March 3: "Teenager," Johnny Carson, Poetry

Billy Collins remembers what it's like to be a . . . 

Teenager

by:  Billy Collins

Even a branch on an evergreen

may take an unexpected turn

up, down, or sideways

and grow substantial

in some weird direction.

Yes, being a teenager isn't easy.  You're not quite a kid anymore, but you're also not an adult.  You're in this limbo where everyone is trying to tell you what you should do, who you should be.  I started college when I was 17 years old.  I didn't know shit.  

On my first day at the university, I lost my car for about an hour.  Couldn't remember where I parked.  I desperately wanted to be a writer, but my mother convinced me to major in computer science instead.  "There's a future in computers," she said.  And she was right.  However, my evergreen branch grew in a substantially weird direction--English, grad school, poetry.

I think most adults forget the kinds of pressures teenagers face.  Somehow, when you hit senior year in high school, you're supposed to have it all figured out--education, job, career.  It was actually a little paralyzing for me.  I spent many a sleepless night watching Johnny Carson and reading The Catcher in the Rye.  

As the father of teenagers, I've tried to give my kids guidance based on my own struggles as a young adult.  I'm happy to report that neither of my offspring want to be poets.  My daughter is now a year or so away from medical school, and my 15-year-old son is talking about cyber security.  I don't see many sonnets in either of their futures.  And that's okay.  Like any parent, I just want my kids to be happy, no matter what.

Do I regret the weird direction my life took?  Absolutely not.  I will never make a six-figure salary.  Nor do I anticipate a day when I won't have to worry about car payments or mortgage payments or income taxes.  There's a chance I will never see a cent of the money I've paid into Social Security.  (By the way, that's my money.  Not the government's.  If Social Security is done away with, I expect a VERY LARGE check from the U. S. Treasury for all the money they owe me.  But that's the subject of another blog post.)

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that I want my kids to chase their dreams, no matter what.  I'm the son of a plumber, and I became a poet.  

What do the children of saints become?  

Saint Marty can't wait to find out.

February 18: Be Patient, Pep Talks, Kamila Valieva

Santiago talks to his hand.  (Yes, you read that correctly--he TALKS to his hand.) . . . 

"I don't think I can eat an entire one," he said and drew his knife across one of the strips. He could feel the steady hard pull of the line and his left hand was cramped. It drew up tight on the heavy cord and he looked at it in disgust.

"What kind of a hand is that," he said. "Cramp then if you want. Make yourself into a claw. It will do you no good."

Come on, he thought and looked down into the dark water at the slant of the line. Eat it now and it will strengthen the hand. It is not the hand's fault and you have been many hours with the fish. But you can stay with him forever. Eat the bonito now.

He picked up a piece and put it in his mouth and chewed it slowly. It was not unpleasant.

Chew it well, he thought, and get all the juices. It would not be bad to eat with a little lime or with lemon or with salt.

"How do you feel, hand?" he asked the cramped hand that was almost as stiff as rigor mortis. "I'll eat some more for you."

He ate the other part of the piece that he had cut in two. He chewed it carefully and then spat out the skin.

"How does it go, hand? Or is it too early to know?"

He took another full piece and chewed it.

"It is a strong full-blooded fish," he thought. "I was lucky to get him instead of dolphin. Dolphin is too sweet. This is hardly sweet at all and all the strength is still in it."

There is no sense in being anything but practical though, he thought. I wish I had some salt. And I do not know whether the sun will rot or dry what is left, so I had better eat it all although I am not hungry. The fish is calm and steady. I will eat it all and then I will be ready.

"Be patient, hand," he said. "I do this for you."

Sometimes, I give myself pep talks, too.  Especially when I'm facing something difficult.

At the moment, it is almost 11 p.m.  I am doing what I have been doing for the last couple weeks--watching the Beijing Winter Olympics.  Last night, I watched the train wreck that was the finals of women's figure skating.  In particular, the performance of 15-year-old Kamila Valieva.

Here is what I noticed:  Valieva looked traumatized even before she began skating.  After days of scandal, she had to talk herself into getting on the ice.  And then, when she fell, she had to talk herself into getting up and continuing.  She did this over and over.  By the time it was over, this little girl looked tiny and broken.

Kamila Valieva shouldn't have skated last night.  Not just because she tested positive for banned substances.  She shouldn't have skated because she was a teenage girl with no emotional support system.  The entire world had been watching her every move almost since the start of the Olympics.  Talking about her.  Criticizing her.

Facing all of that, what teenager wouldn't have fallen apart?  When I was 15, I was sitting alone in my bedroom, scribbling in my journal, dreaming of doing something great with my life.  I didn't know who I was.  And I certainly wouldn't have held up if the entire world was reading and tearing my writing apart.

All Saint Marty wanted to do yesterday was give that little girl a hug and tell her everything is going to be alright.