The Writing Parent

Of all of the parenting decisions my mother made when I was in middle school, perhaps the one I am most grateful for is how she chose to write about me.

My mother spent several years as a professional writer. She pursued that occupation with an energy, resilience, and enthusiasm that was inspirational. She was quite prolific during those years, but there is one piece that was published that I particularly think of as “my book” —  a book of prayers for children transitioning into adolescence called Junior High’s a Jungle, Lord.

The summer after my seventh grade year, I went away to a summer program for several weeks. My mother missed me so much that she wrote a book in a voice that she imagined might be like my own internal voice.

She took experiences of my own and experiences of hers when she was my age and she fictionalized them. She wrote in the first person, from the point of view of a fictional me – she entered imaginatively into what it might feel like to be someone like me in a school like my school. The whole project was arguably an exercise in empathy, which is, after all, what intercessory prayer requires. And if a person is writing prayers for someone to pray for themselves and their peers, then in a sense, that writer first is praying on the reader’s behalf.

In the work, what I saw as a thirteen year old was a mother who thought deeply about me and my experiences, who was making an effort to understand me, and who missed me when I wasn’t around. It was heart-warming.

It helped that I got to read it in manuscript form, so I didn’t get blind-sided by what she had chosen to reveal, as I sometimes did when my Dad would use me or my siblings as a sermon illustration, bless him. And in any case, she wasn’t reporting on facts – she was using my experiences as a jumping off point for an imaginative work. Anything that didn’t scan with my own experience of events I could brush off as artistic license.

Now, as a parent myself, I see my mother’s books as an example of how to parent in public. Writing about one’s parenting struggles may be honest, but parents need to remember that, at some point, their children learn how to read. And (a concern my mother’s generation could not have anticipated when they had children at home) how to use an internet search engine. When we are writing about parenting for other parents, we may, ironically, be forgetting that we are parents – that we have children who are perfectly capable of listening in on the conversation.

When instead we write for children, we are not forgetting that we are parents — and hopefully we are further remembering what it will be like for our own children to read what we have written, and perhaps even to meet people who have also read what we have written. (Though Christopher Milne might have qualified that with the response, “Not necessarily.”)

Of course, it is also possible to write for grown-ups in a way that remembers that our children will grow up – but never forgetting that their relationships with trusted adults (and particularly with their parents) requires a respectful discernment about what information is appropriate to share with any person who could ever come across it. Some things are best reserved to be shared at carefully chosen times within intimate relationships with known people. That isn’t dishonest: it’s setting healthy boundaries.

There are a number of concerns that I have struggled with pertaining to writing for public consumption, and this one is near the top of the list: once something is published, you don’t get to chose who reads it. It is out there for literally anyone, at any time now or in the future to consume and then interpret, without any further mitigating input from the writer.

I have been reading Let the Children Come, by Bonnie J. Miller-McLemore. I highly recommend it, but not without any reservations. Her central idea is something I have believed for a long time myself, and she puts it extraordinarily well early on in the book: “children must be fully respected as persons, valued as gifts, and viewed as agents.” (from the author’s Introduction)

However, I also have many disagreements with her book. I was going to say, “many small disagreements,” but I think that the implications for some of these ideas of hers that I question may be – at least, let’s say, non-trivial.

For instance, in the very beginning of her introduction, Miller-McLemore articulates the need to which her book responds with an extended reflection on the difference between parenting very small children and parenting older children: “Perhaps that is why [Anne] Lamott and other women have written powerful accounts of early motherhood but seldom delve into experiences of long-term parenting. After the first few years, the waters become incredibly muddy.”

Leaving aside for the moment that this book was written in 2003 and that Lamott has written a great deal since then (not to mention all of the new figures that have risen up to write about parenting in that time), it does seem that there is a lot more written about life with babies (and toddlers and preschoolers) than memoirs about life with older children.

Certainly I wrote a great deal about my daughter earlier in her life, but I have made few blog entries related to her in the past couple of years. (She is now 10.)

Speaking for myself, that is not because parenting a child this age is “muddier” or more complicated, or because I am trying to hide from my inconsistencies as a parent (which are, as I am a human being, positively rife), or because my daughter doesn’t do anything wonderfully inspiring anymore (she inspires me every day!), or because it eludes my abilities to say anything meaningful about this time in our lives.

Instead, I write very little about her because I am trying to be thoughtful about how best to share our stories, in a way that not only respects her privacy and her wishes now, but that respects our relationship into the future.

I wanted to record her earlier experiences, in part because I knew that she would not remember them, and I feared that I might forget, too. As she has gotten older, I have remained interested in writing, especially in writing about children and their integral role in the kingdom of God. But I have been becoming increasingly thoughtful about how to do that in the way that love demands: with a respect for the particular people of all ages that I have been blessed to get to know in person.

 

Aspiration

Jesus Blesses the Children (detail of a photo by Walters Art Museum, posted here under Creative Commons license 2.0)

Jesus Blesses the Children (detail of a photo by Walters Art Museum, posted here under Creative Commons license 2.0)

Today, on Twitter, Whitney Simpson quoted St. Augustine: “You aspire to great things? Begin with little ones.”

Glancing through my feed, I thought to myself, “I have always believed that! I didn’t know Augustine had such a high view of children.” Because of my bias towards children, I had understood Augustine to mean that anyone who would do great things should spend time with children. Which is not, upon re-reading, the meaning of this quote at all, but if it is a misreading, at least it is a Biblical misreading! Jesus said that grown ups need to become more like children in order to enter the kingdom of God, and furthermore that if we lead little ones astray, it would have been better for us if we had been drowned in the sea.

The time I spend with children is time that I spend learning. From my daughter’s questions, I learn how the world is in the grip of sin, and from my answers to those questions I learn what I believe. When teaching a children’s knitting class last spring, I learned anew how different we all are: how different we are in what we understand and what we notice and whose opinion of us matters, and how that determines difference in how we learn and what motivates us. But I was also reminded that most of us are the same, too, in having someone that we desire to impress, in needing another’s patience when we are frustrated, and in delighting in mastering a new skill. From a Daisy troop, I finally started to get a handle on group dynamics by observing the shifts in group functioning when different combinations of girls showed up.

But the time I spend with children is also time that I spend shaping the persons that they will become – giving the knitting students a sense of competence, as well as a stress relieving life skill, for instance; or giving the Daisies another instance of an adult who is not their parents who cares about them, and who cares about how they treat one another…

Do I aspire to a kinder, more equitable world? Then I need to invest in the little ones.

When I was in college, I used to say that the most revolutionary thing a person could do was to raise a child with intention, and my daughter is certainly on the receiving end of a great deal of intentional parenting! My husband and I are shaping who she will become, not just from our direct influence, but also through choosing other people to be in her life (and through the mistakes we make, as well.) Who she is and how she interacts with the world is influenced (though not completely determined) by who we are and how we have raised her. What had not occurred to me when I was nineteen was how much she would shape us, too – how much all the children I have known were shaping me all along. I could spend many hours thinking and writing about it!

Right now, however, I might need to take St. Augustine at his intended word. I am aspiring to PhD work. I have been so long out of school, that I first need to take some new classes, so that I can get “fresher” recommendations. Which means that if I aspire to a PhD, I need to begin with the (relatively) little task of my 200 word essay for my application as a special student. There are no skipping the little steps on the way to our greater goals. So no matter how inspirational it may be at times, I had better log off Twitter and get to work – before my partner in revolution gets home from school.

A dishonor and a privilege

I was in the waiting room of an urgent care this morning when I saw him. He was adorable. Vacillating between heartmeltingly thoughtful and thoughtlessly distracted and studiously disobedient, like any four year old. He was running around carrying a cup of water, and his mom seemed torn between letting him have his independence and keeping him from spilling it on the floor, like any mom of a preschooler.

My heart ached as I watched him, because I knew that on some day in the next six to twelve years, he would cross a line created by my people, by white U.S. people – the line between adorable and menacing. He would be the same little boy, but other people – white people – would stop seeing a little boy and see a threat – they would fear him with the visceral fear of a people whose wealth was stolen generations ago from the people of that little boy – a violent theft of labor, life, and dignity. They would fear him because, deep down, they would know that if they were dealt the hand he was dealt, they would feel entirely justified in violently breaking out against their oppressors. And so they would come to expect that outbreak, to project it onto him, so that one day, when he reaches into his pocket for a stick of gum (just like any teenager), some fearful white person might just shoot him. Just in case.

I do not have to worry about the day when my white daughter will be shot by a police officer. And I confess that that is a relief to me. I have never been scared of more than a bump in my insurance rates when a police officer has pulled me over. Or, when I was younger, that the officer might call my Dad, and my Dad would be disappointed in me. I am white, and my husband is white, and my child is white. My sister and brother are white, and their spouses and children are white. I haven’t had to think about police violence, or vigilante violence, or Klan violence.

That’s a big part of what “privilege” means – it means not having to think about difficult things because of who you are. I have to think about being a woman – being a woman is a dangerous thing in this world – but I can choose whether to think about being white.

White friends, if you haven’t thought about it, think about it now. Think about what it means to be white. If you are parents of white children, think about that. Think about all of the things that you don’t have to think about. Like not having to worry about whether your child will grow up to be shot by a police officer, and have the whole police department mobilize to cover it up. Like not having to worry about whether some vigilante will confront and then shoot your unarmed kid, and then be acquitted because it was “self-defense.” Like not having to worry about how your child will carry on after you are killed by white folks who tied you to the back of a truck and dragged you down a road for sport. Like not having to worry about whether you will be choked by a police officer in front of your young child for using your grill on the sidewalk in front of your house. Or being killed because your wife, the mother of your son, does not have the same skin color as you do.

“Who is my neighbor?” the lawyer asked Jesus. Jesus told him a story that flipped the question – we are to BE neighbors – to choose to care for anyone who is being knocked down and beat up and having everything taken from them. To anyone who is being shot in the street.

“Love your neighbor as yourself.” Jesus discouraged the lawyer from limiting the scope of what “neighbor” might mean. For all of us white folks, who are grateful for the privilege of not having to fear violence for ourselves and our families based on what we look like, loving our neighbor as ourselves means wanting that sense of security for everyone.

Mothers know that their children are adorable no matter how old they are. They are precious. I am praying for all of the mothers tonight, especially for the mothers of black children, who knew long before Mike Brown was shot how dangerous their children’s lives are – how fragile their existence is in this country that fears them furiously and violently. Lord, may it not ever be so. May these mothers one night sleep a peaceful night’s sleep, because their children are finally free to walk in the world as safely as my own white child. Amen.