Saturday, September 27, 2003
Halloween just doesn't scare me
By Russell King
Every year about this time, we hear of parents objecting, in the name of Christianity, to the celebration of Halloween. Their assertion is that Halloween is the celebration or practice of witchcraft, forbidden by the Old Testament books of Exodus and Deuteronomy. Count me as one dad who disagrees.
We can talk about their misuse of the scriptures another time: Right now, I'll just disagree with their characterization of Halloween as something demonic.
Much of Halloween comes to us from the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain (pronounced sow-en, sow-een or sav-en, depending on whether you're Irish, Welsh or Scottish)--a joyful mixture of Thanksgiving and New Year's Day. Samhain marked the death of the old year and the birth of the new when, for the Celts, crops were harvested in preparation for the long cold dearth of winter. This was a day of thanking God for providing food.
The ancient Celts did not use the same words or concepts we do to describe their relationships with God, but does that make their prayer invalid or their praise misdirected? We have been warned about the dangers of judging others.
Samhain was not, as some charge, the name of a Celtic "God of Death." There is no mention in the historical record of any Celtic god by this name. In the ancient Celtic language, the word means "end of summer."
The poetic implications that touch many of us this time of year were not lost on the Celts and they saw this transition from nature's "life" of summer to "death" of winter as having meaning. They believed that during this festival the door between the living and dead was most open, and the spirits of deceased loved ones could be reached. Unfortunately, so could the spirits of not-so-loved ones. The Celts carved faces in potatoes and turnips and lit them with candles to light the way for the good and to scare away the bad.
Later, there grew the Irish children's story of Jack, a villain so wicked he wasn't even welcome in Hell. He wandered looking for a place to rest, his only warmth a glittering candle in a rotten potato. The children carved lanterns as reminders of Jack's fate and the need to be good. From this was born our Jack-o-lantern tradition.
The custom of trick-or-treating is a mix of traditions. In the 9th Century, European Christians would, on All Souls Day, beg for "soul cakes" made of square pieces of bread with currants, in exchange for which they'd say prayers on behalf of the donors' dead relatives. The ancient Celts--children and adults--dressed in costume and went from house to house in groups, singing seasonal carols and receiving treats. In England, peasant children dressed in rags and begged for coins or treats as a remembrance of a notorious criminal, Guy Fawkes, and the need to be good.
The game of bobbing for apples has come down to us through the Celts who adopted it from the conquering Roman Empire. The Romans had a harvest goddess for whom apples were sacred fruit.
Finally, the quilt of Halloween was sewn together by the Christian church. In the 9th century the date for All Saint's Day was changed to Nov. 1. In the 10th century, the church named Nov. 2 as All Souls' Day in memory of all dead. Coming so close together, they often merged and All Saints' Day became All Hallows' Eve, which was later shortened to Hallow E'an and then to Halloween.
Modern science and mass education have freed us from the beliefs in ghosts, witches, mediums and fortune-tellers that spooked our ancestors, and our modern Halloween is a hand-me-down quilt cleansed by centuries of intellectual progress. The only thing demonic about it is our efforts to twist it into something evil. It's a day of fun. I plan to enjoy it with my kids.
By Russell King
Every year about this time, we hear of parents objecting, in the name of Christianity, to the celebration of Halloween. Their assertion is that Halloween is the celebration or practice of witchcraft, forbidden by the Old Testament books of Exodus and Deuteronomy. Count me as one dad who disagrees.
We can talk about their misuse of the scriptures another time: Right now, I'll just disagree with their characterization of Halloween as something demonic.
Much of Halloween comes to us from the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain (pronounced sow-en, sow-een or sav-en, depending on whether you're Irish, Welsh or Scottish)--a joyful mixture of Thanksgiving and New Year's Day. Samhain marked the death of the old year and the birth of the new when, for the Celts, crops were harvested in preparation for the long cold dearth of winter. This was a day of thanking God for providing food.
The ancient Celts did not use the same words or concepts we do to describe their relationships with God, but does that make their prayer invalid or their praise misdirected? We have been warned about the dangers of judging others.
Samhain was not, as some charge, the name of a Celtic "God of Death." There is no mention in the historical record of any Celtic god by this name. In the ancient Celtic language, the word means "end of summer."
The poetic implications that touch many of us this time of year were not lost on the Celts and they saw this transition from nature's "life" of summer to "death" of winter as having meaning. They believed that during this festival the door between the living and dead was most open, and the spirits of deceased loved ones could be reached. Unfortunately, so could the spirits of not-so-loved ones. The Celts carved faces in potatoes and turnips and lit them with candles to light the way for the good and to scare away the bad.
Later, there grew the Irish children's story of Jack, a villain so wicked he wasn't even welcome in Hell. He wandered looking for a place to rest, his only warmth a glittering candle in a rotten potato. The children carved lanterns as reminders of Jack's fate and the need to be good. From this was born our Jack-o-lantern tradition.
The custom of trick-or-treating is a mix of traditions. In the 9th Century, European Christians would, on All Souls Day, beg for "soul cakes" made of square pieces of bread with currants, in exchange for which they'd say prayers on behalf of the donors' dead relatives. The ancient Celts--children and adults--dressed in costume and went from house to house in groups, singing seasonal carols and receiving treats. In England, peasant children dressed in rags and begged for coins or treats as a remembrance of a notorious criminal, Guy Fawkes, and the need to be good.
The game of bobbing for apples has come down to us through the Celts who adopted it from the conquering Roman Empire. The Romans had a harvest goddess for whom apples were sacred fruit.
Finally, the quilt of Halloween was sewn together by the Christian church. In the 9th century the date for All Saint's Day was changed to Nov. 1. In the 10th century, the church named Nov. 2 as All Souls' Day in memory of all dead. Coming so close together, they often merged and All Saints' Day became All Hallows' Eve, which was later shortened to Hallow E'an and then to Halloween.
Modern science and mass education have freed us from the beliefs in ghosts, witches, mediums and fortune-tellers that spooked our ancestors, and our modern Halloween is a hand-me-down quilt cleansed by centuries of intellectual progress. The only thing demonic about it is our efforts to twist it into something evil. It's a day of fun. I plan to enjoy it with my kids.
Friday, September 19, 2003
Fatherhood as a Frigidaire
By Russell King
What do dads, refrigerators and indoor plumbing have in common? They get used several times a day in essential ways, but no one pays them a thought until they're not there.
The refrigerator goes unmentioned until someone opens the door to find warm air and spoiled meat, cheese, mayo and milk. From the wailing that follows, you'd guess a dear friend had died.
The same for plumbing. Running water means nothing until we're thirsty and the tap doesn't work or nature calls and the toilet won't flush. The panic in our voices speaks of deep and desperate appreciation.
Dads are like that. There are nights when you're waiting for sleep, after being disrespected by the kids, and running through your head a list of the millions of things you've done to improve their lives and help them grow up healthy and happy. You know it's too much to ask them to see and appreciate your parenting when they're still kids, and you hope that they'll see it when they're grown, but still--it would be nice if they could get a glimpse now and then.
Sometimes, being taken for granted would be a step up. Most portrayals of fathers in our popular culture fall into one of three categories: furniture, morons or devils.
First, there's the strong, silent dad. Like the hum of the refrigerator you hear late at night, he operates in the background of family life. He's either incapable of or uncomfortable with the messy complexities of human relationships. It's just too touchy feely for a "real man." He earns a paycheck, handles the heavy labor and lawn care, and gives the kids a whack when they're too far out of line.
Then there's the well-meaning bumbling idiot. He really wants to "help out around the house," but he's such a moron that buttering toast may as well be brain surgery. In cold remedy commercials, this "modern" dad really wants to run the house so that his wife, who appears to be on her deathbed with a cold, can rest.
Unfortunately, his IQ is so low and his domestic experience is so lacking that he's overwhelmed by the simplest demands of family life. His wife--weakened and in pain-must rise from her bed and come to the rescue. This she does with a pitying smile,
because, as we all know, all women are strong, self-sacrificing fountains of nurturing love and wisdom and all men are not.
Finally, there's the evil dad. Portrayal of this dad is growing ominously more frequent. In most television dramas, the villainous dad has become a stock member of the cast, expected by the audience. This dad does all sorts of harm to his wife and children out of cold cruelty combined with any one of a host of other character flaws. He's a bad man and a worse father.
Refrigerators, plumbing and dads: I realized the similarities only recently. My eldest son suffers with several hard-wired emotional disorders for which he has required residential treatment. At the end of one of our visits, I hugged and kissed him goodbye, and one of the other teenage boys at the facility witnessed it. His reaction was an exclamation of pain and longing-- "Ah!" His head hung and shook, then he said to no one in particular, "I wish I had a dad."
The sound of his voice was the sound of despair, of the kind of suffering that comes when you have a lifelong familiarity with an emptiness you know will never go away. This boy knew something big, something indispensable, something wonderful was missing from his life, and that something was a dad. The hollowness, the craving, the anguish in his voice haunts me.
His voice tells me something else, too. Take heart, dads: You are more valuable than the kids or the culture can admit, you are more valuable than you can imagine.
By Russell King
What do dads, refrigerators and indoor plumbing have in common? They get used several times a day in essential ways, but no one pays them a thought until they're not there.
The refrigerator goes unmentioned until someone opens the door to find warm air and spoiled meat, cheese, mayo and milk. From the wailing that follows, you'd guess a dear friend had died.
The same for plumbing. Running water means nothing until we're thirsty and the tap doesn't work or nature calls and the toilet won't flush. The panic in our voices speaks of deep and desperate appreciation.
Dads are like that. There are nights when you're waiting for sleep, after being disrespected by the kids, and running through your head a list of the millions of things you've done to improve their lives and help them grow up healthy and happy. You know it's too much to ask them to see and appreciate your parenting when they're still kids, and you hope that they'll see it when they're grown, but still--it would be nice if they could get a glimpse now and then.
Sometimes, being taken for granted would be a step up. Most portrayals of fathers in our popular culture fall into one of three categories: furniture, morons or devils.
First, there's the strong, silent dad. Like the hum of the refrigerator you hear late at night, he operates in the background of family life. He's either incapable of or uncomfortable with the messy complexities of human relationships. It's just too touchy feely for a "real man." He earns a paycheck, handles the heavy labor and lawn care, and gives the kids a whack when they're too far out of line.
Then there's the well-meaning bumbling idiot. He really wants to "help out around the house," but he's such a moron that buttering toast may as well be brain surgery. In cold remedy commercials, this "modern" dad really wants to run the house so that his wife, who appears to be on her deathbed with a cold, can rest.
Unfortunately, his IQ is so low and his domestic experience is so lacking that he's overwhelmed by the simplest demands of family life. His wife--weakened and in pain-must rise from her bed and come to the rescue. This she does with a pitying smile,
because, as we all know, all women are strong, self-sacrificing fountains of nurturing love and wisdom and all men are not.
Finally, there's the evil dad. Portrayal of this dad is growing ominously more frequent. In most television dramas, the villainous dad has become a stock member of the cast, expected by the audience. This dad does all sorts of harm to his wife and children out of cold cruelty combined with any one of a host of other character flaws. He's a bad man and a worse father.
Refrigerators, plumbing and dads: I realized the similarities only recently. My eldest son suffers with several hard-wired emotional disorders for which he has required residential treatment. At the end of one of our visits, I hugged and kissed him goodbye, and one of the other teenage boys at the facility witnessed it. His reaction was an exclamation of pain and longing-- "Ah!" His head hung and shook, then he said to no one in particular, "I wish I had a dad."
The sound of his voice was the sound of despair, of the kind of suffering that comes when you have a lifelong familiarity with an emptiness you know will never go away. This boy knew something big, something indispensable, something wonderful was missing from his life, and that something was a dad. The hollowness, the craving, the anguish in his voice haunts me.
His voice tells me something else, too. Take heart, dads: You are more valuable than the kids or the culture can admit, you are more valuable than you can imagine.
Sunday, September 14, 2003
Is fatherhood a blessing or a burden?
By Russell King
Because I have six children, I am often asked, "How do you manage?" How do you have time for anything? How can you be so calm?
The stresses of family life are compounded for us because ours became large in an unusually short time. When Rhonda and I married, we were single parents of two each, so overnight our family doubled. Within two years of our wedding day, two babies had arrived. We went from parenting two to parenting six in less than 24 months.
The first thing we learned was about priorities. When you're rearing six children, you quickly realize that there's a ton of stuff that other people get all worked up about that really doesn't matter. Your life is so full that most of the small, petty, dumb stuff gets squeezed out.
The opposite is also true. You have to fill your skull and your time with something while you're making this journey, and if you don't have important things filling that space, you're in danger of having countless tiny, unimportant things fill it for you.
You know some of these folks. They're the ones who are obsessed with, say, lawn care, and who scream at neighborhood kids who cut across their grass on the way to school. Or maybe they're the ones who closely monitor every twinge in their body and take to their sickbed at the first sneeze. The phrase "Get a life" was invented for just such people.
When you're a dad, you have a life-a full, fabulous and profoundly fulfilling life. It doesn't matter if you're dad to one or a dozen, if you take it seriously it will change your forever and for better. Taking it seriously is the key to enjoying being a dad.
Take, for instance, the demands on your time. If you don't take it seriously, you resent how much time being a dad takes away from other things you could be doing. There's a separation that goes on in your head: time for me and time for them. That's a fatal error. If you view your time with your children as your time, then your time is increased many times over.
By "taking it seriously" I do not mean being serious and getting down to the business of molding their emerging characters. I guarantee that the more seriously you take being a dad, the more your sides will ache from fits of laughter. I promise that your children are some of the funniest people you know. By "taking it seriously" I mean throwing yourself, heart and soul, into the job and being fully present for the moments you have with them.
Be here, right now, and nowhere else. Read the bedtime story just to read the bedtime story. Toss the ball just to toss the ball. Color pictures just to color pictures. If your mind wanders to other things, you and your children lose something vital, something rich.
Not to long ago, 15-month-old Jaden was restless, and I got out of bed to comfort him a half dozen times. The next morning, Rhonda, knowing that I had an especially busy and stressful business day ahead, offered sympathy. "I'm sorry he gave you such a rough night."
I thought of how Jaden snuggles into my arms and reaches up to stroke my beard with the back of his hand as he falls asleep. I thought of the comfort he finds in me and the trust he puts in me. I thought of how close, how loving those moments feel, and how few of them there are left for me.
"Nah," I said. "He was just giving me a little extra time to be with him."
By Russell King
Because I have six children, I am often asked, "How do you manage?" How do you have time for anything? How can you be so calm?
The stresses of family life are compounded for us because ours became large in an unusually short time. When Rhonda and I married, we were single parents of two each, so overnight our family doubled. Within two years of our wedding day, two babies had arrived. We went from parenting two to parenting six in less than 24 months.
The first thing we learned was about priorities. When you're rearing six children, you quickly realize that there's a ton of stuff that other people get all worked up about that really doesn't matter. Your life is so full that most of the small, petty, dumb stuff gets squeezed out.
The opposite is also true. You have to fill your skull and your time with something while you're making this journey, and if you don't have important things filling that space, you're in danger of having countless tiny, unimportant things fill it for you.
You know some of these folks. They're the ones who are obsessed with, say, lawn care, and who scream at neighborhood kids who cut across their grass on the way to school. Or maybe they're the ones who closely monitor every twinge in their body and take to their sickbed at the first sneeze. The phrase "Get a life" was invented for just such people.
When you're a dad, you have a life-a full, fabulous and profoundly fulfilling life. It doesn't matter if you're dad to one or a dozen, if you take it seriously it will change your forever and for better. Taking it seriously is the key to enjoying being a dad.
Take, for instance, the demands on your time. If you don't take it seriously, you resent how much time being a dad takes away from other things you could be doing. There's a separation that goes on in your head: time for me and time for them. That's a fatal error. If you view your time with your children as your time, then your time is increased many times over.
By "taking it seriously" I do not mean being serious and getting down to the business of molding their emerging characters. I guarantee that the more seriously you take being a dad, the more your sides will ache from fits of laughter. I promise that your children are some of the funniest people you know. By "taking it seriously" I mean throwing yourself, heart and soul, into the job and being fully present for the moments you have with them.
Be here, right now, and nowhere else. Read the bedtime story just to read the bedtime story. Toss the ball just to toss the ball. Color pictures just to color pictures. If your mind wanders to other things, you and your children lose something vital, something rich.
Not to long ago, 15-month-old Jaden was restless, and I got out of bed to comfort him a half dozen times. The next morning, Rhonda, knowing that I had an especially busy and stressful business day ahead, offered sympathy. "I'm sorry he gave you such a rough night."
I thought of how Jaden snuggles into my arms and reaches up to stroke my beard with the back of his hand as he falls asleep. I thought of the comfort he finds in me and the trust he puts in me. I thought of how close, how loving those moments feel, and how few of them there are left for me.
"Nah," I said. "He was just giving me a little extra time to be with him."
Friday, September 05, 2003
Zero tolerance for zero tolerance
By Russell King
"Zero tolerance" policies are all the rage these days, but my journeys as both a father and a son have left me bucking the trend.
My eldest brother once asked our dad, rather bluntly, "You raised me with an iron fist, but you let Russell get away with murder. Why?" "Murder," I think, is kind of a strong word, but there's no doubt that I had more freedom than my older siblings.
Dad's response to my brother's question was typically gentle, humble and honest: "I learned along the way." I wasn't there to see it, but I'll bet he smiled in a self-effacing way as he thought of the times he stumbled in his fatherhood stride. What his answer revealed about my father is that he was a responsible parent.
Because my father was willing to learn from life and adapt to changes, he was a different dad to each of his four children. Therein lies an important lesson.
Responsible parenthood means using your best judgment, over and over again, even when it means judging your own actions and attitudes as a parent.
Responsible parenthood means being honest enough to keep your eyes open to who your children really are, who you really are, and what the world really is. All three change every day. Some days, even quicker.
Responsible parenthood means having the courage to adapt to change when you find your parenting doesn't fit the real world. Those moments of change come more often than we'd like to think, so get used to the feeling. After a while, you'll take pride in your ability to assess a situation and find a creative response that's right for your kids, but don't get cocky. A healthy dose of self-doubt is a dad's best medicine.
The New York Times reported that nearly 90 percent of U.S. schools have enacted zero tolerance policies, and the news made me think of Dad's reply to my brother. In fact, I think of Dad every time one of our school boards or principals get themselves all puffed up in their zero tolerance self-righteousness.
Zero tolerance means zero responsibility. Zero tolerance means we grown ups are relieved of the obligation to use judgement, wisdom or creativity. Zero tolerance means we don't even have to be honest. The evidence mounts daily.
A kindergartener was disciplined under a zero tolerance policy for sexual conduct when he kissed a classmate on the cheek.
A 12-year-old with a spotless behavior record and a glowing academic record was suspended for a month and threatened with expulsion (public outcry saved him) when he mistakenly took a steak knife to school for a science project.
A 9-year-old was suspended for threatening to shoot a wad of paper with a rubber band.
A 10-year was suspended for whimpering "I could kill her" after she wet her pants because a teacher refused to let her use the bathroom.
An eighth grader was suspended for four months because he took a knife away from a classmate who said she was thinking of killing herself. His parents took it to court and lost, because under the school's zero tolerance policy there was no choice but to kick him out. The boy was right, brave and noble, and his reward was banishment.
Would the wise Solomon of old abide by the absurd zero tolerance? Most certainly not.
Zero tolerance forces us to lie to ourselves and others. Sometimes we say that good is bad. Too often we say that human frailty is a punishable offense. Always we say we have no choice. Watching grownups live by such obvious lies, what lesson will our children learn?
Zero tolerance; zero responsibility. And when we fail to be responsible whether we are teachers, school board members, police officers, judges, elected leaders or just plain dads we fail to be worthy of our role. Failure, for dads, simply isn't an option.
By Russell King
"Zero tolerance" policies are all the rage these days, but my journeys as both a father and a son have left me bucking the trend.
My eldest brother once asked our dad, rather bluntly, "You raised me with an iron fist, but you let Russell get away with murder. Why?" "Murder," I think, is kind of a strong word, but there's no doubt that I had more freedom than my older siblings.
Dad's response to my brother's question was typically gentle, humble and honest: "I learned along the way." I wasn't there to see it, but I'll bet he smiled in a self-effacing way as he thought of the times he stumbled in his fatherhood stride. What his answer revealed about my father is that he was a responsible parent.
Because my father was willing to learn from life and adapt to changes, he was a different dad to each of his four children. Therein lies an important lesson.
Responsible parenthood means using your best judgment, over and over again, even when it means judging your own actions and attitudes as a parent.
Responsible parenthood means being honest enough to keep your eyes open to who your children really are, who you really are, and what the world really is. All three change every day. Some days, even quicker.
Responsible parenthood means having the courage to adapt to change when you find your parenting doesn't fit the real world. Those moments of change come more often than we'd like to think, so get used to the feeling. After a while, you'll take pride in your ability to assess a situation and find a creative response that's right for your kids, but don't get cocky. A healthy dose of self-doubt is a dad's best medicine.
The New York Times reported that nearly 90 percent of U.S. schools have enacted zero tolerance policies, and the news made me think of Dad's reply to my brother. In fact, I think of Dad every time one of our school boards or principals get themselves all puffed up in their zero tolerance self-righteousness.
Zero tolerance means zero responsibility. Zero tolerance means we grown ups are relieved of the obligation to use judgement, wisdom or creativity. Zero tolerance means we don't even have to be honest. The evidence mounts daily.
A kindergartener was disciplined under a zero tolerance policy for sexual conduct when he kissed a classmate on the cheek.
A 12-year-old with a spotless behavior record and a glowing academic record was suspended for a month and threatened with expulsion (public outcry saved him) when he mistakenly took a steak knife to school for a science project.
A 9-year-old was suspended for threatening to shoot a wad of paper with a rubber band.
A 10-year was suspended for whimpering "I could kill her" after she wet her pants because a teacher refused to let her use the bathroom.
An eighth grader was suspended for four months because he took a knife away from a classmate who said she was thinking of killing herself. His parents took it to court and lost, because under the school's zero tolerance policy there was no choice but to kick him out. The boy was right, brave and noble, and his reward was banishment.
Would the wise Solomon of old abide by the absurd zero tolerance? Most certainly not.
Zero tolerance forces us to lie to ourselves and others. Sometimes we say that good is bad. Too often we say that human frailty is a punishable offense. Always we say we have no choice. Watching grownups live by such obvious lies, what lesson will our children learn?
Zero tolerance; zero responsibility. And when we fail to be responsible whether we are teachers, school board members, police officers, judges, elected leaders or just plain dads we fail to be worthy of our role. Failure, for dads, simply isn't an option.
