THE MEAN PEOPLE

Dear Spike:

You were working on a picture when I arrived to pick you up from day care the other day. A pink and purple unicorn, I think it was.

You looked up, acknowledged my presence, and resolutely returned to your artwork.

“Wanna stay a while so you can finish it?” I asked.

“Yes please,” you said without looking up from the page.

“OK.”

I perched on the edge of a bookshelf, right behind you, and chatted with the day care instructors. They always seem so happy to have an adult to talk to. Go figure.

You just kept on working on the picture.

On the other side of the table was a tall girl in a pink shirt. We’ll call her… oh, I don’t know… how about “Larry”?

“Uh-oh!” Larry said, patting you on the arm. “Your dad is leaving you!”

You turned around in an obvious panic to find me still sitting exactly where I had been. You turned back around and scowled at the little girl, who laughed and laughed.

“You tricked me,” you said. “And it’s not very nice to trick people.”

The girl laughed some more. A few moments later, she tried the trick again.

“It’s not very nice,” you said once more as she laughed alongside another little girl. “And it’s not very nice to laugh at people.”

I was very proud of the way you responded. I just wanted to let you know that. I also wanted to let you know that Larry won’t be the last person to be mean to you. Not even close.

And girls, it seems, can be especially cruel to one another.

You consider Larry a friend, but over the past few days, as I’ve asked you questions about her, something has become very clear: Larry is a mean girl.

I didn’t think the “Queen Bee” phenomenon started this early in life, but apparently it does.

“She won’t let me play with Ella,” you told me. “Because she says that Ella is only her friend and so she can’t be my friend.”

“She says I’m not very smart.”

“She says that I can only play with her when she wants to play with me. Today she didn’t want to play with me.”

Yup. Mean girl.

Today was your preschool Christmas concert. All the kids wore pajamas and, in her princess nightgown, it was hard to not think of Larry as just another adorable kid.

But when you all lined up to begin singing, Larry began elbowing you out of the way.

You held your ground. On the next song you changed places so that you wouldn’t be standing next to her. Again, I was very proud — and even more so as the carols continued and you decided, apparently all on your own, that the songs would go well with a bit of interpretive dance.

That’s my girl.

I could be over analyzing this situation. And maybe I am. But I think I might have gotten a glimpse today at why Larry is so mean to you. That’s what happens, sometimes, to kids who stand out.

Let’s be clear: That’s not an admonition to stop standing out. Not at all. Being different, kind and smart — these are the things that make life worth living. I want you to stand out — even if it means that sometimes, you’ll get knocked around a bit by some mean girls (and probably some mean boys, too.)

It won’t always be easy. So it will be important, when you’re going through those moments, to remember a few things:

First and foremost, when it seems like nobody cares, remember that your mother and I love you. Unconditionally. Forever.

And next, when it seems like it will never end, remember that life gets better. And better. And better some more. (But only if you are different, kind and smart. If you’re not, then your life will not get any better. It will just get lonelier. Because mean people get really boring after a while.)

And finally, if it ever begins to feel like the mean people are right about you, remember that they are not as different as you (they don’t have the courage.) They are not as kind as you (they don’t have the heart.) They are not as smart as you (they don’t have the brains.)

That’s right, my little one: You’re like the Lion, the Tin Man, the Scarecrow. In the end, you’ll get your just rewards.

And those mean girls? They’ll just melt away.

Love,

dad

PLAYED WITHOUT RULES

Dear Spike,

We picked fruit out of the air.

Apples and pears. Peaches and plums. Mangoes. Pineapples.

There is no fall in the Land of Make Believe. No winter. No climates prohibitive of tropical fruit farming.

At your instruction, I released an armful of coconuts onto the platform aside the playground slide, then plucked one from the ground, centered it over an invisible brick, and hurled it downward. It split open into two perfect bowls and we didn’t lose a drop of milk. It’s brilliant what you can do when it doesn’t matter what you do.

We drank the milk, became thirsty, split another, drank some more. We turned the apples and pears into pies. The peaches and plums were jellied. The mangoes…

… hmmm …

… I guess we forgot about the mangoes. Easy thing to do when you’re working with invisible ingredients, I suppose.

The pineapples we cut into spears and ate off skewers. After a while, we’d had our fill and so, quite logically, it was time to stand lookout for sharks.

It might have been five minutes. It might have been 15. It could have been an entire afternoon. Amazing thing, that.

We played without rules. And honestly, I can’t remember the last time I did that.

Oh, I think I do a pretty good job of encouraging your imagination, but I’m always trying to mold it a bit, too — particularly when I see an opportunity to sneak in a smidgen of education.

“OK, so now you have one pony in each hand. And if I give you another pony…”

Or when I sense ridiculous gender constructs sneaking into your pure little mind.

“Let’s play princesses,” you say.

“Let’s play princesses who are superheros or scientists,” I say.

So it goes.

Same too, I admit, when you’re playing with other children. I try very hard not to interfere when others are rude or hurtful to you — figuring that you’ll benefit most from learning how to deal with these situations on your own.

But you’ve got a tendency to be a bit bossy. And I reckon I step in a little too often just to try to rein you in.

On this day, though, I was your first mate. Your wish, my command. I didn’t mind.

What joy.

We did it again the next day. And again the day after that.

My to-do list is 25 items long and getting longer by the day. But all I can think about, lately, is when we’ll get to play that way again.

It’s been a very long time since I visited this place. Thank you for inviting me.

Love,

dad

ON THE FIELD

Dear Spike:

For three weeks you sat patiently on the sidelines. Watching. Waiting.

It wasn't fair. But, then, life isn't fair is it? Four years old and you already knew that — even before you broke you toe.

When it was finally time to step back onto the field, you did so tentatively. And tentative, of course, doesn't win soccer games.

And when you did engage the ball in our scrimmage, someone stepped on your foot. I think it scared you, more than it hurt you, and you came to me and asked if you could go sit out again.

I obliged.

But then, perhaps five minutes later, I looked over to the side of the field and saw you sprinting, somersaulting, bouncing up and doing it again. Clearly you were fine.

"Spike!" I yelled. "Get back on the field! If your foot is feeling good enough to fool around over there, it's feeling good enough to come back and practice."

And then something happened.

You rushed into crowd of players. You punched the ball out of the melee. You dribbled to the goal. You shot. You scored.

And then you did it again.

And then you did it again.

Wow.

It's been two weeks, now, and I have not seen that level of play from you again. You've been tentative again. Cautious. Defensive.

Maybe it was just the result of pent-up desire to be on the field. Maybe, once you realized you were OK, something inside of you just opened up. And maybe it closed down, a bit, again after.

That's fine. We'll move at your pace. And I'll just keep raising the bar, little by little by little.

But it's so neat to know it's in you, somewhere.

Love,

dad

SING THE ANTHEM

Dear Spike:

Sometimes when my colleague, Doug Fabrizio, is out of town, I get to fill in as guest host of RadioWest, an hour-long interview program on a local public radio station.

Doug is exceptionally good at what he does. And even though I always have the support of a great team of producers, his shoes are exceptionally hard to fill. So I often turn to my friends and family for questions, ideas and inspiration on the subject of the day.

Thursday's topic was the National Anthem, which celebrated its 197th birthday this week and was recently mangled in a public performance by pop star Cyndi Lauper. It could have been a rather dry subject, so I sent out an all points bulletin seeking some advice.

My father was among the first to reply: Without going into too much detail, he suggested I look for a recording of Jose Feliciano’s performance of the anthem in the 1968 World Series.

I did — and it proved great fodder for conversation that morning. Feliciano’s rendition was absolutely amazing. But his Latin jazz reinterpretation of the old English drinking melody upon which our anthem was based proved highly controversial. Some suggested that the young, blind musician had disgraced our nation’s song. Others said he should be deported (which would have been a difficult task since the singer was, by virtue of his birth in Puerto Rico, an American citizen).

I’d like to share two things with you today:

The first is Feliciano’s hauntingly beautiful adaptation of the Star-Spangled Banner, which reminds me, as I hope it will remind you, that our nation is full of good people who sometimes need a little help to appreciate our ever-changing world.

The other is this message, which I received from my father a few hours after the radio program:

I remember the Feliciano controversy like it was yesterday. I was a freshman in high school, and my English teacher had us writing essays each week on any topic we chose. It was maybe the fourth or fifth week of school, so maybe only the second or third time we wrote. I remember writing that if anyone was entitled to sing the anthem in "new" way, it was a blind man of color. Mr. Farrington gave me such positive feedback that I began thinking for first time that maybe I could write for a living.

My father went on to have a successful career as a writer. But he would be the first to tell you that he’s much prouder of his children’s accomplishments than his own.

And he has much to be proud of. Today, his daughter is the publisher of a magazine. His oldest son is a journalist and professor of journalism. His youngest son is an amazingly gifted songwriter.

Consider that.

From Francis Scott Key to Jose Feliciano…

From Jose Feliciano to Gerald Farrington…

From Gerald Farrington to Richard LaPlante…

None of those men could have predicted the effect that their lives would ultimately have on a few siblings from the last generation of the 20^th Century…

Let alone a child from the first generation of the 21st.

What a legacy. What a country.

Love,

dad

THE BACK SEAT

Dear Spike:

Your mother and I were in the car's front seats, engrossed in a conversation about something or other, when we suddenly became aware of a song, coming from the back seat.

"The Care Bears love me... but not my friends

The Care Bears love me... but not my friends!

The Care Bears love me, they love me, they love me...

But nooooooot..... myyyyyyyyyyy... frrrrrrrriends!"

Love,

dad

A LIFETIME AGO

Dear Spike,

I woke up this morning from one of the worst nights of sleep of my life. And I only say that I "woke up" because I did manage to doze off just enough to have several nightmares, all of which involved a deranged gang of killers that was chasing me and, to my greater horror, a teen-aged version of you.

I rarely remember my dreams. But this one was pretty vivid. Strange.

You don't look bad with purple hair, by the way, but I wasn't so happy with the tattoos. Pin-up girls? On your forearms? Really?

There was a soundtrack, too. A John Phillip Souza march, of all things. I'm not kidding. It was the craziest thing.

But in the early moments of the morning, when I was still trying to separate the dream world from reality, it was at least something to laugh at. I wasn't comfortable talking about the other parts of the dream, at first. Too real. Too early. But the Souza stuff? That was something I could tell your mother about when she asked.

And as soon as the words fell from my lips, I realized what had happened.

Souza. Military marches. Terror. Ten years.

I know lots of people are saying today that it seems like it was just yesterday. But that's not the case for me. It seems like a lifetime ago.

The last decade has brought, in no particular order, an end to my military service. A marriage to your mother. A move to Utah. Three trips to Iraq, among a half-dozen other international reporting assignments. Your mom got her master's degree. Then I did. And then, a few months ago, I got a brand new career.

We've lost your mother's Gaga. My grandmother and grandfather, too. My sister married, divorced, remarried, had a beautiful baby boy. My brother moved in with us. And then he moved out.

And, of course, there was you.

Sure, I remember that day like it was yesterday. But it doesn't seem like it was yesterday.

It was a lifetime ago. For me. For you. For our broken nation.

Guantanamo. Abu Ghraib. Predator drones. Endless war. Black ops budgets bursting at the secret seams. All the while, more debt, more debt, more debt for our nation.

What a fucking legacy.

This is just a date. No more and no less important than any other, despite all of the attention. But I will say this for Sept. 11, 2001: It is the date by which I count, forward and backward, to nearly every other event in my life.

So in that way, I suppose, a decade is meaningful.

I wonder and worry at what the next decade will bring. By the time it passes, you'll be about as old as you were in my dream last night. (But please, dear God, not with those tattoos.) You'll be old enough, by then, to understand what happened on that terrible day. And you'll be old enough to know what has happened ever since.

What a nightmare.

But here, in the spirit of optimism, is to the next decade. May she be a damn sight better than the old one.

Love,

dad

YOUR BIG TOE

Dear Spike:

It was bound to happen.

What, with all this, bull-ridin', half-pipe jumpin' and professional soccer playin' you've been talking about lately, it was clear you weren't going to be leaving this home without a few bumps and bruises to show for it.

But we didn't really want those bumps and bruises to come so soon.

I was in my office, up north, when I got the call from your mother.

"Calm down" she told me.

"I am calm," I said. "Why wouldn't I be calm?"

"Because of what I'm going to tell you — which is why I said you need to calm down."

"But..."

"Promise!"

"Promise what?"

"That you'll be calm."

"Um... OK."

You were exploring our basement — a veritable death trap, to be certain — when you came upon my weight set. Somehow you wrestled one of the 10-pound barbell weights off the rack.

It fell on your foot, crushing your big toe.

For the record, I'd like to point out that I took the news rather well. And I'd like to think that I would have done so regardless of whether or not your mother first made me pinky swear to stay calm.

She, for the record, was doing an admirable job of holding it all together. And she did everything right to keep you calm and get you the help you needed.

She (quite wrongly) blamed herself. (This is definitely more my fault than hers — and you get some blame, too, for touching things you shouldn't be touching). But in any case, your mom didn't dwell on any of that until well after I'd arrived (two hours later) to find you both sitting calmly in an examination room, waiting to look at the X-rays.

There were dark circles under your eyes and you chin was trembling, but you did your best to wear a brave face.

"I tried to hold it up, but it was too heavy for me," you explained.

The doctor came in and looked at the pictures. There was a distinct line down the middle of the distal phalanx of your hallux.

Or, in other words: the little piggy that went to market had a boo-boo.

It could have been a lot worse. Still, the doctor sentenced you to three weeks in a hard boot. Looks like I'll only be coaching a bunch of other parents' soccer players for a while. Sorry kid, but those are the breaks...

... um ...

... no pun intended, really.

As you know, I try really hard to find lessons in all of life's little adventures. Sometimes, I'm sure, I try too hard.

So I won't serve up some platitude for you to consider. Not today. You've got enough to worry about right now.

So I'll just say this: You'll be better soon. I promise.

Love,

dad

THROUGH THIS STORM

Dear Spike,

The sky is falling in great wet sheets. Above the clouds, an angry voice screams. The night pulses with electricity.

But you are asleep in your bed. And you do not stir. Not as the lightning strikes. Not as the thunder booms.

On the eve of your second week of preschool, I think you are still exhausted by the first.

You made us proud. You didn't cry or protest when we dropped you off that first day — truth be known, there was little we could do to hold you back when that door swung open.

On the second day, a little boy said mean things to you. You resisted any temptation to respond in kind. So proud.

Yes, you are learning things there that we could not teach you here at home. Still, it comes at a cost. The days are long. And you haven't yet figured out how to use nap time for its intended purpose. You're so very tired.

I'm glad you're sleeping through this storm. You need your rest. Another week of school begins in just a few hours.

You're doing great.

Love,

dad

IT IS TIME

Dear Spike,

It is time.

Not just because you are now four and this is what four-year-olds do. You are. And it is. But you do not do things just because others do them. If you did, you would not be you.

But it is time.

Not just because I have taken a new job and, as such, will be unable to stay home with you. Indeed, my life is changing. And indeed, that will change yours. That is not the reason for this change.

But yes, it it time.

Not just because you have decided it is time. You have, of course, done just that. But you are, of course, only four. And four-year-olds — for all that they do — do not get to make decisions like this.

But yes, my dear and beautiful and brilliant daughter... my tiny little friend... my most important thing... it is time for you to go to school.

And why is it time? If not because you are four? If not because our lives have changed? If not because you really want to?

It is time, my child, because it is time. Because you are ready.

You are ready to learn things that your mother and I cannot teach you: How to make yourself heard above the din of a crowd. How to be yourself, even as you are surrounded by others who want and expect you to be like them. How to follow and how to lead.

These are not always easy lessons to learn. There will be some who do not like you, do not treat you well, do not value the things that you value. There will be some that you will follow, wrongly, into trouble — and you will be held accountable as though you did it all yourself. There will be some that will say and do things that make you angry — and you will be expected to show them kindness and compassion.

Yes, I expect much of you. Yes, I recognize that you are only four.

But you are the best parts of your mother and the best parts of me. And I don't mind saying that we're not half bad people, as people go.

In any case, the privileges you have in this world make you royalty. Much has been given to you; much is thus expected from you. No matter that some have more and do less. You are not those people.

You are you. And your mother and I have done everything we can do, to this point, to make you the best you possible.

Now, increasingly, it is up to you. And, of course, the rest of the world — for we do not learn and change and grow in a void.

I do not fear that influence. Yes, the world can be a very terrible place. But even before you arrived, we knew that we would love you more than anything in the world, and we would not have brought you into this world if we didn't believe that, in the great balance, there is always more good than bad.

There is always more hope than fear.

There is always more faith than doubt.

And there is always more love than hate.

For four years, we have been the ones who have led you to these lessons. Now, increasingly, the world will take your hand.

We are proud of you. We are excited for you. And we will always be here for you.

It is time.

Love,

dad

OF YOUR CHOICE

Dear Spike:

Look, it's true: We named you — your real name, that is — after a professional soccer player. And yes, it's true: You were at your first professional soccer game before you even tipped the six-pound mark on the scales. And yes, it's true: I've got a soccer cleat tattooed on my right arm.

So it was much to my great joy that you slipped on your very first soccer jersey last week. You wanted number 4 — the same number as your father wore on nearly every team on which I played as a kid (although I think you simply wanted it because you are four years old.) The team roster had you assigned to number 3, but somehow you wound up with the digit of your choice. Score.

Skill wise, you've got this game down. But alas, pre-school soccer isn't much of a skill game. And bunch ball upsets you — as well it should.

But every time I see you on the field, looking hesitantly — and from afar — at the crush of boys and girls around the ball, I feel a bit panicked. What if, on the basis of this experience, you decide that soccer's not your thing?

Today I asked you what your favorite sport was. You said it was basketball. You've never played basketball. You've never watched basketball.

But there it was.

"How about soccer?" I asked you later on.

"Yes," you said. "Soccer is fun."

I guess that's good enough for now. As for the future, I suppose we'll see.

And if you do decide that it is not for you, I will not love you any less.

But no, you cannot change your name.

Love,
dad