(Mona on the school playground, Oct 30, 2006)
One of the most difficult days I experienced during my husband’s
first deployment was on November 1, 2006. I remember the date because
the weather had been fairly pleasant and warm right up through
Halloween, but the next morning the temperature dropped dramatically and
it was officially cold out. The reason this was a problem is that
Mona, at the time still two years old, would not wear shoes or a coat,
and I was only a couple of weeks from giving birth to Quinn. If I
wrestled shoes onto Mona she just kicked them off. I could not get her
into a coat. I was too pregnant, too exhausted, too stressed, and in
too much pain to physically do what needed to be done with Mona to keep
her in shoes and a coat. I was stuck. I carried her shoes and coat
everywhere in the hopes she would come to her senses and ask for them
when she got cold, but that never happened.
Every morning when I would take Aden to half-day kindergarten at the
public Montessori school I would be caught between a rock and a hard
place, because Aden would not walk herself into the building and down to
her classroom, which meant Mona had to get out of the car, too. If I
only had to walk Aden across the playground to the building I could have
lived with leaving Mona buckled in her car seat, but not if I was going
inside the building. I pleaded with Aden to go alone and she would
not. I pleaded with Mona to at least put on her shoes and she would
not. So I would walk with Mona and Aden into the building and try to
figure out what I was supposed to do when it got really cold. On
November 1st when it reached that point, I decided to go to the office
after delivering Aden to her classroom to find out if anyone could help
me out for just two more weeks until Ian came home for the birth of the
baby.
But on my way into the building a woman (I’m assuming a parent
otherwise why would she be on the playground?) chastised me for putting
Mona in danger by not having her in a coat. The meanness of her tone
startled me and I held out Mona’s coat and said, “Fine, you do it!” She
snapped back that no, I was the parent and I was being irresponsible
exposing my child to the cold which was tantamount to abuse and she
should report me to Child Protective Services. By the time I got into
the building I was crying uncontrollably. I didn’t want to be crying
but I was so upset and embarrassed and frustrated and at my limit with
everything that it was too much. I cried on and off the entire day.
Now, the upside to that particular story is I met some wonderful
people who came to my rescue (including my friend Carol who volunteered
to pick Aden up at my house every morning and let her walk into the
school with her own daughter, thus solving my dilemma for the rest of
the school year), and I learned a valuable lesson about not judging
other parents but trying to help when possible. That woman could have
offered to get Mona into the coat and shoes, or at least carried her
into the building for me which I couldn’t do while nine months
pregnant. Calling me a bad parent was not helpful to anyone, and to
essentially kick a pregnant woman (whose husband was in a war zone)
while she’s down was just cruel, no matter how justified she felt.
But that’s not actually what I want to focus on with this post. I’ve
got a whole other piece in the works about judgment and parenting that I
will finish tinkering with someday and will put up, but in the meantime
I’ve got something else rattling around my brain with a lot of odd
tangents to it. Indulge me while I try to sort some of those thoughts
out here.
While I was inside the building that day, trying to pull myself
together, I had a talk with an important figure at the school about what
solutions there might be to my problem. I was trying to arrange to
have someone meet me at my car in the mornings to help walk Aden to
class, or something along those lines. But this person I was talking to
was fixated on the problem of Mona and her shoes. I got nothing but
suggestions for getting Mona into shoes.
Mona is not like anyone I’ve ever known. At age two she was very
much in her own little world. She didn’t talk much, nothing we said to
her seemed to register, she did not exhibit empathy yet, and she was not
interested in objects or physical things. Her favorite toy was her
shadow. She was adorable and brilliant but unpredictable and difficult
to manipulate.
The school official didn’t want to hear any of that. I had to listen
to a lecture about sticker charts. The solution to all my problems
with Mona apparently lay in the proper use of sticker charts. Now, I
may not have been able to control my youngest daughter as well as I
would have liked, but I still knew her better than anyone else could.
And Mona wouldn’t have noticed a sticker chart if I taped it to her
face. She also would have paid no attention to attempts at reverse
psychology or anything resembling logic. Mona just didn’t want to wear
shoes. I knew the only way to make her do it was to be consistent and
force them back on her over and over and over until she realized I was
not going to back down on the issue, and I was too pregnant to do that
right then.
When I protested and said that the techniques being suggested would
not work on Mona, the person got exasperated, eventually saying, “Every
parent thinks their child is special. I’ve seen this work on a thousand
children.” I was not in any emotional state to argue at that point,
but I remember thinking very clearly at the time, “Well, every child IS
special, and meet child number one-thousand-and-ONE, because you are
wrong.”
That line about everyone thinking his or her child is special has stayed with me. I think about it often. Every parent should think his or her child is special. Because every child is
special. And this is an issue I’ve struggled with a little bit,
especially when talking with certain people who have differing views
from my own.
There is a line in the movie The Incredibles that is central to the
point of the film about how “If everyone is special, then nobody is.” I
agree that there needs to be room for people to be extraordinary. We
are not all equal in our abilities or talents or willingness to work.
But I believe that the extraordinary among us with the right
encouragement and resources will rise to the top. I don’t think that
just because some people have a specific genius for art or music, etc.,
the rest of us aren’t worthy to have a go at those things and we benefit
from that experience in different ways. I know artists and musicians
who are weary of seeing bad art and hearing inadequate music and wish
sometimes others without innate talent would just stop. I don’t see the
mediocre as a threat to the brilliant so it doesn’t bother me
particularly, and I accept that the audience for the truly great is
sometimes small. But just because I will never be singer in any
official sense does not mean I should never sing.
When I started team teaching violin lessons for clients in music
therapy I had to rethink the whole point of playing music. Normally
when I teach the goal is to improve performance on the violin. I have
materials and techniques I use to get students from point A to point B
to point C, with the purpose of working toward more complicated music
and wider opportunities. Among the side effects of that kind of
training are greater confidence, developing self-discipline, relaxation,
and interacting with new people. In music therapy this is kind of
flipped on its head. The goal is the side effects, and learning to play
violin specifically is the vehicle. So if I happen to have a student
who never improves on a technical level because of some obstacle or
another, it doesn’t matter. I see the benefits of playing violin, I
just have to think about my part in the equation in a new way.
I have never had a single music therapy student who I did not think
benefited from playing violin. Will any of them go on to great
professional careers in music? Unlikely. But the same is true of my
regular students. I talk to adults who come in my store all the time
who wished they could play violin and somehow think it’s too late to
start. I tell them it’s too late to be a child prodigy, but there is no
‘too late’ for music. What difference does it make if someone else
started younger? Starting younger did not mean that person went on to
do it forever or even be very good. All that matters is that it brings
you joy. Everyone should be allowed that. The people who want to put
in the exhaustive work of going pro will do so. They will be
exceptional and rightly admired for it. That doesn’t mean average
players have to forgo the fun of making their own music. So I don’t
believe giving everyone a chance to be included somehow negates the
exceptional. It just opens up the possibility for everyone to make it
their own.
So is every child special? I think yes. Because I don’t mean it in a
dopey silly way that suggests we bow down to children or not expect
them to behave, I mean that every person–particularly at the beginning
of life when they are still learning to make responsible
choices–deserves respect and care. Every child should have a fair
chance to be the unique individual he or she is supposed to be. Every
child should be entitled to decent medical care, good nutrition,
education, exposure to the arts, a safe environment, and love. It’s
heartbreaking to me that this isn’t the case for even most of the
children in this world. How different things would be if all children
were raised as if we are glad they are here. I don’t understand people
or policies that write children born into bad circumstances off as if
they don’t deserve better.
I most often hear people griping about the ‘Everyone is special’
problem when it comes to competition or ceremony. There are people who
whine if kindergarteners get a little graduation, or if everyone
receives a ribbon or trophy. Many people want there to be a winner and a
loser I suppose. I think that’s too narrow. For one kid maybe being
the best at something was easy. For another, maybe grappling with a
learning disability made the same journey much harder. Who really
deserves the praise? The person who worked or the one who didn’t have
to? I never practiced viola in high school. I didn’t need to. The
music we performed had to be accessible to strong and weak players alike
so it was easy for me, and praise for my part in it didn’t mean much.
However, the classical guitar solo I put together to perform onstage
with the orchestra my senior year–THAT was work. Terrifying,
nail-biting,
worry-up-to-the-last-minute-will-she-get-through-it-without-falling-apart
work. The praise I got for that was earned and I knew the difference.
The truth is, life is hard for everyone at some point. There are
enough real lessons in success and failure to go around without
inventing more. Why not change the rules to Candy Land so everyone
wins? So what? I don’t think important character building lessons
about being a good sport happen at age three for most people. No one
likes losing, but little kids can’t grasp the big picture in order to
take losing well. So why bother? My kids hate losing at Chutes and
Ladders so we don’t play it. I remember hating when I lost at Chutes
and Ladders as a kid. It didn’t make me a better person to suffer
through that. Eventually you put things in perspective and now I don’t
care if I win at it or not, and my kids will get there too. The point
of playing games together is to have fun. If finding ways to play
together without someone losing makes it more fun, great.
The point of
little ceremonies and all those little trophies is to acknowledge
everyone on whatever terms are meaningful to them. There is no way to
know whom that will touch. There are too many kids among us who do not
feel special at home. That ribbon one person sees as a worthless
gesture may mean the difference for someone else between feeling school
is a good place to be or not. Between feeling special or not. Between
feeling like they are worth anything or not.
So, back to Mona and her shoes. When her dad came home on leave from
Iraq he simply told her to wear them. She knew it was pointless to
fight him on the concept, so she did it. No sticker charts. Just
because you have techniques that seem to work universally, you have to
leave room for the possibility of the new. The times I’ve failed my own
violin students were all cases where I neglected to take the individual
into account and tried to force them into a mold that worked for
others. Seeing what is special in everyone takes imagination. It can
be hard. But when we don’t make that effort, that’s when life becomes
cheap. When we don’t see everyone as special we write others off too
easily, and that’s a mistake.
“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish on its ability to
climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing it is stupid.”
—Albert Einstein
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