bad parenting anecdote

The other day, my wife and I took our daughter to a playground to meet a little friend.

The two girls, my daughter Daisy and her friend C (won't use her whole name for privacy's sake), walked off to a grassy field near the playground. I followed them to keep an eye on them, keep them safe, etc. They asked me to play with them, though they didn't know what to do exactly. I suggested a game in which I attempted to run to the top of a small platform at the end of the field, while they tried to tag me before I got there.

I began to run, dodging and moving in circles as they chased and laughed, and eventually I slowed down for them to tag me. At that point, my daughter Daisy said she wanted to try to run to the platform. She began, and I feebly chased her while letting C pursue her. C and Daisy are very similar in that they are very tentative in "tagging," preferring observation and reflection to quick action. In any case, Daisy -- not so fleet of foot -- did manage to get to the platform before C could tag her. C, blissfully unaware that her tag meant little after Daisy had arrived at the top, tagged her and smiled several seconds after Daisy's triumphant ascent. Daisy asked if she had "won," and I said, well, yes, she got to the platform without being tagged.

C began to wail in sadness, crying in disappointment over her "loss." I felt terrible for her and so said, "Well, no, C DID tag Daisy so she didn't lose." But then Daisy responded, "But that means I lost!," and she began to cry. Two weeping children were the result of this seemingly innocent "game"! I feebly attempted to fashion a narrative in which both children had won. It had limited effect; Daisy had stopped crying, but poor C (very tired, I think) was inconsolable. Luckily her dad came by and soothed her, but it was horrible to see how happy kids can be one instant and made miserable the next.

Now, many people would respond that this is just what happens with kids. At worst, this is a kind of funny story of an inept Dad stymied by two irrational kids. However, I think there might be more to the story. Everything was fine until the element of competition -- of winning and losing -- was artificially introduced. Daisy and C both felt crushed by the idea that somehow they had failed or been bested. I can't help but think back to my reading of Alfie Kohn's "No Contest," a book which argues, claiming the authority of verifiable empirical evidence, that competition is inherently destructive of relationships and confidence and in fact -- contrary to cliches -- does NOT make us better at tasks or more productive, that (in fact) it most often decreases productivity and worsens individual and group performance.

I know many would disagree with such a statement, as we are often wedded to the idea that competition brings out the best in us or gives us incentives to achieve, even that it's "ingrained" in us. Whatever the case may be, Kohn does a pretty thorough job both providing mountains of evidence to challenge (in most cases refute) that notion and showing that claims for the value and efficacy of competition have virtually no verifiable evidence behind them. I don't know if Kohn is right -- in order to endorse his views, I'd have to read responses to his work and arguments on the other side, which I have not. Plus, the book is decades old and may well have been challenged or debunked.

So I don't know if competition is inherent or if it's good or bad for us. However, this anecdote (and it's just one, of course) seemed to support the argument that the introduction of competition can disrupt or corrupt a healthy situation, making me wonder how much frustration and sadness kids feel simply because we impose such structures on them without thinking.

Or maybe the kids were just tired....

my father, sixteen years later

Today is the sixteenth anniversary of my father's death. I don't usually mark the day much, or too overtly. Yet I'm trying to think a bit more about it, perhaps because I'm a father myself now, giving me maybe some partial insight into and appreciation of the challenges my dad may have faced in life, at least as a parent and likely in other ways as well. Also, I'm approaching an age finally that I can start to imagine my father inhabiting. That is, I am 39, approaching 40, of course. He was 41 when I was born, and my earliest memory of him is at age 45. This means that for most of my life I could never picture him at all vividly as anything but someone appreciably older than I was. But that is beginning to change. It's a bit easier to imagine him as a 39 year old man that as, say, a 28 year old.

I feel forced to admit that I don't conciously think much about my father anymore. I don't assume others experience the death of a parent this way, but as the years pass he simply seems increasingly remote, as more and more of my life story involves elements of which he could have no knowledge and in which he could not participate. This is saddenning sometimes, to be sure. I find myself driving through places familiar to him (like the peninsula) and wonder both what thoughts he may have had on these very same roads and what he might think of me or make of my life now, were he alive. Yet these are kind of interstitial moments between long stretches of time in which the current world presses so hard that there's little time for memory, and what time there is may get devoted to memories that have little to do with him. This latter point makes sense when I realize that I left home for college when I was 17 -- 22 years ago -- and never really lived most of the time with him again (whereas I did move back home and live with my mom for nearly two years after he died).

Sometimes I think my detachment from his death and my loss of a parent is not simply a matter of the passing of time. Rather, I sometimes wonder if I never really fully experienced his passing. He died while I was living in Santa Barbara. I received phone calls and came up to San Francisco as soon as I could. But I hadn't seen him in months, so he seemed to kind of slip out the door, in a sense. I remember experiencing panic several time the day he died and a day or two after. Also, I think I could reasonably have been called depressed for the year or so after he died, though it was easy to attribute that to working crappy jobs and not knowing where my life was headed at that point. I don't think I ever really grieved. I forced myself to stay whole and not give in to tears, even immediately after. I'm not sure why; I'm not sure it was intentional. But I do think it means something got skipped in me like a line from a song on an old record player.

I don't have any romantic memories of some fatherly heroism or dynamism. Many people seem to have such high-gloss memories. I think those memories are actually probably basically accurate. That is, I don't think it's some greater realism on my part that makes me see my father in some realistic or unsentimental light (I'm terribly sentimental, though my sentiment fastens itself on odd objects, I think). Rather, I believe my father did not make that kind of impression, that he did not fit easily into the stereotypical all-American capable father image (however true or false in general). His was not a "big" personality in that sense. But I think that was his very strength. In a way, I remember him as relentlessly ordinary, with little inclination for the sublime or ambitious, qualities that may seem -- I guess "are -- at odds with my choice to study Romantic poetry and perform heavy rock music well into adulthood. There's no doubt that I've pursued goals that my father would never have considered for himself.

Yet, perhaps strangely to some, he allowed and in unglamorous yet powerful ways helped me pursue those very goals. Those who know me well have heard the stories about how he bought me my Les Paul when I was 15 (he had to walk into Guitar Center on a Saturday with his coat and tie with me among all the 80s era long-haired musicians -- he could not have been very comfortable, but he did it for me), how he rode BART with me to my first metal concert (and waited in Oakland while I went to the concert so he could ride back home with me), and how he took me on countless trips to the game store that sold Dungeons and Dragons merchandise. These were only the beginnings of what he helped me do. I didn't even think to mention how he helped in my path toward the advanced literature degrees I ended up with.

I don't know if he ever wondered where the fat little kid who liked electric guitars and orcs but who couldn't glue things together or write legibly to save his life came from. I'm not sure he troubled himself with such a question. (Maybe that's the kind of question that I narcissistically consider.) I think he just did what he thought he should do as a father. I really don't want to lapse into some corny story of his kindness or make him out to be perfect, because he wasn't (and who could really love a parent who was perfect [if such a person could exist] anyway?). But I do think his actions have value to them. They show a kind of day-to-day ordinary selflessness, a kind of love for one's child that resists imposing one's own ideas on him or her. It's true my dad did do a lot of things with me that HE liked, like going to Stanford football games, etc. Yet when I stopped being interested, he just let me stop and move on to something else that was part of my own vision of what to do. It seemed relatively easy for him to do that. I wonder if it really was so easy, and I wish I could ask him.

Returning to my blog

I don't know if anyone will still be reading this blog, as I have not posted in over a year. I thought it might be time to put this venue back into use, for what purpose or addressing what issues, who knows?

It is, nominally, a blog about the mundane. I suppose I live in one of the more mundane spots of San Francisco, a fact in which I take great pride (tinged with spite, maybe). The Sutro Heights area, near the VA Hospital, is really not mundane at all -- at least not as mundane as the flatter, more standardized Sunset, in which I grew up and which I also love. In fact, we're mere steps from the Land's End Trail, part of the beautiful Golden Gate National Recreation Area. Yet as much as I love that area, right now my favorite part of the neighborhood is outer Clement Street, the stretch that runs from about 33rd Avenue out to 45th, right by the Lincoln Park Golf Course. In late afternoons, it's lovely to walk east or west on Clement Street, looking down the avenues on Golden Gate Park and the western half of the city. You can see nearly the entire SF coastline down to somewhere around Pacifica and the spires of various, mostly Catholic churches that rise amidst the Richmond and Sunset residential neighborhoods. For me it's a mild, mostly residential cityscape soaked in memories of my childhood, awkward adolescence, summers home from college, the wrenching and confusing years of rebuilding after my father's death, and now the last nine years here in San Francisco with Sarah and (more recently) Daisy.

Projecting my thoughts about my life and my past onto this view makes me think of past times elsewhere, and all the neighborhoods, views, and walks that were important to me in other places. I'm kind of doubtful about the prospects of an afterlife, by in my mundane way, I've tried to imagine it as a world of my favorite neighborhoods from different towns all mixed in with or right next to each other, so that I could walk from downtown Eugene right into the inner Sunset, and then over to the Nines in Ithaca, then a coffee in Isla Vista and finally back to my Richmond District apartment, outside of which I'm pushing an excited pink-and-white helmeted Daisy on her new red, yellow, and blue tricycle, just too happy -- both of us -- to be pedaling around the block at 45th and Point Lobos right before the sun goes down. I myself took years to learn how to ride a bike. (My sister, four years younger, beat me by a year, I think.) I don't know if that has anything to do with how I feel about Daisy, but as I push and steer using the weird long loop-stick think that's wedged into the back of her tricycle, I just want her to enjoy blissfully, intensely, and un-self-consciously pedalling at her own pace on three secure wheels without worrying about anything at all.

Talking to my daughter about 80s metal

So I was sitting with Daisy (2 and a half) the other day in my living room, and we were listening to my Ipod on shuffle. Daisy likes to ask me about the songs she hears. She remembers them well too. In fact she frequently requests "Saints of Los Angeles" by Motley Crue.

Speaking of said Crue, as Daisy and I were listening, a song from Motley Crue's first album came on: "A Piece of Your Action." Here's a sampling of the lyrics:

I want you
I need you
I want you to be mine tonight
You need me
You tease me
Use you up, throw you away

You get the idea. Anyhow, Daisy asks me, "What's Motley Crue [who she believes is one person, presumably the one singing -- ala mistakes about Skynyrd and Floyd] saying?"

I respond, "Ummm...he's talking to a girl."
"What's he saying to her?"
"He says he likes her and he...uh...wants to hug and kiss her."
"What does SHE say?"
"She says, 'I don't know; you're kind of gross.'"
"Gross?" Daisy asks, laughing.
"Yeah, gross," I reply.
"Is he covered in poo?" Daisy asks.
"Umm...No, I think he's just dirty -- needs to take a shower."
"Is Motley Crue in the shower?"

Before we could go further, fortunately the song ended. On came "Living After Midnight" by Judas Priest.

"Who's that singing?" asks Daisy.
"Judas Priest."
"Oh! What's Jewish Priest saying?"
"Ummm...They're saying they want to go outside late at night and have fun."
"What does Jewish Priest's mama say?"

How well do you know your SO meme

How well do I know my wife?

1. Sitting in front of the TV, what is on the screen? So You Think You Can Dance, Project Runway, or Top Chef most likely.

2. You're out to eat; what kind of dressing does she get on her salad? Vinaigrette or Italian.

3. What's one food she doesn't like? Cilantro (for some reason)

4. You go out to the bar. What does she order? Varies -- white or red wine, occasionally beer.

5. Where did she go to high school?

Northport HS with Patti Lupone and Mariah Carey (OK they went before she did, but they're alumnae)

6. What size shoe does she wear? I guess 6.

7. If she were to collect anything, what would it be? 18th and 19th century novels and pens that have run out of ink.

8. What is her favorite type of sandwich? Italian sub from a good deli without frightening meats.

9. What would this person eat every day if she could? A can of chocolate frosting or very good Japanese food.

10. What is her favorite cereal? That's tough; I don't think she eats much cereal, but I know she has enjoyed cocoa pebbles.

11. What would she never wear? A suit of chainmail armor.

12. What is her favorite sports team? The mets.

13. Who will she vote for?Obama.

14. Who is her best friend? Tie between me and Daisy.

15. What is something you do that she wishes you wouldn't do? See her answer to this question regarding me.

16. How many states has she lived in?3: California, New York, and Oregon. (Should I count a few weeks of a summer she spent in Florida?)

17. What is her heritage? Ukrainian Jew and Irish.

18. You bake her a cake for his birthday; what kind of cake? Very rich chocolate with lots of frosting.

19. Did she play sports in high school?No. She played soccer in grammar school/middle school. And she was a spelling champ.

20. What could she spend hours doing? Reading, blogging, and playing various Facebook games.

a political post

Hi everyone,

I'm not given to posting on politics, not because I don't feel strongly about issues but because (in part) this blog is more personal and because I don't feel that I'm exceptionally well informed. However, I need to express a feeling and opinion here.

I'm very angry about John McCain's tactics in the present campaign. I'm an Obama supporter, so naturally I'm inclined to look more critically at McCain. However, in the past I have admired McCain for his departure from Republican positions when his conscience dictated such. For instance, his criticism of the current administration's employment of torture (which in fact even many conservatives, some within the administration, disagreed with) was commendable. (By the way, the Bush administration's degradation of our government through its conduct should just appall Repblicans and Democrats alike.) However, his attacks on Obama have been both offensive and plainly dishonest.

All one needs is to look at the recent ad attacking Obama's celebrity status (the one in which Obama is compared to Britney Spears and Paris Hilton). It's hard to count just how many things are offensive about this ad. First, it clearly is intended to stoke fears of "black power" through the soundtrack's "Obama" chants. That is, we're asked to fear that Obama will lead an irrational mob of un-Americans into an assault on our country's putatively pure values and practices. Second, that same chanting soundtrack is clearly meant to evoke comparisons of Obama to fascist dictators. Third, comparing Obama to Spears and Hilton is not only silly (a more legitimate critique might compare him to charasmatic political figures or some other kind of figure) but is deeply sexist. What is implied here is that Obama is shallow and without substance -- like these women are supposed to be. The ad is clearly meant to feminize Obama and tag him with sexist stereotypes (lack of depth and practical ability) usually attached to women in the dominant misogynist culture in which we still live.

To top it all off, McCain's ad claims that Obama said he would tax electricity -- a simple, out and out lie.

Speaking of lies, I keep hearing on the news that many people STILL think Obama is Muslim and fear his election for that reason. First, it's sad that Muslim faith could be cited as a reason not to vote for a candidate. Isn't that simply overt religious prejudice? Second, as anyone with an IQ above 3 who has payed more than 1.1 second of attention must surely have discovered several times over by now, Obama is NOT a Muslim. He's a Christian (as if that should make a difference).

I don't think this post will accomplish anything. Obviously political discourse is complex and to ask for total honesty from any politician unrealistic. However, McCain's lies and misogynistic, racist advertising tactics are disappointing, to say the least. People should vote their convictions and make up their own minds. I don't like telling people how to vote. But in my utoptian vision of our public sphere, such lies would be unthinkable, in part because voters/viewers/listeners could simply see through them.

Thanks for listening...

thoughts on my daughter

It's been a long time since I've posted. This morning I've been puzzling over something I haven't been able to explain to myself. In general terms, I'm interested in how the most mundane moments in our lives can be really moving. More specifically, I'm trying to figure out why something my 21 month old daughter Daisy says -- "Play wif Play-do Map" -- nearly moves me to tears.

What she is trying to say of course is, "I want to play with the Play-do Mat," a plastic mat upon which she can play with her Play-do set. I think just the simple earnest expression of her desire to play with this basic children's toy is in itself moving. Aren't people's simple pleasures -- eating a not fancy favorite food, playing with an "unexciting" toy, or liking an uncool TV show (unironically) -- a big part of what lends them their humanity? One way of thinking is that what makes people special is each person's putative "uniqueness." That certainly must be true; otherwise we would like all people equally and see few distinctions or variations. But I feel that it's at least equally true that we love and care for others precisely because of their ordinary or even generic qualities, those seemingly meaningless and empty gestures, habits, or decisions that weave the moments of their lives together.

But I also think Daisy's particular formulation is important. The use of the verb without a subject -- not "I want to play with" but "Play with" -- seems touching to me, maybe because the lack of syntactial specificity and sophistication makes her want seem more basic and natural. The mispronunciations -- "map" for "mat," "wif" for "with" -- also have this effect, as anyone observing any child knows.

When I think of Daisy negotiating her small way through this large, complex, and increasingly (it seems) perilous world, expressing a simple wish to slighlty enjoy herself by sitting on a three by three plastic mat, I find it adorably sad. It's hard not to resort to cliches about childhood and innocence, and I feel that I'm getting at something deeper -- or maybe not -- maybe part of becoming a parent is shedding the habit of dismissing cliches about childhood and innocence and recognizing that you yourself are much more ordinary than you ever thought (if you ever were pretentious enough -- as I was -- to think otherwise).