years back I became friends with one of my adult education students – a woman exactly my age.  Over the course of our conversations I mentioned that I have been on high blood pressure meds since I was 23.  She said that she had also been on blood pressure meds from a young age, and that she miraculously stopped needing them once she cut all ties with her mother.  Her mother, she explained, was abusive.  She hadn’t seen her mother in years and had no regrets.  She had no intention of ever allowing her children to know her mother.

I feel angry about how my mother treats me, but abuse is a strong word that I hesitate to use.  Abuse suggests a certain cruel physicality, but my mom really doesn’t wish harm on anyone.  I see in her – beneath a layer of self-absorption – a basically good person. In fact, she was inordinately self-sacrificing towards her own parents, despite the emotional baggage (some of it unforgivable to my mind) that they left in their wake. 

So if she is a hoarder and her apartment is piled to the ceiling with crap, both literally and figuratively (she has a cat), I try to suspend judgment.  And if she sees malice in every stranger that turns the corner, and borders on clinical paranoid schizophrenia, I take pains to bite my tongue.

But while rummaging through some old journals, I realized that I have been fretting over my mother – her audacity – for decades.  She gives her opinions 1) at every opportunity 2) with unfounded authority 3) on issues that are none of her business.  She once ordered for me at a restaurant, touting that she knows what I want better than I do.  She once told my doctor that I was sexually active, even though she has never been privy to that kind of information.  Arrogantly – and perhaps even naïvely – she believes these things that she says.

I love her and am thankful for what she has given me; I empathize with the fact that her life was decidedly unfair, starting from infancy.  Every once in a while I even feel grateful that she has given me life.

But I don’t like how she imposes her will onto decisions that are mine to make.  And I don’t like the implication that choices that are not in her best interest are acts of betrayal against the family.

My son goes to Europe next month; and soon I will buy my one-way ticket to the mainland, nevermore to return.  It feels like the ultimate Star Wars conflict between good and evil, treachery and loyalty, and the search for one’s own identity.  Does Luke Skywalker betray familial bonds to pursue what he believes is right?  To have to face such a choice – a double-edged sword with a treasonous consequence at every swipe – is vicious and inhumane.  And if he is genetically fated to be like his father should he perhaps not even fight it? 

Everyone who knows me more than casually has listened to me complain and pine and guilt over my mother. Regret and doubt plague me – especially when I look at happy pictures of my mom and my son together.  I have spent my life kicking this dead horse, and the emotional anguish has morphed into disease. 

It’s time to cut my losses, make the hard decisions and live with the repercussions.  Life leaves behind casualties, I reflected today.  Unfortunately, the reality is that there’s nothing much to be done about it.