A friend of mine posted a conversation on Facebook that she’d had with her 4-year-old about how she told her son that she had to punish him so that he would learn how to be a good human being.
His reply was, “You need to try something else because this isn’t working.” TOO FUNNY, right?
These days my conversations with Max, my 21-year-old, are all too often merely my asking questions, and his grunts, shrugs, and/or one-word replies.
So, I long for the days of dazzling and thought-provoking conversations between me and my children like one particular day when Max was eight. He given a homework assignment to write a one-page essay on someone from a different culture or a different religion. It could be a grown-up or a child, didn’t matter. Max, however, was hell bent on making his best friend, Alex, the subject of his assignment. But Alex, who lived across the street, was also in third grade, was born in America, and his family was Protestant just like Max’s.
“But why can’t I do my paper on Alex?” Max whined, his green eyes darkening to a murky hue.
“Because he was born in America,” I replied.
“So was Oscar.”
Oscar is another friend of Max’s who is also eight.
“Yes, but Oscar is Mexican, and all of his family was born in Mexico. He goes to the Catholic church, and Oscar speaks English and Spanish, all of which make him very different from you.”
“But Oscar doesn’t have a moped, and Alex does. And he’s the only kid on the street who has a moped.”
I smiled. I could see his point if the inventory of one’s toys was considered one of the factors for his homework, but such was not the case.
“That doesn’t matter. His moped was a birthday gift. When you’re talking about culture, where you were born, the language you speak, and the way you dress, your religion, that’s what your teacher is looking for.”
Max frowned. “Oscar doesn’t wear jeans, and Alex does.”
I shook my head, trying not to laugh because I knew that Max didn’t give a rat’s ass what the cultural differences were. He wanted to write about Alex’s moped, and he wanted to turn in photos of the moped also (because you got extra credit for photos). You see, Max was in love with that moped. He’d been begging for one since the moment he caught a glimpse of Alex tooling around on it in front of his house. But at the same time, he obviously didn’t understand the difference between one culture and another.
“Yes, he does. Don’t be silly. All the boys in the neighborhood wear jeans.”
“Nuh, uh, he does not,” he sputtered, his lower lip puffing out in disappointment.
I smiled. “Try again, Sport. How about doing your paper on your friend, Kareem?”
Another frown. “Why?” He retorted angrily. “Does he speak Martian or something?”
I laughed, and Max smiled, knowing he was being goofy, but he didn’t care.
“No, people from South Africa speak English and Farsi, I think. But Kareem doesn’t speak another language, right?”
“No,” Max said grumpily.
“And he’s Muslim, so that’s very different from the Presbyterian Church, and–”
“So, what? Who cares if Oscar is Mexican, and they go to another church, and Karim was born in another country and isn’t a Christian. We’re all American’s, right, Mom?”
“Yes. Karim and his sister are naturalized citizens.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means their parents filled out tons of paperwork to make them citizens because they were babies when they moved here, and their mother was born in the U.S. And now they are citizens, according to the government, even though they weren’t born here.”
“Oh. Well, my teacher said that because of your culture, your family is different – like some people in Africa sometimes all live together with their moms and dads and grandmothers and cousins and uncles, whoever all in one house. Most people in America don’t do that, right?”
“Right.”
“So, Alex is the only one who lives with his dad and his Dad’s girlfriend, instead of his mom and Dad. And he’s the only one who doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, and I’ve got four brothers. And Oscar has two brothers and a sister, and Kareem has a sister and a baby brother, right?”
“Right.”
“And if we’re all Americans, we’re all the same, doesn’t matter where you go to church or what language you speak you’re still an American, but Alex’s family is different, and he’s the only one of my friends with blue eyes, and my teacher said that sometimes the way you look makes a difference. So, I don’t see why I can’t do my paper on Alex.”
Man, it was hard to argue with that logic…if only most Americans felt that way, it’d be a better place, would it not?” 
Max ended up writing his paper on Oscar-albeit begrudgingly. As I recall, he got a B on it, and then, he ripped it up and threw it in the trashcan. I didn’t say anything. I just let that go, but, apparently, Max could not–under any circumstances let it go. Finally, when I thought Max had forgotten all about it, his teacher, Mrs. Childers, called about the other paper Max wrote.
“What other paper?” I asked.
“He wrote another paper on a boy named Alex, handed it to me and said, all that culture stuff is a load of ca ca, and that’s the one I should’ve done, and that one is an A+ paper!” Mrs. Childers explained cheerily. “And then, he stomped over to his desk, crossed his arms, and fumed until recess. He didn’t do any work, but he didn’t bother anyone, so I just let him be. Eventually, he started drawing pictures of his friend’s Moped, which were very good, by the way. And, then, he was fine on the playground and was very attentive all afternoon.”
“I’m sorry to hear that he blew up like that,” I replied, trying not to laugh. “Is he in trouble? Did he say or do anything else?”
“No, I just wanted you to know how much this unit on culture upset him, but I think he vented his frustration in a very positive manner.”
“Well, thank you,” I said with relief because too often Max expelled his aggravation by screaming at people, breaking things, kicking his desk, or unfortunately, slugging a classmate, on occasion. “That was very nice of you to call and let me know.”
And…as they say…was that…
Over and out from CRAZYTOWN – where the CRAZY store never closes…:)
Tenacious BITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies
Kennedy/tb
