I have often thought that we would do society a wonderful service if we raised our children better. Of course. We could start with something as simple—and profound—as asking the right question. When our children are very little, we begin our influence on their lives by asking them the wrong question. You know what that is, say it with me now, “WHAT do you want to be when you grow up?” A much better query, I think, would also be the more philosophical one. “HOW do you want to be when you grow up?” If our society were to get in the habit of thinking in a less materialistic, less corporate way (which is really just asking how much money do they want to make), we could give ourselves a fighting chance of raising better people, better humans. The new and improved question, if put in just the right way, raises deep issues. Instead of “do you want to be a firefighter,” what about, “do you want to be brave?” Instead of “do you want to be a nurse” we would ask, “do you want to be kind and help people?” These are the types of questions we should be asking children. How healthy and freeing it would be to teach our children that if they can truly “do anything” it is only because they can be any way as a person. “I want to be quiet.” “I want to be a leader.” “I want to be a kind leader who is brave and quiet.”* “I want to be silly.” “I want to be artistic.” (Well, little kids might not know that word yet, but you get the idea). Then we adults could encourage them to foster and nurture those qualities, the gift of their spirit they have before they grow up and we screw them up. (Or not. We do our best, but sometimes it’s not great.)
* I recently read the book “Quiet,” which explores how Rosa Parks was actually a very quiet person. It took both her soft-spoken courage and Martin Luther King Junior’s talents for oratory to catapult the Civil Rights movement to the forefront in the 1950s. Since most politicians are extroverts, we forget that leaders can be quiet, too. It’s good to remember.
Later, with our encouragement, our children can seek out a career that would best suit them, or, better yet, they can find it for themselves. The difference between the “what” and the “how” gives them the enriched, deeper knowledge of who-and how– they are as human beings, so they need not become just a cog in the wheel. In other words, better people.
When I was a kid, my Mom encouraged me to play an instrument. I think that is a good thing for all parents to do, encourage their children. I wanted to play the drums, but I played the clarinet instead, probably because my older sister did, and a lot of us want to be like our older siblings when we are little. (Later I confess to a small bit of glee when she wrinkled…until my own skin did the same four years later.) My uncle owned a music store and he generously gave me a brand new clarinet. Years later, when I was in college, I would sell it, guiltily, knowing that all those years before he had told me “Never sell your instrument.” I should have just given it back to him, really, and I probably did not even get very much money for it, either. However, I sold it in spite of what he had said. Then I regretted it, for my Catholic guilt, not because of the clarinet itself.
I had played clarinet throughout high school– all four years– not well, but good enough to be first (which is best, of course) or second chair, which means you can play better than the other people who also cannot play well. (I think there was a third chair, too. Definitely not a fourth chair; it was a pretty small school -if 400 kids is small). Then in college I auditioned for the college orchestra, badly. I was given a spot anyway, as third chair, but I didn’t take it. I really didn’t want it. That was when I sold my clarinet. I knew if I weren’t going to play in college, I wouldn’t play after, either.
I also liked to sing, and I auditioned for the college choir, too. That was another interesting audition. In high school I had been in band and choir both. Unfortunately, I confess I never did learn to read music well, neither from being in band nor in choir. That’s partly because I’m just not visual in any way; the notes on the page danced around, a different language. I understood higher and lower notes as a general concept, but which specific notes they were was anybody’s guess. It was a language I simply could not read. In high school it didn’t matter much; we didn’t have a very big school or a very big music program. I played clarinet in first or second chair, following Amy who was definitely first chair and played quite well. She could read music. More than thirty years later I saw Amy and it all felt so familiar and easy. It was wonderful. We spent the day together and we took her 20 year-old daughter to tour the college campus at Chico State. Holy cow, she had a 20 year old! I was already wrinkled by then, too, just like my sister.
But in high school, I had messed around and watched while my older brother squirted valve oil from his trumpet onto the red-headed saxophonist directly in front of him. (Shout out to my friend! Hey, gal!). In college choir, though, reading music was very important; I just didn’t know how. Too much valve oil amusement, too much laziness on my part to learn. I could listen and hear notes very well, though, and if other people were going to be singing, I knew I could learn quickly. In fact, part of why I never learned to read music was because if I listened to something even once or twice, I would learn it easily, so I sort of didn’t need to.
I still remember my audition for college choir. I had to sing scales and notes on the piano and then something else. Can’t remember that. (Wrinkled). Then I had to “sight read,” when you are given an unfamiliar piece of music and sing it. I told the conductor, Dr. Kendrick, that I didn’t know how to sight-read well. Then I didn’t do well. He agreed. He said my voice was fine, but the sight-reading? Yikes. I explained that if I could hear or listen to music I could learn it, would learn it. I asked him if there would be rehearsals prior to a concert and he said, “Yes, we practice for every concert for months.” It seems so obvious now, but at the time it wasn’t because I didn’t know how it all worked. For all I knew, he’d hand out music and there would be a concert the next day. I definitely couldn’t have done that. However, he did give me a chance and let me into a choir, even the best one. I was in that choir for 8 years, throughout my entire undergraduate school, graduate school and for one year after I graduated. I loved it. I got a little better at sight-reading, too. It was the kind of person I was: persistent, hard working, and determined. Nobody had ever asked me, but I was (and am) all those things anyway, and more.
I was also curious. When I was in college, I soaked it all up. Choir, English, Asian History, and sadly, Math. I hated Math. With everything else I was the proverbial kid in a candy store, so thrilled to learn and explore, excited to find out about so many things I previously didn’t even know existed. Ah, learning! In my first semester of college I had an 8:00 am class Math, but I dropped it almost immediately, probably right after the first class. I figured out that I could take an 8:00 am class or I could take a Math class, but there was no way I could take an 8:00 am Math Class. After I dropped it, I found another Math, and it really wasn’t that bad. I even liked it, a little. Until my graduation, every semester I carried my 16 units, which were my full 3-units-per class (five of those) and my one-unit choir class. 16 units. I can tell you that because I passed Math.