Read this if you dare. It's my latest essay for GNMParents. It's long. It's pensive. It swims against the stream.
Yesterday was the best day of my life.
My son and I, along with my son's father, have been visiting colleges this week. Nich's a junior in high school and this is his first in-person examination of the universities on his short list. We took his President's Week vacation break and flew to New York to tour four colleges, and to give him a real taste of the winter weather he'll face if he chooses to attend school in the northern Atlantic states.
One of the schools we experienced is Binghamton University, nestled in the cedars and firs and spruce trees of Broome County, NY. (Such beauty I have not seen since my youth, a splendid vision for these suburban eyes.)
Yesterday morning, Nich and I, and his father, took the nickel tour of the school, where we were led through lecture halls and dining halls and residence halls. Then, after we shook the snow from our coats, we stepped into the office of Andy Morris, the Associate Director of Undergraduate Admissions, and head recruiter for out-of-state students. Morris, a congenial and earnest fellow, sat us down for a brief, un-official meeting with Nich, to give answers to his questions and give him a more direct sense of the Binghamton admissions perspective.
This was, for me, where the show began.
Nicholas is a reserved person, always has been. He is the classic example of one who keeps their light hidden under a bushel. He's shy and slightly under-confident. This is, in my completely objective opinion, extremely unwarranted, as Nich is an astonishing human being, but his mother and I have always found it difficult convincing him exactly how great he is. So when the conversation between Mr. Morris and Nich began, I assumed it would be another quick one, where the guy talked and Nich listened, hard-pressed to voice a single question.
Much to my exaltation, this was not the case. Nicholas listened to Mr. Morris's preamble, nodding his head, eyes in a slightly pensive gaze. Then he began to pepper Morris with a dozen or more questions about the school, deep, thoughtful questions concerning everything from housing to class size to admission standards to social atmosphere to degree programs and more. And it wasn't just the questions, it was the way he asked them, candidly, but without aggression or overbearance. He was solicitous as he listened to each response, and he asked insightful and relevant follow-ups. It was a truly transcendent moment for me - I struggled to contain my tears.
And afterwords, I walked around in a daze, feeling as though I had crossed the finish line of parenting. Nicholas had clearly become a man, an adult person, capable of being the leader of his own life. Sure, I get that I'll always be his parent, that he considers me a father, an advisor, a friend. But I no longer need to hold his hand as he makes his way in the world.
And as I'm alone as I write this, I will allow the tears to come.
I was at the vet this morning, and at the end of the visit, while paying my bill, I used my bank card. As is the usual with businesses, they presented me the ubiquitous choice: Credit or Debit? I requested Debit, and as I did, I mentioned the reason why, that I had read somewhere that one simple way us regular folks could help the economy get back on its feet was to stop using the credit option on our bank cards when we make small purchases at small businesses.
Small businesses who are the sellers in a credit card transaction pay a fee to the credit card company. These fees stack up, eating into the business's profit margin. If we, the consumer, use the debit side of our card when we buy groceries or socks or pruning shears, it costs us an extra buck or so, which is easier for us to swallow in the long run. Small businesses, especially during this rough economic period, are precariously balanced on the line between success and failure. Anything we can do to help them share the collective cost of doing business keeps our respective neighborhoods in balance.
As I made that point, I jokingly added: "Well, what are you gonna do, I'm a Socialist."
Now, I'm not really a Socialist (not that there's anything wrong with that), and most folks know that about me, including the folks at the vet's office (They know I'm a devout Democrat). But... the customer next to me didn't know I was kidding.
She turned slightly, and gently, towards me and smiled a wee bit and half-whispered: "So, you're a Socialist?"
Awesome.
I mean that sincerely. It was one of those moments I cherish, an opportunity to have a sincere and frank discussion with another adult about something of a more complex nature.
So I turn to her and I explain myself, that while I'm not really a Socialist, that I do see the benefit/importance of thinking and acting with an eye towards social responsibility. I respect Democracy, it's the best any society can do given our current understanding of the varied forms of government, that I cherish our republic (We're not really a democracy, we don't make the laws, we're a republic, we elect the people who make the laws). But I was quick to mention Winston Churchill, who said that democracy was the worst form of government, except for all the others.
She blinked. She paused. She said, "Well, I don't trust Socialism. I'm afraid we're going to become Socialists."
I mentioned that while I didn't think a full-on socialist state could function well in any place, that I would never want to see our country go all-the-way Socialist, we would be remiss if we did not acknowledge the established American socialist aspect of our government: Medicare, Social Security, Veterans benefits, and others. They all are, fundamentally, socialist in nature. And they are clearly successful. They're not perfect, but ask a veteran about their actual experience with getting taxpayer-provided healthcare. Most polls show that veterans maintain a high satisfaction rate, compared with folks who get for-profit medical care.
And other countries who have fully-funded "socialized medicine" also maintain very high patient satisfaction rates. 88% of the folks in Finland report being at least somewhat satisfied with their taxpayer-funded medical care.
I said most of this to my new acquaintance at the vet, lastly mentioning that while I wasn't pushing for a fully funded program, that I thought it was morally imperative to provide a government program that provided basic healthcare for children and old folks, that the less advantaged among us be supported by the rest of us in this one area, that "surely we can all agree that kids shouldn't have to go without healthcare in this country, right?" Her reply was, "Well, certainly old people should be taken care of."
Oh.
I said, "Oh, sure, absolutely. Old people should be respected and given our very best, even if it means our taxes our slightly higher."
And she said, "Well, at least we should take care of the ones who were born here, not, y'know, the other ones, the Mexicans."
Oh.
Calling upon my maturity, I let the Mexican thing slide and I replied to her that at least we could agree that kids from anywhere should be helped out if they have a cold or other illness or whatever, right?
She agreed.
But then I said, "Well, that's all I'm asking for, that we pass this healthcare reform bill, that we accept our moral obligation and move forward."
And then it happened. She said, "Well, I don't know. That Obama. I don't trust him. He won't even show us his birth certificate."
Awesome. I was, for the first time in my life, face to face with a Birther. It was as if I was being handed a cosmic gift, this opportunity. Life, for me, is a giant museum. Where ever I am, I look for the strange and unusual, whether it's art or architecture or food or clothing or human interaction. And so here I was, for my very first time, staring into the face of a Birther.
I hid my delight, the best I could, and I explained to her that he had provided his birth certificate, that it was a private document, just like yours and mine, but that he had given consent to officials from the state of Hawaii to publicly confirm the authenticity of the birth certificate, that there were birth announcements in two independent Hawaiian newspapers, that an official copy (the same kind you or I get when we need to provide one for employment or per the government's request) was provided to The Annenberg Foundation, etc.
She simply nodded and said, with little expression, "I don't know."
And with that, her cell phone rang and we parted company.
All in all, it was pretty satisfying. I don't maintain an enmity towards her. There's a lot of Birthers just south of us in Orange County. It's not unreasonable that I would eventually meet up with one. And she was so cool about the conversation that I could only smile and enjoy the moment. Which I did.
I'm reminded that life is indeed a journey, that I am Thoreau, walking in the woods, experiencing the uniqueness of each tree, of each puddle. The people whose path I cross are the natural elements in my universe. They are not for me to judge, they are for me to enjoy, to breathe in, to absorb as one would stroke the needles of an evergreen.
Leslie and I watched the latest Charlie Kaufman film last night. It's called "Synecdoche, New York" and it is, in many ways, Kaufman's grandest work. For anyone with a taste for weird, for anyone who sincerely enjoys absurdist art, for anyone who slakes their thirst with the likes of Beckett, Albee, Pinter: this film is for you.
