May 28: Black Beans and Rice, "Mr. Holland's Opus," Football Versus Poetry

The boy feeds Santiago . . . 

"Wake up old man," the boy said and put his hand on one of the old man's knees.

The old man opened his eyes and for a moment he was coming back from a long way away. Then he smiled.

"What have you got?" he asked.

"Supper," said the boy. "We're going to have supper."

"I'm not very hungry."

"Come on and eat. You can't fish and not eat."

"I have," the old man said getting up and taking the newspaper and folding it. Then he started to fold the blanket.

"Keep the blanket around you," the boy said. "You'll not fish without eating while I'm alive."

"Then live a long time and take care of yourself," the old man said. "What are we eating?"

"Black beans and rice, fried bananas, and some stew."

The boy is kind to Santiago in so many ways.  That kindness is obviously based on deep affection, if not love.  Santiago is at sea (literally and metaphorically) in his life, and the boy seems to be the home port for the old man.  Where he is safe and respected and cared for. 

Perhaps I'm focusing too much on my son in these posts, and you, Constant Reader, are becoming tired on my musings about him and his situation.  If so, kindly move on to your next blog.  You know, the one about vacationing at Walt Disney World or the one where people post pictures of their terrible meals at restaurants and pretend they're Gordon Ramsay (and they're not).  

I began my day finishing a poem I wrote for my niece's graduation.  I've been meditating on this poem for a couple weeks now.  This morning, it just all came together, and I was able to finish writing it and create a nice broadside for her.  It's always a good day when a new poem enters the world.

This evening, my son and I watched Mr. Holland's Opus.  I hadn't watched the movie in years, and my son had never seen it.  When I first told him that he was watching a movie with me, he rolled his eyes and said, "What's it called?"  When I told him the title, he pasted an even worse teenager expression on his face and sighed, "That sounds awful."

By the time the credits were rolling at the end, my son was a weeping mess.  In fact, he cried for practically the last half hour.  He's a really sensitive boy.  Loves the arts.  Music and poetry and painting.  And he got incredibly pissed by the idea of a school not having an arts curriculum.  "How can they do that?" he asked me.

"Well," I said, "not everyone values music and writing and drawing like we do.  Especially when it comes to football versus poetry or basketball versus chorus."

He shook his head, disgusted.

He gets it.  Yes, math and science are important and necessary pursuits.  But he also understands that life is a little more complex than numbers on a page or case studies or frog dissection or computer programs.

Saint Marty is happy that art--in whatever form--can move his son to tears.