Please, Please, Can we let the Yelling Stop!

(something I wrote over a year ago and just re-found and am posting)

We talked DNA this week. About height and skin color and the girls’ mild fear of inheriting my ear dimensions. Some stuff you can change, and some things are just the cards you’re dealt when your parents hooked up.

As parents it would be nice if children’s behavior and personalities were pre-wired by our DNA. We could just put our parenting on Autopilot. Feed them, pack them off to school, put them to bed. But luckily for our children, their own little personalities aren’t pre-destined. They may look like us, but they aren’t doomed to eventually become the boring parents they inherited.

So as parents: yes, we’re stuck with rolling with the complicated punches of raising them. Even as each new successive punch messes up the predictable pattern that made us feel like we were at last having some parenting successes.

Our early childhood parenting with them was more stressful, yes, but it was simpler too. Keeping our babies close, protecting them from the things they are not capable of understanding, despite sleep deprivation, was relatively easy. But as their height notches rose on our kitchen wall, so too, the outside pressures on our children accrued. So many outside influences beyond parental control enter the frame. The girl’s school closing. The death of a family member. Unemployment. Earthquakes and the threat thereof. Losing every single Under-6 soccer game we played this season. Did we win one game? I honestly can’t remember.

And then there’s that internal-sisterhood-dynamic. Havana and Ily are both very different and at the same time indistinguishable. Ily currently likes to sleep-in, Havana wakes with the sun. Yet Ily fights going to sleep and Havana treasures her sleep. Ily, at times, wants to be treated like the youngest and at other times demands to be treated as age-equal to her sister.

As sisters, they were born into two similar but different worlds. Havana was born to parents who knew little to nothing about parenting, at least that’s how we felt. Ily, as second child, faired better on that count. But Ily never had the individual attention her older sister had. The childhood bus don’t slow down and we're forced, as parents, to keep running after it. But two childhoods running simultaneously, constantly influencing each other’s behavior, is more complex than anything our imagination prepared us for.

These days, the main challenge to our parental patience is the yelling. Havana yells now and then, but for her younger sister it’s simply become common currency. Never in public, never with teachers, never with her friends. Only in the safety zone of her little family. Lucky us.

When your age dictates your secondary status in so many ways, a loud voice can sometimes help close that gap for you. When your mom or dad are running back and forth from fridge to stove to cupboard, then a whisper for attention will be deferred by the greatest of parents. However, chopping onions or raw chicken, can be dropped on the spot when that higher pitch of yelling bounces off the living room walls and hits you like a fire alarm.

Havana, when she was five, yelled far less, but then the social climate for her was different. And when Ily is yelling, while the crime of yelling in the court of family life is absolutely indefensible, the fault does not always lay with the yeller. The blame doesn’t always fall squarely on the yellees either. But we all suffer. Ily did not create her environment, she simply deals with it with the best cards she’s been dealt and her small tightly stretched vocal chords, in short, her scream, is still her strongest suit when in need of attention.

Generally, if we have the energy, the most beneficial and least damaging response is to look Ily in the eye and talk quietly to her. We might not get to the root of the issue, but we can at least do some good, quality, one-on-one. Bring everything down. So the chicken gets all dried out and rubbery and our flow gets undone.  Truth be known, this approach almost always works. And everyone can deal with a crappy dinner. A little intense eye contact goes an amazingly long, long way.

However, the angelic parents we all hope to be, aren’t always present in these small crises.

At other times, our endless patience is cornered, and the blood pressure is tested. So, instead of talking it down, we increase the decibels. It’s not our fault. We’ve got a spatula in one hand and an all-out yelling match between sisters on the other. Or worse, one has caused bodily injury to the other. So, naturally, we introduce the louder voice in the room. Enough! Enough! That’s always followed by that horrible disparate silence of those being shut up by someone bigger than them and our own silence as we face the fact that we are simply a bad parent. It feels like an awful use of hierarchical oppression. Not the most wonderful way to bond with your children, but hey, it does happens.

Eventually the girls will outgrow the yelling. Both of them will learn to exercise more restraint. Cooperation will increase. And yelling will be reserved for more important stuff. As parents, all we can do is throw down a few rough behavioral guidelines in our words and in our deeds. And hopefully as the girls age, they will learn how best to weather most of the emotional storms that come their way.

The most important thing of all, methinks, is that when they need to express strong feelings, they can always be angry to us, to their parents. Even when it’s not about us. When they’re not yet ready or comfortable yelling at the rest of the world, when their homework gets them down, when they’re pissed at how things are rolling with their friends, whatever the issue is, here at home, with mom and dad, this is the place they can always come and yell. That door will always and forever be open to them. 

And eventually our hearing will peter out anyway.

The World's Future: Brutality or Human Solidarity

When I got home from work yesterday Karen told me she heard on the morning traffic news that there was a back-up coming off the Bay Bridge coming into San Francisco. This is what happened.

In the distance I could see a dark figure walking right in between the two fast-moving lanes of traffic. For a brief moment I thought it was a guy working on the freeway. I instinctively pulled my truck to a stop. The car in the other lane did the same. This was the early morning commute with the sun barely creeping up. As the man walked past my passenger door in a zombie-like state, I jumped out, door ajar, ran around the front of my truck and caught him by the arm. Dude, you can’t do this. I held his upper arm. He kept walking, his feet continuing to shuffle. The traffic was now already backed up as far as I could see. I yelled at all the people in their cars to get out and help. I made eye contact with a couple of construction guys who pulled down their window. I need help here. The passenger jumped out. Hold his other arm, No I don’t know who he is. Brother we gotta get you off the freeway, what are you doing. In a quiet monotone voice he said I’m gonna kill myself. No, you can’t do that. We’re here, we’re gonna help you. The woman who stopped in the car next to me walked up to help us. I’ve called 911. She began talking to the mid-40s white guy, Jeffrey. Noticing her scrubs, I asked her if she was a nurse, yes, that was good. We walked him off the center of the road and the other construction guy pulled his truck and the nurse, her car, onto the half shoulder. One lane of traffic began squeezing through. The two of us never let go of Jeffrey’s arms. He wasn’t aggressive, he was in a daze, his feet wouldn’t stop shuffling on the spot. The nurse said the emergency dispatcher was sending someone to help. I crossed the traffic and pulled my truck over to their side. Cars began whizzing by, getting back up to 50 quite quickly. While we gently held each of Jeffrey’s arms, Lisa, the nurse, began talking to him face to face figuring out what his condition was, what his medications were. I asked did you come from the shelter, did you have any breakfast this morning, did they kick you out. Yes. I just want to kill myself. No, people care about you here, look, we’re here, we not going to let you do that. After several minutes it was clear no emergency help was on its way, the nurse and construction driver put on their hazards and drove slowly behind us as we walked Jeffrey down the ramp and off the freeway. Still, no ambulance. When we got Jeffrey onto safe ground I realized I had to go back up and get my truck parked tightly up against the side of the concrete barrier. This was by far the scariest part of the episode. Cars flew by a 50 or 60.This would be a good way to kill yourself, but you’d likely take some drivers out with you. I shuffled nervously along up against the concrete and finally waited for an opening to jump back into my truck to return to my comrades. We called again and again. Lisa was arguing with dispatch. No, there were no injuries. No, Jeffrey is not acting violently. Jeffrey, do you have any weapons, No, he has no weapons. We don’t need the police, we need an ambulance. This man has tried to kill himself.
My two construction buddies have to take off, their crew at work are waiting for them to be able to start work. I call my apprentice to tell him I’ll be late. Jeffrey, do you have any family. No. Any siblings. Yes, a sister. Where does she live. California. Do you know where. No. I had not let go of his arm this whole time. I rubbed his other shoulder. Dude, you’re alive and there a lot of us who are happy you’re alive.
Finally two San Francisco cop cars arrive with lights flashing. Two cops get out, one Latino male, one woman. He asks us what’s going on, I defer to Lisa, she’s a nurse she can inform you. Lisa explained the situation. The lead cop made no attempt to talk to Jeffrey or make any eye contact with him, as if he was something other than human, he simply went behind him and cuffed him. What are you doing. Tell me you’re not taking him to jail, Lisa protested. No, he whispered behind his back, Psyche. Why’re you handcuffing him, he’s not violent. Procedure.
Lisa and I walked back to our cars. Cold, that was so cold, they didn’t even talk to him. I know, it’s just so wrong.
Capitalism is brutal. All the resources that should go to help people who need help instead funds the mega palaces of the already super rich.
Jeffrey needs immediate love, friendship, and medical care.
But Jeffrey is alive and solidarity is what will save us all.

January’s Fever and the Killing of Songbirds

   It all began during those long timeless dream-dazed days in a house stricken by high fever. The national flu pandemic penetrated our family and hit us hard, felling everyone but me. There were days when everyone slept and some days when no-one slept.

The normal regulators of time: work and school, disappeared. Further more, the loss of appetite destroyed the marker of meal-times. Mail delivery marked the middle of the day. The school districts’ absentee call marked the end of the afternoon. The sun came up and went down.

Sometimes unable to move, the girls’ single comfort was to be read to. And so the days became like bedtimes, without end. Chapters turned slowly and pensively. Some story lines blurred as they fell into sleep and had to be told over another time.

We read the other Welsh Master of words, Dahl. Matilda. A 6-year old trapped and unloved by her greedy family, seeking to rebalance the world. The girls were especially captured by her first grade teacher, Matilda’s collaborator.

One of those January afternoons we took Matilda outdoors. The girls sat bundled up in blankets on the front porch, for the restorative healing of direct sun.

The day after Matilda we began Harper Lee. At first I read it only for Havana, but her sister eventually sided up to us on the sofa. Also written in the voice of a spirited first grader with an older sibling: Scout was tailor-made for Ilyana. Like learning a second language, Ily got the feel of the sentences and only now and then its depth. Havana listened more intently and missed very little.

As the girls’ fevers came and went, we read more. Age appropriate issues crept into the pages. We changed the unspoken N word into the word negro and the definition of rape was made very, very general. Boo Radley intrigued the girls as much as he did Scout, Jem and Dill. But our real challenge was to be with Tom.

Tom’s trial was coming and Tom’s death was already written, pages ahead. As the trial began, Jem and Havana were completely convinced that justice would inevitably prevail for Tom. Each of them still too young to untangle objective reality and subjective desire.

At this point both girls had returned to school. Mockingbird had become the first choice for bedtime, just as the storyline was no longer the last thing you’d want to hear before fading into your dreams.

The girls had each invested into the story. Each at their own level. Ily, who is more likely to express her anger, is also often herself unsure of her feelings. When Havana gets sad or angry, she knows exactly why.

But here we are as parents halfway through Tom’s trial. A friend even suggested we put down the book and leave it unfinished.

What, when and how to tell kids about the problems of the world depends so much on where our children are at and what they can process. We live on a block where we’ve had guns pulled on people, where swat teams have descended, and also where all the kids know each other and often play basketball in the street. The girls have the good fortune of going to schools where the majority of students are African American. They learned about Martin Luther King’s assassination in Kindergarten. They know who Rosa Parks and Carol Jemison are. Equally, they have friends who have siblings or fathers shot dead.

We did not tell the girls about the recent school shootings because it would not make sense to them. But Mockingbird made sense, even if it was not how they wanted the story to go.

We finished the story. The sin of the book’s title was committed; Tom was found guilty and then murdered by prison officers. Scout and Jem guardedly walked home in the darkness and Robert E. Lee Ewell got what was coming to him. And the unlikely hero stepped forward and retreated into darkness.

When I asked Ilyana about what she thought of Mockingbird, she said nothing. Two days later she asked me how to spell the word racist. A couple of days later she handed me a drawing of five stick people with picket signs, each one saying something about the wrongs of racism.

When I asked Havana how she felt about the book, she was direct. She was sad. Sad about Tom, but sad more than anything that Scout was gone. That the story was over. That there were no more chapters to be read. Scout is still with her, mixed in with all the other stories of our lives. With the fiction and the facts. With the imagined and with the unimaginable.