June 25: Wandered About Moodily, Sidewalk Chalk Poetry, My Son

Arhtur Dent is wandering about moodily . . .

On the surface of Magrathea Arthur wandered about moodily.

See, what'd I tell you?

It has been a long day that ended really well.   

This afternoon, when I was done with work, I volunteered to judge a local sidewalk chalk poetry contest at the local library.  It was part of the city's annual Art Week.  I was in charge of the Grades 6 to 8 division.  So I stood outside, on the first really beautiful summer day we've had, and watched a whole lot of people scribbling and drawing on the pavement.

I love events like this.  They fill my heart and soul with gratitude that so many people want to create something beautiful in the world, adults to preschoolers.  Funny thing, the preschoolers are usually the ones that always write things that amaze me.

This year, my son decided to enter the contest.

Let me tell you about my son.  He's smart, funny, and physical.  He loves playing on the computer and playing outside.  And he loves being around people.  But I think he's starting to suffer from low self esteem.  You see, since he was young, he's struggled with ADHD.  He loses his attention and patience very easily.  His classmates have quickly realized this character trait, and they love exploiting it.  They push his buttons until he reacts and gets in trouble.  He often calls himself "stupid" because he can't control himself or concentrate.

My son also loves his pizza.  His four major food groups are:  pizza, pasta, Ramen, and ice cream bars.  He often tries healthier options, but he hasn't found too many fruits or vegetables that are better the Little Caesar's.  Now, he's noticed that he has put on some weight (this may also be due to the medications he takes for his ADHD), and so he's started calling himself "fat."

For Father's Day this year, my son wrote me a poem.  It was clever and funny and really well-written.  I told my son what a good writer he is, but he didn't believe me.  Shrugged it off.  This past weekend, I told him about the sidewalk chalk poetry contest.  I told him, "It's theme is 'the forest.'  Do you think you can write about that?"  That night, he sat down and wrote a poem.

At the contest tonight, he calculated the possibility of him winning the contest.  There were two other kids in his age division, so my son walked around saying, "I stand a 33-and-a-third chance of winning.  If another kid shows up, it's 25%."

Well, I stepped aside as the judge for the Grades 6 to 8 division so that Gideon could enter.  Therefore, I had nothing to do with the results of that portion on the competition.  I ended up judging Grades 3 to 5.  Everything was on the up-and-up.  

My son won his division.  I think he'd already convinced himself that he wasn't going to win.  He said to me before the announcement, "I didn't win.  The other ones were better."

My wife said that when he got home after winning, he immediately called his sister and spent a good deal of time telling her about the contest.  He probably even read his poem to her.

I am so proud of my son.  He didn't ask my advice on his poem.  He didn't even want me to read it before the contest.  It was his own, from start to finish.

Maybe, now, instead of thinking of himself as "stupid" or "fat," Saint Marty's son will claim different titles.  Talented.  Creative.  Poetic.

May 19: Dorianne Laux, "Family Stories," Black Sheep

Family Stories

by:  Dorianne Laux

I had a boyfriend who told me stories about his family,

how an argument once ended when his father

seized a lit birthday cake in both hands

and hurled it out a second-story window. That,

I thought, was what a normal family was like: anger

sent out across the sill, landing like a gift

to decorate the sidewalk below. In mine

it was fists and direct hits to the solar plexus,

and nobody ever forgave anyone. But I believed

the people in his stories really loved one another,

even when they yelled and shoved their feet

through cabinet doors, or held a chair like a bottle

of cheap champagne, christening the wall,

rungs exploding from their holes.

I said it sounded harmless, the pomp and fury

of the passionate. He said it was a curse

being born Italian and Catholic and when he

looked from that window what he saw was the moment

rudely crushed. But all I could see was a gorgeous

three-layer cake gliding like a battered ship

down the sidewalk, the smoking candles broken, sunk

deep in the icing, a few still burning.

________________________

Let me tell you now that I love my family, each and every member.  That doesn't mean that I agree with all of the things that everyone does.  I think family members can be petty, cheap, vindictive, stupid, controlling, and shortsighted.  I accept those shortcomings in the people who are important to me.  It's who they are, for better or worse.

I come from a pretty passionate group of people.  Everyone believes they are absolutely right.  All the time.  And they like telling me how I should live my life.  I have learned to listen to them, sometimes argue with them, sometimes ignore them, and then I do exactly what I want to do.  That's how I survive.

Saint Marty is sort of a black sheep, but at least he's sane.  Sort of.