Winning

andrik-langfield-petrides-278739

Photo by ANDRIK ↟ LANGFIELD ↟ PETRIDES on Unsplash

 

I’ve taken a long, intentional hiatus from this blog.

For one thing, there’s a lot of incredibly wonderful writing out in the world these days, and I find I spend most of my time reading it. I’m reading really excellent journalism, fiction, narrative nonfiction and books on the craft of writing.

Sometimes – actually, too often – I read tweets. On my better days, when I’ve tired of reading long form, I read Real Simple or Southern Living, or I just stare at beautiful things on Instagram. I’ve been writing, too, but not for public consumption – not yet, anyway.

In the midst of this reading and private writing, I’ve also been mothering my quickly growing children – children who are, suddenly, no longer babies. And I’ve seen the emergence of a theme, perhaps, a national epidemic.

Unlike so many things today, this isn’t something that can really be politicized, although it certainly contributes to our country’s fractious conversations. It isn’t something I hear a ton of parents debating. It isn’t something that people feel obliged to discuss as right or wrong as it applies to privilege or lack thereof. It just rests, as an undercurrent, beneath the surface of all that is and, according to now, ever will be.

I’m talking about winning.

There have been plenty of studies and articles pointing to teenagers who are over-committed, anxious and stressed. Lots of books have been written about grit, determination, and character development. Doctors and psychologists insist that it is okay for kids to fail – that parents should let them fail.

All that’s fine and good, but I’ve found it flips the issue upside down. If we feel compelled enough by a study, essay or article, we’ll do our damndest to apply the wisdom. We will work hard, really hard, on letting our kids fail with the same fervor we pursue so much of what characterizes our highly-curated lifestyles today.

Our kids will be the failingest kids in the country … and gritty … and determined. Why? Because we’re Americans. We can win at failing, too.

If you look at what’s trending in today’s media, so much is about who’s winning and who’s losing. Everyone has to choose a side, and there is no middle ground. This is an element of today’s culture that I find so exhausting and anxiety-provoking that it makes me want to throw my iPhone in the Harpeth River and let it sink to the bottom.

What our obsession with #winning tells me about where we are as a country is that we are truly, deeply failing, and failing in a way that actually matters. Our collective failure, laid especially bare over these past several months, is a failure to embrace nuance and teach it to kids who need most to understand it.

Nuance. It’s one of my favorite things, really. It’s a reading between the lines, an effort to understand. Nuance offers a holistic approach to life. It requires critical thought, a second, long look. Nuance is useful because, truly, nothing – nothing – is ever, actually, as it seems.

If we lose our ability to acknowledge and appreciate the depth and dimension of all that is at hand, we lose. End of story.

Recently, a friend and I were discussing my children’s lackluster athletic pursuits. The fault of this lies squarely on me. My oldest, now nine and a half, has the form and physique of an athlete. She looks like she was born to do something – to run, scrimmage, or cartwheel her way down a field in pursuit of some big win. She’s tried out a few sports: pirouetted down the soccer field and catapulted her way through gymnastics, sprinted through the water in summer swim team. She’s taken piano and guitar.

But because of my reluctance to upend our entire family’s routine, I haven’t pushed any of these extra-curricular activities, and have even found myself dissuading her from a few based on the time required.

Now that she’s decided that she genuinely loves to swim, I’ve allowed her to pursue it, but, at nine, she’s gotten a late start, and while many of her classmates are on competitive teams, she’s still perfecting her form.

If I didn’t embrace nuance, this could be really hard.

Parents take a lot of pride in their kids’ accomplishments. And the dedication and determination of many young athletes truly is remarkable. Many of these kids are more disciplined than mine are, but there’s a trade-off, too, and that’s what keeps me from turning our weekends into a circus.

Our pediatrician sometimes looks at me curiously when I say my kids (9 and under) are only casually involved in after-school activities. “They’re active, though, right?” he says, knowing me well enough now to anticipate that they’re not spending their afternoons in front of the TV.

Active, yes.

Winning? No.

Because, here’s the thing, and this is what slowly came to light following my middle child’s most recent well check:  What I thought had everything to do with scheduling actually also encompassed this larger conversation. I don’t like today’s insistence on winning; I reject the constant pursuit of prestige to an abnormal degree. I want my kid to be a kid, in the old-fashioned sense, where her interests and passions grow from tiny seeds, not trophies.

Do I think this means my kids will never do anything of value? That they’ll never learn to be disciplined, or to find their passions, or that they will fail so constantly that I’ll be the winningest mom in allowing her kids to fail in the history of the planet? Of course not.

I trust that my kids will find their way, that they will insist on pursuing the things they love when they find them. We will encourage them to move their bodies for the singular joy of moving their bodies. We will expose them to opportunities that might lead to participation, but not push them to try everything, in search of the one thing where they can, with some level of certainty, win.

Plenty of you out there grew up enjoying competitive sports and probably have a different perspective on this than I do, and that’s fine. Your kids are probably more athletic than my kids, too. They may receive real joy from their three practices a week, and you might be able to impart invaluable wisdom to them thanks to your own athletic experiences. That’s great.

Or, you might be a parent who has intensely determined kids who have found a passion that you don’t quite understand, and yet, you’re going with it because they love it. And I’m okay with that, too.

All I’m saying is this: what if we promoted experience and participation over success? Our kids are paying attention. If we champion the gray area a little bit more, it won’t lessen their discipline or determination, but it might make them kinder, more compassionate human beings. And heaven knows we need more of those right now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Change

For over a year now, Andrew and I have held a membership to Stone Mountain Park, just outside Atlanta.  The Rock, as we like to call it, just twenty minutes from our house, is heavily wooded and surrounded by a fresh lake in which our dog Ivy loves to swim.  The Rock, itself, which stands at the center of the park, is a humpbacked granite slab resembling a somber whale or a planetary hemisphere.

We love the place’s peacefulness – the view of local crew teams gliding across the lake’s early morning glimmer in conjunction with ducks in low flight is truly soul-settling – and we love that it gives our little family a taste of the great outdoors in the midst of a bustling metropolis.

But we also love and are intrigued by Stone Mountain’s irony.

The Rock is of sad history.  In 1915, hooded men in white robes revived the Klu Klux Klan (KKK) atop the lovely granite monolith, burning a cross in celebration.  This “reincarnation” of the Klan was led by a man named William J Simmons, and featured Nathan Bedford Forest II (the grandson of the KKK’s original Imperial Grand Wizard) administering oaths.  The group had permission of The Rock’s owner to hold all its rallies there and in 1924 commissioned a stone carving of the South’s Confederate heroes on its mountainside. (The KKK supplied half the funding for the artwork; the US government supplied the rest of the money.)

Today, however, few signs of the hatred and fear that characterized Stone Mountain for so many years remain.  The carving is still there, of course, and throughout the summer the park puts on a campy laser show to which tourists flock and clap along to the tune of Dixie.  The Confederate memorial, which details information about Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson, is also there but rarely highlighted and does not appear to draw any crowds at all.

Far more prevalent than signs of bigotry at Stone Mountain are the African Americans who use the park grounds as a meeting place for cookouts, who bike, walk and run the trails surrounding The Rock, who fish in the lake and let their dogs run free through the woods. They have claimed Stone Mountain for themselves, not any more or any less than the rest of us, but equally, in light of forgiveness, in light of progress.

The juxtaposition of these two entities – proud Confederates and those they fought to oppress – is just downright bizarre. But it is also because of this juxtaposition that it feels as if the spirit of Stone Mountain has been set free, as if something very wrong has been righted there.

Earlier this summer, Andrew and I saw a group of young black boys – maybe between the ages of seven and ten – chasing one another up the sidewalk by the park grounds.  They were laughing and squealing and running as fast as their little legs could carry them. And I was so glad for them to be out of the city, to know the feel of fresh air, however hot and humid, to be assured for them that times do change, and that they have.

I saw in the boys’ faces the joy that I hope for our country, a country that may, indeed, be at the cusp of electing its first African-American President.

If Obama is not our nations hope – the leader of a revival forced from hard times – he may still be the hope of all the little black boys sprinting full speed through the trees at Stone Mountain, an iconic figure for the future America.

The future America.  What will it be?  I pray for a place, like The Rock, that can overcome its history; for a place that seeks justice and loves mercy; for a place that makes those who live in it healthier, happier, and freer in both mind and spirit.

Until then, we will seek refuge among Stone Mountain’s ironies, waiting, patiently, for change.