Foremost on my Mind: The Spirit(s) of Grad Night

 

I suppose there's nothing worse for me as a parent than having one of my kids lie to me. An occasional lie, of course, is bound to happen, but when it is habitual, all sense of trust and confidence goes out the window.

I suggest a series of lies in a short period of time can cripple trust for a lifetime.

But what if the shoe is on the other foot? That is, what if the parent lies to the child, or by extension, an authority lies to a subordinate? Children have been known to be devastated for life when they discover that Mom or Dad has lied to them—be it in the form of misrepresentation, exaggeration, flattery, or even an over-reaction to things. These are all forms of lying.

Whether parents/adults wittingly lie (in any of its varied forms), I cannot judge. I certainly would never intentionally lie to my kids. Have I, though? Probably. But the following is something that I would never say to my own children, my own students, or any other vulnerable child in my jurisdiction:

"Go ahead, have a drink—maybe even get drunk. After all, graduation comes around only once in a lifetime. There's no harm in getting sloshed." My outrage here has been brought on by a conversation I overheard at a local food joint the other day. The kids in question were gloating over their exploits of the night before. For myself, I would have been ashamed as a kid to even think like that, let alone talk like that; and now that I'm a parent, I would have been ashamed to have my kids bragging about how drunk they got, and what they did when they were drunk.

I have no idea if any parent allows a little indulgence for grad night or not, so I tread lightly here. But to think that perhaps any parents were implicitly involved in allowing their kids to get drunk, using the "it's-the-thing-to-do" argument, is, well, outrageous.

This lie, this minimalizing of getting hammered on graduation night, is a regrettable lie that too many parents in too many Albertan communities foist on their young people around this time of year. It has been that way for years, indeed decades, and seems to have no end in sight.

I remember my eldest brother telling me about some of the grads puking in the school bathroom on graduation night back in Richmond, BC. That was back in the Dark Ages of '64. Even at my young, impressionable age of 10, I was, uh, unimpressed.

Getting drunk is bad enough, but to trivialize it is very sad. I can't begin to tell you how many lives have been lost or destroyed, how many marriages have been weakened or wiped out, or the incalculable cost to the economy because of this lie.

There are better, wiser ways to celebrate this rite of passage. Something called Dry Grad is a good place to start. A special meal out with families and close friends is another option. That's what I did. There is no inherent need to make a complete fool of oneself, simply because "everybody's doing it." There needs to be more courage of conviction, if not on the part of the grad, at least on the part of the parent.

Maybe the word "no" comes into play here, as in "No, we're not celebrating that way," or "No, that sort of behaviour is irresponsible.

I know this sounds so antiquated, so old-fashioned to many. So be it. We tend to assume too many things are the norm in our culture, with adolescent drinking being just one of them. And I think it's healthy to question certain assumed social behaviours.

You see, if I tell you the wrong thing, when I know better, that's a form of lying; but when I don't speak up about a wrong thing, that's yet another form of lying. And no adult should should ever be guilty of hiding the truth, right?

Foremost on my Mind: Spit and Run

 

It's hard to believe that they we're still watching hockey these days. Okay, not all hockey fans have their favourite team playing: Twelve teams have already bowed out in Round One or Two, while others (Calgary Flames, for example) never even made it into the play-offs. Again. Just thought some of you wanted to be reminded of that fact...

As rarely as I watch a hockey game at any time—not having a television will do that every time—I come away both depressed and impressed with what I see...on the ice and on the bench.

Let's deal with the depressing stuff first, and I'll present it in the shape of questions.

One, why do they always have to spit? Spitting on the ice is bad enough; I'm sure the ice itself can absorb the gob, but do they have to spit at the bench? On the boards? What happens if they miss? And do they do it only when the television camera is panning the bench? I haven't sat on a hockey bench for a while, close to 57 years, to be exact, so I don't know all the physics that goes in the science of boogerology.

Maybe a spittoon would be in order, possibly at each end of the bench. What could you call that, having gobs of fun? Drooling with excitement?

Two, why the wimpy beards during the play-offs? You see, there are non-hockey beards and there are hockey beards. Some of the guys can actually grow their fuzz well; others, it's just...oh, well. Beards can get heavy and thick and cumbersome, something they should think about before pulling off their Paul Bunyan imitation. And then if they spit and miss, does it dribble down their beard?

(As an aside, if they can grow a decent beard, okay; but if they can't, shave the stupid thing and stop looking like a thirteen-year-old.)

Now the impressing stuff, using the same witty question format that I've wowed you with already:

One, why do they wait till the big dance (cool name for the Stanley Cup Play-offs) to play such splendid hockey? It's refreshing to see the goonery left in regular games (unless you're Ben Eager), and the slickery upped in the play-offs. If they played that way all year, they might win over more fans in such hockey hotbeds as Atlanta and Phoenix.

Two, are hockey players more articulate than all other athletes—or is it that the other athletes are just that bad? I thought so, too. I find the football and basketball players the worst (and in other categories too.). However, I find listening to hockey players a treat to listen to--usually. They talk like they're your next door neighbour.

But back to hockey, at least for you Bruins, Lightning, Sharks, and Canucks fans. No matter who pulls out of the respective conference finals (methinks we're looking at a Tampa Bay-Vancouver finale), this is the level where hockey is pure joy. This is the Canadian game at its best.

To make the best better (I don't think that's even grammatically correct, is it Mabel?), I would add a couple of penalties: Two minutes for spitting and two minutes for unsportsmanlike conduct, trying to grow a beard, an unkempt one at that.

And please, leave the dribbling to basketball.

Foremost on my Mind: The Need for a Cover-up

 

I don't know if I'm too old or too rushed, but I never really noticed that cigarettes are now always hidden behind shelves with closed doors. I noticed this at my favourite gas bar the other day, and I felt like a real dorkmeister when I asked the clerk what was in the cupboard.

"Where are you from," he chortled, "Milk River?"

Now that I think about it, cigarette ads have been removed from magazines, television, and any other media that might corrupt those pure young lungs. I just don't know who is going to break the news to those in the Ministry of Health and Welfare, but kids are smoking more than ever, and the quest for protecting the lungs, lips, and lives of our young people has failed.

But if they want to pour their energy into something necessary, something pro-active, try this one on for size: Put the filthy girlie magazines behind closed doors, too. Whereas the cigarettes are out of sight and out of reach, the print pornography is right there, both within view and within touch. Usually at eye level of the victims they're trying to entice.

It's so bad that the magazine wrap probably hides more skin than the cover girl's clothing—or lack thereof.

I think there is an obvious parallel here: On the one hand, there is a potential for damaged lungs, stinky pores, and shortened life; but on the other hand, there is the potential for a damaged mind, rotten relationships, and corrupt life. The latter, of course, is far, far worse.

Smokers may do serious harm to themselves and themselves alone (unless you want to pull out the second-hand smoke argument), but oglers do damage to themselves and far too many people around them. There is no doubt that incidents of rape, sexual assault, and other similar assaults have their roots in accessible flesh magazines.

This may or may not strike you as irrelevant, but just wait till your own daughter or wife is attacked.

I've got sons--lots of them, in fact-- and I am finding that most groceries stores, gas stations, and even malls are no longer safe to take them to. Now before you hardline libertarians have a meltdown, please hear me out: It is my duty to raise these (mostly) teenagers to respect the opposite sex; it is also my duty to show them that women are to be cherished, loved, and respected, not ogled, fondled, and used (or is it abused?).

Many television ads, select magazines, and a plethora of websites send all the wrong messages about women. I need to protect my kids—as well as myself, no less—from these evil, corrupt displays. In fact, I can't even buy groceries in most major grocery stores, as I stand at the till, without being affronted by the prettiest Hollywood babes in the skimpiest of Hollywood's fashion.

By the way, exposure to such flesh is bad on all accounts, not just for us guys: Women, young and old, look at those babes and I am certain that, to a person, they are consumed with everything from envy to hatred to fear. I'm not sure if that's really healthy thinking. That creates a lot of serenity and security—not.

The knock on the Victorian era was that they lived as if there was no sex (although I'm still not sure yet if that's accurate); but the knock I have on our imploding culture is that we live as if there is nothing but sex.

It is indeed troubling that by simply standing near a checkout, my young men can be teased, tempted, and tantalized without actually doing anything, simply looking around while waiting. And the other troubling thought is that by speaking out against (better: writing about) this distinct form of child abuse, some of you may see me as an old wizened prude, with no love of life or no life of love.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

It's a matter a priorities, isn't it? In other words, we hide things that will corrupt the body (cigarettes), but expose (pun intended) things that corrupt the body and the soul. Far, far better we place the cigarettes by the till and the print pornography behind closed doors.

At least then that would be the first step in getting the skin covered up.

Foremost on my Mind: Mothers of the Past

 

A friend of mine must have had a bit of a rough Mother's Day this past weekend: He buried his own mother just over a week before the big day. It's not easy to bury a parent at the best of times, but I would consider anytime around Mother's Day one of the worst of times to do it.

Though I never met her, she seemed like a wonderful woman, much like my own mother. If memory serves me correct, she was only two years older than my mom, so the comparisons are inevitable. They both were born just after WWI, married during WWII, and suffered through the same Great Depression sometime in between.

One of the afore-mentioned produced a very awesome son, but I'm too modest to mention my own name.

Back in the Dark Ages of 20^th Century, ie., around 30 BC (thirty years before computers), the usual pattern was dads went to work outside the home, while the moms took care of the home front. It was very much a "Leave it to Beaver" scenario, a now highly-maligned view of family life. The older I get, the more wistful I get for those simpler and slower days.

For me, I really liked coming home to the same mother every day after school; I sure enjoyed being raised in a home with the same two parents all my life; and looking back, I certainly enjoyed the fact that my father was faithful to my mother, and I'm speaking of where his eyes roamed and where they didn't.

In addition to the above, I don't ever recall ever hearing any shouting or sensing any form of abuse. Between the two of them, they provided a wonderful model for me: dad, in how I should behave as a husband and mom, in what to look for in a wife.

To whitewash the many difficult marriages, the broken homes and all the consequent heartache back then would be hopelessly naive on my part. And seriously misleading, to boot. Looking back, I am becoming more and more aware of neighbours' and schoolmates' homes that weren't quite as perfect on the inside as they appeared to be. But in the main, I posit that the homes of yesteryear seemed to be more stable, more committed than marriages of today.

(I'm sure someone will take exception to that statement, but I maintain that the out-of-control divorce rate, broken homes, multiple partners, and decimated family life is far, far greater, say, in 2011 than it was even fifty years ago. I believe these are facts, not mere opinion.)

I can't put my finger on what made the mothers in particular of my generation so special. It wasn't because they had it easy, that's for sure. Surely you must know how little they had, what they had to put up with—with plenty of examples in the areas of appliances, shopping, and transportation. They also didn't have the same number of distractions in the form of televisions, computers, and cell phones. I am not convinced these "toys" have worked out for the good of the home.

It seemed back then that, for the most part, marriage was viewed as a permanent relationship (not a trial run), and children were a welcomed addition (not an unwanted by-product). Today there seems to be a stigma with practicing the permanence of marriage, even writing about it in newspaper columns.

If you read between the lines (which is not the same as reading into the text), even though I bemoan the state of motherhood today, I am very sympathetic with all that they up against. We should support every mother in every which way today. We should encourage motherhood, children, and family life as much as possible. Supporting agencies, planned respites, a quick smile, and even something as simple as a word of encouragement to a bedraggled mother with kids in tow are good places to start.

So when my friend buried his mother last week, I feel one more positive link with the past was removed. It's not so much as the loss of a loved one; it's the loss of a model--a mould, if you will.

Trust every one of you mothers out there had a meaningful day two days ago, and cherished the significance of your role in our culture. We couldn't do it, uh without you.