Time is on my side...mostly

I was very, very worried when I had my eldest son repeat first grade.  I thought that he would be teased and called stupid.  He is far from that, but I recall a stigma attached to being "held back."  I remember my own harsh 6 year old self's thoughts about those others who were slow, couldn't read well, didn't "get it" in school.  I didn't understand what was "wrong" with them. The labels were swift and irreversible, in my mind.  He is a boy, born in the summer, and so on the tail end of his school co-hort. The first time around, we enrolled him in first grade after kindergarten without any concern.  Both my husband and I had been on the very young end of our classes and we thought it didn't do us any harm.  There weren't any red flags in kindergarten, and he had a group of boys in his class that would be close in age which we thought would protect him from being too much of an outlier.  On he merrily went from kindy to first grade.  I thought things were going along just fine at the beginning of the school year.  Then at our first parent-teacher conference in the fall, the teacher hit us with what felt at the time like a small bomb--C was having problems.  It might be something serious, diagnosable;  it might just be his age and development.  Wha?  Huh?  He was having a hard time completing his work, wasn't able to follow directions precisely.  He lagged behind the class.  He required one-on-one attention from the teacher most of the time to finish writing sentences, drawing pictures,  creating forms.  He had some issues socially integrating with his classmates. 

After my husband and I absorbed the news, we proceeded to systematically evaluate things easily correctable.  Doctor visit-okay.  We had his eyes checked.  Twice.  Hearing-fine.  We tossed around the over-diagnosed/easily medicated ADD/ADHD.  I researched it extensively.  By the end of spring of that year, I had a reading specialist evaluate him for any "processing issues."  Since he's in a Waldorf school, arbitrary grade-level reading tests were meaningless.  Sure enough, she detected some slow processing--he took an excessive amount of time translating visual pictures into words.  But he was only six, and no one wants to label a six year old (except for maybe their classmates).  It was hard to not feel like valuable time was being lost by not labeling him.  But she confirmed "likely" dyslexia.

I actually experienced moments of sadness--grief--in realizing my perfect little boy was in fact not perfect.  My ray of sunshine who would create worlds of magic...marred...abnormally wired, compared to most everyone else.  I felt anguish that he would have to struggle through life with dyslexia (or something).  Then I would think of children and families with real problems.  Real sickness, real behavior issues.  Leukemia.  Accidents.  Death.  It seemed not such a big deal after all.  I got over it and began to internalize the real meaning of the issue.

Part of that acceptance was in letting go of my expectations for him.  We all have that as parents.  High expectations of a child can be a very positive thing.  But preconceptions--expectations for--are a mistake.   This child loves stories and I felt that once he could read, the world would open up to him.  I saw him as bright and likely an early reader--which would be a de-facto confirmation of his gifts and interests.   I had been an early reader, so of course he would be.  No one in either my or my husband's families had had any real learning issues, I didn't think.  Somehow, in seeing how much he loved to hear stories, I neglected to see how hard letters were for him and how he shied away from writing.  What has taken a while to incorporate fully into my understanding, is that reading--processing ability--is only one kind of intelligence.  Just because someone isn't wired to easily learn to read (some 30% of us figure it out without formal instruction, and another 30-40% get it with minimal teaching) does not mean that they aren't bright.  I've known dyslexic people my whole life;  I just didn't really ever fully understand what it meant.  Of course, I have always believed the cliche that everyone has a gift to share no matter their education level or whatever...I just never thought that a "learning disability" would apply to my kid.  And, Oh, how I want to take back any judgment I ever made.

Once again, through my children, I am humbled and continuing to learn.  I had driven myself and my son crazy working on letters and words with him.  Not drilling him or anything, but even casually working on it was painful.  I've stopped.  I'm going to leave it to a specialist.  But in the mean time, we had him repeat first grade.  It helped to sort out what was in fact developmental from what is likely organic.  By the end of his first first grade year, he had made strides and was much better able to finish his work.  He wasn't as easily distracted by sounds and people.  He'd 'worked hard' to catch up.  He'd also had bedtimes full of tears, calling himself stupid.  Over that first summer break, my husband and I had an epiphany that we should just have him be the oldest in his class instead of the youngest. We checked it out with his former teacher who had since moved schools, and he was fully supportive.  He had not recommended it in the end of the year, probably partly because C is sweet, not a troublesome child.  Not disruptive and screaming for attention.  But he thought it would be a great thing for him.

So we gingerly approached the school and I wrote a letter to the parents of his former class, asking their help in explaining to their kids what was going to happen, hopefully easing the transition and limiting the teasing.  The school gave us their full support.  His classmates and friends gave him no hassle.  The grade above him did tease him a bit, unfortunately.  But that is part of life, I guess.  I can't protect him from everything.

In that repeat year, I did not work at all on reading unless C asked to.  I just let him be.  I let him do the work of his second first grade year uninterrupted.  His teacher said he was a leader in his classroom and socially.  He could sit and complete his work.  About ninety percent of the issues from the previous year vanished.  He has, in spite of the teasing, come through more confident.  He still, however, cannot hardly read at eight.  He is, still, dyslexic.  But at least now, there is clarity and a path.  And I have learned so much, so incredibly much, about slowing down on pushing a child through school, hitting arbitrary milestones at proscribed points.  I can certainly see how and why they came to exist.  But applying population based norms to individuals sucks.   And applying my experience, believing that just because my son is of my genes that he will be like me or his father, is just plain ignorant.  And then there is the profound difference between the boy and girl brain...that is a whole other story.

I've decided that I will probably keep my other two boys "back" as well, so that they will be on the older end of their classes, but we'll see.  If you read Malcolm Gladwell's "Outliers," he makes compelling arguments in support of it.  I had thought we might only see the benefits eight years from now, but they were apparent immediately.  Really, why should we be in a hurry to "get our kids through?"  The six years of elementary school go by exceedingly fast.  And a year of development between a five and six, or six and seven year old--it's a significant portion of their life.  Sometimes it's when you don't push that you feel no resistance and things move ahead on their own.  A small part of me keeps waiting for some developmental wiring in C's brain to connect and for reading to magically begin for him.  Other parents, especially those with boys, relate stories such as this.  One day their son picked up Harry Potter and off they went reading into the sunset.  Maybe that will happen.  But I think not.  And it's okay.  It's truly a "learning difference," a brain wired in a way that learns differently than most of us, and because of our learning systems, a disability.  So humbling.  And part of what makes him magic.  And what made me a peter pan kind of mom.

Man in the Mirror...

So my eight year old threw me for a loop the other day, as children do.   We were listening to Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror," one of my favorite songs MJ songs, and one of my son's favorite, period.  He said to me, "Mom, do you know what he is talking about--making that 'change?'"   You know, that dramatic point in the song where there is a pause and a choral "Change," a poignant key change in the last verse of the song.  It has a gorgeous gospel feel.  I explained my interpretation of the song, how social justice and cultural change start with one person--yourself.  Blah, blah, blah.  And he said, "I think it is about him changing from black to white."

Oh.  Hmm.  Wow.  Difficult parenting moments aren't always what you think they will be.  So I ask him how it would make things better for a person to be white and not black.  Well, life is just easier.  C was thinking it would make his world a better place, not the world...I think.  Oh, Jesus.  No.  Not in the era of a black president.  No!  And he's stuck to this, mentioning several times MJ's deliberate change to white.  "Oh, that's when he was white."  "The Jackson 5 is when he was black."  There are some murky post-Thriller times.   I suppose if you look at this from his eight year old perspective, from one who didn't live through the 70's and 80's, watching MJ grow up and transform from child phenom to King of Pop to freakazoid, the change looks quick.  I think this all really started when he died last June.  I had some MJ on my iPod (come on, who doesn't?) and C liked it.  One of his songs would pop up on shuffle and he'd want me to repeat it ad nauseum.  If you can separate all the weirdness out, he really is good, and his music just makes you wanna shake it. In all of the post-mortem retro-spectacle, one could really see his evolution in fast forward.  Cute dark brown, afro-haired child...to knife-thin nosed, long straight haired white "guy...."  C has also commented on how he really sounds and looks like a female...but still goes in the category of male, I guess.  Children have that need for things to be black and white, concrete, well-defined.  So.  MJ became white (did he really have vitiligo?), but still a guy.  And why not?  One can change their appearance quite dramatically through modern surgical and pharmaceutical techniques.

Between that thought-provoking conversation, a recent Vanity Fair article on "Thriller", our watching "This is It," and then stumbling on a 1992 biographical movie on the Jackson Family last night, it's time to process.  I don't want to give the impression that we have any kind of obsession with the Jacksons.  Really.  Just some convergence.  The whole family enjoyed watching "This is It."  It is really good--especially if you watched his music videos growing up during the cool days of MTV.  But even if not, you get a very rare glimpse at MJ in his creative realm.  The concerts were a massive production, each song a work of theater-art, music, dance.  You see him working lovingly and patiently with the musicians and dancers.  You witness his artistic vision and genius.  He did not look days from death.  His voice sounded great, his signature moves intact.  The boys were all up and doing their own best moves, looking rather, um, white in the process.

What struck me, knowing what we know (and think we know) now about him, were the contradictions that abound.  He sings about human nature--he, who surgically altered himself so far from anything remotely natural--telling us to "tell him that it's human nature."  He saunters around the stage with a gorgeous, scantily clad woman, trying to seduce, explaining about "the way you make me feel."  Hmmm.  Really?  And it doesn't matter if "you're black or white."  Huh?  How conflicted was he?  How much did he loathe himself to alter his physical appearance so fundamentally?  And how can I explain these contradictions to a questioning child?  Was he an artist, singing his heart and truth and experience?  Or was he a performer, singing what he thought others wanted and trying to make as much money in the process?  I suppose it is a little of both.  And a lot of irony.

You cannot doubt his talent.  We hear how his childhood was robbed from him, his father abusive.  He was clearly immensely gifted and was pushed very hard to hone his skill.  He seemed to light up while performing, and shut down when offstage.  He loved what his father was making him do, but he hated his father.  He was a boy who came of age in the time of Black Power;  a black man who has the biggest selling album ever (still to this day), and who changed the face of pop music and American culture.  He blurred the line between rock, R&B, pop;  he had truly mass appeal.  A hero for blacks...who wasn't really black in the end.  What do we learn from this?  And why is it easier to be white, as my son says?  We live in a very culturally diverse place, though there are not many blacks.  My husband and I make a very pointed effort to discuss race and our country's and region's history.  Again, looking back over the past 2 years, C has seen my husband and I talk at great lengths to each other and to him about the significance of our black president.  Regardless of what you think of Obama, we cannot forget that only in his lifetime, have Blacks in this country had equal civil rights.  We talk honestly about who Martin Luther King, Jr. was, and on his holiday pulled up films of his speeches to watch (thank God for youtube;  the result was the drawing above).  We really aren't that many generations away from slavery.  But having a black president doesn't clean the slate and make it all okay.

So my hope is that, bathed in a partial understanding of the history of blacks, my son has made that determination--it is easier to be white in this country;  or at least it has been up until recently.  I'd like to think it has already changed...but I'm white.  I don't know.  And I don't think anything in Michael Jackson's life was particularly easy...I guess we'll never know whether it was easier for him once he was white, either.  Certainly not publicly, but personally--pointedly looking in the mirror and not seeing his father--maybe it was.  Thankfully we have not had to broach the subject of alleged pedophilia...yikes.  Or his five female dressed mannequin "friends" he had as a young adult...the monkey, Bubbles...Neverland and his Disney obsession...the hubris and the timidity.  Was he just a lonely, sensitive soul?   A peter pan not wanting to grow up, trying to capture the essence of childhood magic since his own was lost?  Or did he take his love of innocence to a level of sexuality and pedophilia?  Was he molested?  We are definitely not there in our conversations, but I don't know what I will say to C when he does learn this information.  C now has a vague notion of the concept as I unfortunately had to partially explain to him why I wouldn't let him change alone in the men's room at a very large public pool this summer, in spite of his insistence.  Why would our culture, why would I personally, hold up this icon?  Partly because we do not know for sure.  Partly because he was immensely talented.  Partly because Americans love a spectacle.  Anyone going through a grocery store check out line knows for sure that our stars belong to us.  Maybe should we just take the artist/performer's work for it's surface value, not dissecting the person underneath.  Just let the iPod shuffle and groove.  But he was so fascinating!  He had it all, though no matter how much, it was clearly never going to be enough.

I will continue to speak honestly to my boys when they inquire about uncomfortable subjects, providing them information when they seem ready to handle it, hopefully striking a balance between satiating their curiosity and stretching them just a bit.  Though we are a part of a Waldorf school, I don't eschew media entirely.  We limit screen time, but I feel that media literacy is part of life and provides children with a cultural currency.  And movies, music, stories--they are art.  They hold powerful stories, lessons and messages.  Do we have a responsibility as parents to provide our children with controversy-free entertainment?  Might it make things cleaner, easier?  Sanitized?  Sure, but that is not reality, and it's soooo boring.  I suppose they are going to have to absorb, little by little (I hope) the messy nature of us humans.  The artist as well as his work.  And maybe that is part of MJ's appeal--he was fatally flawed, just like so many heroes;  it brought him down to earth like the rest of us.  I suppose that when they inquire more about MJ's strange life and doings, I'll be as truthful as I can;  or maybe I'll just sing a few bars about "his human nature."  MJ and the cadre of ruined, addicted pop stars affirm my desire to slow it all down and let children just be.  Stay out here in the boonies, let my kids grow their hair long and shaggy, wear crazy costumes/clothing, and stay as unplugged as possible.  And I will continue to do my part as best I can, to make the world a better place, looking at myself in the mirror every day and when needed, make that change.  But the real kind of change...the one I think MJ was talking about...maybe, I guess.