Going (or coming) home again-Thomas Wolfe was wrong

      "You can't go back home" Thomas Wolfe wrote "to your family, back home to your childhood." I have been thinking about this line from a posthumous novel written almost 30 years before I was born, and of how this phrase applies as my son Andrew moved back in with us to attend school out here in Houston. Of how things change when you leave your parents' home and grow accustomed to your own life.

     After having lived in a dorm at the University of North Alabama for a couple of years, Andrew is now back home living with us and going to a commuter college out here. Situations have changed-he is no longer a minor child dependent on us for everything in his life, but an adult living under the same roof and who can make his own decisions and choices.

     We missed this change with Pamela, our oldest. She was already out of the house and seemingly halfway to Auburn by the time she graduated high school, and when she returned the next year, she only stayed a few weeks between house changes before returning to her own life. Just a brief interlude between leases was what we got. It looks like Andrew is going to be here a couple of years until he gets out of school and moves out on his own.

      The major facts about Andrew haven't changed at all-he is still thoughtful, witty, self-assured, and industrious. But new challenges crop up all the time. I try to remember to suggest instead of demanding. To encourage rather than command. To offer guidance rather than rules.
      This business of building a relationship with an adult child is not simple. When kids no longer need you to fight their battles for them or to instruct them in how to tie their shoes or toss a baseball, where do you go?

      After I get home from my morning bus route in the morning at about 9 AM, I generally make breakfast for the two of us, and we sit around and eat a leisurely meal together. I scan the newspaper and let him know about the latest scandals and fill him in on the day's crazy letters-to-the-editor from the local wingnuts. We might talk about going to farmers' markets or record stores, and make decisions over cups of coffee, decisions about events that may or may not come to pass.
     He almost always cleans the kitchen up, even without being asked. He's astonishingly helpful, and I appreciate his industriousness. Sometimes we take the dogs out for a walk, or go get groceries together.

     I think of my mom, and of how gracefully she transitioned into that next level. She never made it look hard, it was effortless. She let go quietly and smoothly but has never withdrawn from my life. I think sometimes of how well we get along together as a template, a model from which to take my cues for relating to Pam and to Andrew, and in a few years, to Sarah. Keep close, keep in contact, offer support and offer guidance when asked, but don't smother. Don't overwhelm. Let them make their own choices. Let them make their own decisions.
     Even let them make their own mistakes. That's the hard one. 

     I sure would make some decisions differently than my adult children. With my experience borne of numerous mistakes and poor judgement, I would do a lot of things differently than they do, rushing in with what seems a frightening mixture of naivete and foolhardiness. But living life too cautiously has as its curse a dryness and shallowness. Some risk-taking is necessary for success, and the exuberance of love always comes at the price of possible rejection.

     So I am heartened by the fact that my kids are now and will in the future continue to strike out in the world, to go their own way, to make their own choices, to laugh and yell and live and love, to raise their voices like Whitman said, to sound their  barbaric yawps over the roofs of the world. And meanwhile, even the words of Mr. Wolfe give me hope that some things never change:

 The glitter of sunlight on roughened water, the glory of the stars, the innocence of morning, the smell of the sea in harbors, the feathery blur and smoky buddings of young boughs, and something there that comes and goes and never can be captured, the thorn of spring, the sharp and tongueless cry--these things will always be the same.

      Who knows-maybe sitting around the breakfast table sharing a cup of coffee with your son is one of those eternal themes that persevere in the midst of life's upheavals and transitions.

Be Like Mike

     In the 1990's, Gatorade put all its advertising dollars on the hottest up-and-coming basketball player of the time, a move that would result in a pop culture wave of sports adulation and marketable branding as every kid on the block wanted to "Be Like Mike." Michael Jordan, arguably the best basketball player ever to walk out on a court.
   
     There's another Mike in the news and on my mind. He's far from a famous athlete, has no lucrative sports contract, isn't idolized by millions, and doesn't have a retinue of adoring fans following him everywhere he goes. But, like the "other" Mike, he is a hero and a role model to kids. Some very special kids.
     This Mike is Michael Garcia, a waiter in Houston. You see, last month, Michael stood up for Milo. Milo being Milo Castillo, a beautiful little boy with Down syndrome. Guests seated in Michael's restaurant asked to be moved away from Milo and his family and made a snarky remark that "special-needs children need to be kept in special places."
     So Michael, even though he does not have a special needs child or anyone in his family or group of friends with a disability, did the stand-up thing. He refused to serve the people who insulted his regular diners and their beautiful child. Asked them how they could  make that remark about such an angel of a child. Asked them to leave.

     I worked for about two decades in the restaurant world. In that culture, the guest is unquestioned and all-powerful. There are two rules. #1 is the customer is always right. #2 is when in doubt refer back to #1. So for this waiter to break this sacred rule, to refuse service to someone,and to refuse to turn his head and let the horrible remark slide, to make a stand for kindness and decency, was an astoundingly courageous decision.
To do so when he had no particular reason other than simple moral kindness was inspiring. Simply inspiring.

     So Michael Garcia has been getting a lot of attention after Milo's mom blogged about what he did and spread the news all over. News stories nationwide, laud and praise and donations rolling in to this generous man from all over the country. This last week, Milo's school, which is a school dedicated to the education and socialization of youngsters with Down syndrome, threw a thank-you party for Michael. Complete with cards, balloons, dancing and singing. Michael made a donation to the school of the contributions that have been coming to him. Yes, he did. Really.

     What Michael Garcia fought was one of the most significant battles anyone can ever fight. Rather than tilting at windmills or battling dragons, he took on one of the little pernicious, dehumanizing remarks which fill up the substance of our day. How many times have we all heard an unkind remark and not corrected it? Stood by while bullying was going on? Laughed at a racist joke? Averted our eyes from watching an irate customer dressing down a cashier over some corporate policy on returning merchandise?

     People claim all the time they want to "be like Jesus."  In some ways, sacrifice on Jesus' scale can sometimes be more understandable and simpler than standing up to a bully like Michael Garcia did. How noble it is to sacrifice oneself for the good of all mankind, to take a deep breath and gird oneself with faith and trust and hope and to do what is to be done. The immensity of such a sacrifice makes it once-and-for-all-time and imbues it with purpose and dignity.
     What Michael did is heroic and inspiring, but it won't lead to a movie climax moment, with a swelling Bill Conti orchestra stirring your heart as Rocky shadow-boxes his way up the steps or the Karate Kid hobbles on one leg to crane-kick Johnny Lawrence. Such little battles fill our days with only occasional flashes of appreciation, but they are vital to our hearts and souls.
     Michael Garcia will go on being Michael Garcia and waiting on Milo and his family. But those kids down at The Rise School, well, they know who Michael is. They know they have a friend.
     When Michael went to the party, he received a very special gift. A crown. Made of yellow foam, decked out with glued-on jewels. Presented to him by his friend Milo. Michael bent his head, Milo fumbled with it and placed it upon his head, bestowing a regal dignity upon the proceedings.

     Lord, let me be like Mike.

     Oh, to deserve to wear such a crown....