The Cathedral Within, page 5
As much as I admire the Carnegie report, it repeats a mistake common to many such publications. It not only suggests but devotes considerable energy to arguing that there is one specific, definable period—in this case, from birth to the age of three—when a child’s needs are more urgent than others. This is not true. The needs of this period are distinct. They are different, but they cannot be set against a child’s needs at later periods of life.
I’m sympathetic to what the report’s authors are trying to achieve: a set of recommendations that can be implemented and will have the support to be implemented because they help readers and policymakers prioritize and know where to begin. If I had to pick just one period of a child’s life in which to intervene intensively, then I’d probably agree that the period of birth through age three is the one, but the philosophy of having to pick just one, seductive as it may be, is ultimately counterproductive and dangerously defeating. Albert Einstein once said, “Everything in life should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler.” This is too simple.
Though they are some years apart, it’s hard not to hear the two-year-old girl in the Carnegie report’s cover photo and my twelve-year-old traveling companion Ernest telling us the same thing. They are not finished. Nor are we. They cannot survive on their own. They need us whether they look like it or not, and that need persists through every stage of the journey—not just at the major crossroads, but for the whole ride.
III
I have a picture, balanced near the corner of the rolltop desk in my study, of Mollie when she was very young, being held by my wife, Bonnie, in front of our house. They are on their way to the swimming pool across the street. Mollie is perched in the crook of Bonnie’s arm. She’s in her bathing suit, and the wisp of a bright pink bow that can be seen in the back of her hair matches the pink in her cheeks. Her hands meet across the top of Bonnie’s left shoulder, fingers curled over the embroidery of Bonnie’s blouse in a grip guaranteed to hold her in place. At the time, she was five years old. Today she is nine, but she hasn’t let go yet.
In the picture, Mollie’s chin is tucked below Bonnie’s shoulder, and her big, brown eyes are slanting to the left with a mix of skepticism and caution, the way Humphrey Bogart might look at the Germans from the steps of Rick’s Café in Casablanca. With one exception, Mollie views everything in the world with a mix of skepticism and caution. The exception is her mother. This instinct regarding her mother is as finely honed as if she were a bear cub, gosling, or kitten. But there is also a mischievousness, born of self-awareness, in Mollie’s eyes. If life were a game of tag, Bonnie would be base. Snuggled against her mother’s warmth, the look on Mollie’s face warns the rest of the world: “You can’t get me now.”
Mollie’s trust is warranted. Bonnie understands her completely, and in ways I can try to imitate but never fully achieve. Watching Bonnie with Mollie is like watching a sleight-of-hand magician up close. I’d swear I saw everything there was to see, but I still don’t understand the trick. Like the time Bonnie wouldn’t back off of fining Mollie a dollar for burping at the breakfast table despite Mollie’s protestations that she forgot, and her seemingly heartbroken tears.
“Don’t you think you were being a little harsh?” I asked later that day.
“Not really. Did you see how quickly she ran to her room to get the dollar? She’s seen her brother Zach get fined for that, and it was very important for her to know that we love her and care for her enough to punish her the same way.”
She was exactly right, but how did she know?
Mollie puts so much faith in her mom that whatever surplus exists is measured and parceled out frugally, and only when earned. She made me work hard for my share, and with reason. In March 1992, shortly before her third birthday, I had just returned from a series of long trips with Senator Bob Kerrey’s unsuccessful presidential primary campaign. I had met him nearly ten years before, joined his Senate staff when he was elected in 1992, and agreed to help in his travels. Some of the trips lasted six or seven days, with only a quick stop home to change laundry. Mollie and I were driving through our Silver Spring neighborhood on the way back from the grocery store one day after the campaign when, from her car seat in the back, she said, “Dad, can I ask you a question?”
And then, after a pause, “What street is your house on?”
“What?” I asked, thinking I hadn’t heard correctly.
“What street is your house on?”
It was a telltale moment. Although she knew I was her dad, and she knew Bonnie and I were married, she did not know I lived in the same house that she did.
Though I was able to convince her that we resided at the same address, her uncertainty about my place in her life continued and manifested itself in many ways. A skinned knee sent her toppling toward Mom, not me. A question raised by something overheard at school could be saved for hours if necessary, until Mom was around to ask. Her most frequent question became “Where’s Mom?”
“What do you need Mom for?”
“I just need her. Where is she?”
“Sweetie, you can tell me what you want.”
“Okay, I want Mom.”
“I mean, if you’ll tell me what you want Mom for, maybe I can get it for you.”
“I just want to know where she is.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, how are you going to be able to get me what I want if you don’t even know where my mom is?”
On a similar occasion, Mollie appeared on the steps down from her bedroom during a night that her girlfriend Laura was sleeping over.
“I need Mommy,” she scowled.
“Oh no, Molls. Mom is exhausted. We definitely don’t want to wake her.”
“I need Mommy.”
“What do you need her for?”
“Mommy’s the only one who knows what to do about it.”
“About what?”
“Only Mommy!”
“Mollie, tell me.”
“My growing pains,” she explained, lifting her brother’s old hockey jersey that she sleeps in and pointing to a spot on her shin. “Mommy knows how to make them go away,” she insisted, heading for the bedroom where Bonnie was asleep.
Situations like this require quick thinking and a liberal dose of what Bonnie and I call distraction theory.
“Molls, Mom only knows the old way to get rid of growing pains. But there’s a new way that even Mom doesn’t know about yet.”
“There is?”
“Yep, you get back in bed, and I’ll be right up.” I dashed to the kitchen, and when I got back to her room I was holding a large squirt bottle of Nestlé’s chocolate syrup.
“Dad! What are you doing?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Let me see that leg.”
“Dad!” She and Laura glanced at each other, unsure whether to be shocked or delighted.
“Trust me, Molls. A little bit of this rubbed into your leg and it will feel better in no time.”
“Uh, that’s okay, Dad. I think it’s better already.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, Dad, I’m sure.”
“Okay. Good night.”
I turned out the light and closed the door.
“Boy, is your dad crazy,” Laura whispered.
I heard them whispering and giggling until they fell asleep.
The most important thing I had to learn about being a dad to Mollie was how to be with her. Children have litmus tests, and they don’t always extend you the courtesy of letting you know what they are. Mollie’s need was subtle but should have been obvious, given its universality. It was a need for me to be willing to be with her, to be fully present, even in the absence of a specific reason, like an organized activity or play. Especially in the absence of a specific reason, Molly required that I be with her on her terms, even though she couldn’t express what those terms were. This, more than anything else, may be what builds trust and self-esteem in a child, and the irony is, it is so easy to do.
Most of my time with Mollie had been organized around doing things: going swimming or to a movie, or taking the dogs for a walk. The more I sensed her distance from me, the more things I tried to do. I was not only trying too hard, I was trying the wrong thing. Psychologists have long understood that this is the way men approach all relationships, not just those with their children. Men organize their relationships around activities from the time they are little boys. They play games together or band together to watch other men play sports. Women, however, seek simply being together, from the time they are little girls. If Mollie and I didn’t have some specifically scheduled activity, I would typically work on other chores, read in my study, and make phone calls. From the point of view of maximizing time and being productive, it made perfect sense. When it was time to read her a bedtime story, Bonnie would call me after the rest of the bedtime routine had been completed, and I would walk into her room like a dentist who waited until the patient was cleaned and prepped so he wouldn’t have to waste a minute’s more time than necessary. It was the way I felt, and I’m sure now it was the way it made her feel too.
And so I had to learn what her mother already knew: how to watch a TV show with Mollie even if it wasn’t a show I wanted to watch, how to sit there and watch it without also reading a newspaper or magazine, to be fully present. Mollie didn’t want me for what I could give her, for where I could take her, or even for what we could do together. She wanted me for me.
A turning point came one summer evening as she grew increasingly frustrated trying to build a “secret hideout” in the backyard. Our lawn slopes steeply to the fence that keeps our dogs in and the neighbors’ dog out. The sun was setting, and she should have been winding down before bed, except the thin slate tiles she tried to prop against each other in a corner of the yard kept falling over. She’d been at it for days and days, sometimes with a neighboring girlfriend, sometimes on her own. Now there would be no secret hideout. When the walls fell over for the last time, cracking as they fell, she burst into tears, and her face contorted to a degree I couldn’t ignore.
“You know what you need to make this work, Molls?”
“What?”
“You need about sixty bricks.”
“Great, but we don’t have sixty bricks.”
“But we could get them.”
“Where?”
“Home Depot. Get your shoes on and hop in the car. Real quick.”
I could tell from how quickly she tied her shoes that this was my shot at winning her over. The Home Depot store about three or four miles from our house offered a greater choice in bricks than could possibly be imagined. Either the company has great customer service or the puzzled look on my face engendered genuine pity, because several employees rushed over to ask if I needed some help. We finally settled on the twenty-three-cents-a-brick variety and got our big, flat, wheeled cart, and then I started to load them, two to four at a time. They were rough and heavy, and I wished I’d brought gloves. After being loaded onto the cart, they would need to be unloaded into the Jeep, and then unloaded yet again at the house. I had my work cut out for me.
“Oh please, let me do that, Dad, please!” Mollie begged.
I couldn’t possibly imagine anything more unrealistic. The bricks were heavy, and she would have to use two hands just to pick up one of them. If Mollie did it we would be there forever. I glanced at my watch and tried to keep my resistance in check.
“But, sweetie, they’re very heavy.”
“Please, Dad, I really want to,” she begged again, moving quickly to the pile of bricks and hoisting one with both hands. She lugged it over to the cart and laid it next to the handful I’d placed there.
This was going to take all night.
Mollie walked back to the brick pile and carefully selected another one. She took her time making her choice.
Then I realized she wanted it to take all night.
It was rare for the two of us to have time like this alone together. This was the kind of thing her older brother would usually get to do: impulsive, past bedtime, just the two of us together. Mollie wanted it to last.
I leaned back against one of the wood pallets in the store and took a deep breath. Mollie, working steadily at the bricks, relaxed and became chatty, talking to me about what she’d build, and about school and her girlfriends and her upcoming horseback riding lesson. More than one set of walls came down that evening. What I had seen as a task to finish quickly, so that we could go play with bricks the way I think of as play, she saw as play itself. Twenty-three cents a brick is not a bad price to pay to make your daughter happy. Mollie showed me how it could be done for a lot less than that.
I’ve always tried to spend time in Mollie’s school. Her first elementary school, New Hampshire Estates, went from kindergarten through second grade. Like most public schools, it faced the challenge of educating a diverse group of students, whose foundations in the fundamentals were uneven, in classes that were too large. A committed principal created one excuse after another to bring parents into the school buildings: winter concerts, read-a-book week, young authors conferences, spring concerts, silent auction day, career day. Parental participation correlates to early academic achievement.
There are many reasons I like being in my daughter’s school. One is that I like to compare and contrast it with other schools to which my work takes me. One week, shortly after spending a morning in Mollie’s school, I went to visit an after-school program in Baltimore called The Door. Share Our Strength sponsored a nutrition education program there, and to help us promote it, the vice president’s wife, Tipper Gore, was coming to read a book to the kids. The classroom was just like my daughter’s classroom in almost every way, except for one glaring difference. As in Mollie’s school, there were aspirational posters on the wall declaring I CAN BE WHATEVER I DREAM I CAN BE, NEVER SETTLE FOR LESS THAN YOUR BEST, and TO ACHIEVE YOUR DREAMS, LEARN YOUR ABCS. There were maps and globes and other colorful learning tools. There were computers. But the one, inescapable contrast was a large stenciled sign on the front door of the classroom:
IF I SEE A GUN, OR ANYTHING THAT LOOKS LIKE A GUN, I WILL NOT PICK IT UP. I WILL GO AND GET AN ADULT. BECAUSE GUNS CAN HURT ME. AND I WANT TO BE SAFE.
I try to imagine what it must feel like as a parent to drop off a child at a place where such a sign is necessary, what it must feel like for this sign to be the first thing you see every morning when you drop your child off at school and the last thing you see at the end of the day. It seemed such a lame, sorry attempt at protecting these kids.
In the commotion surrounding the visit of the vice president’s wife, no one else seemed to notice the sign, but once I’d read the words I couldn’t concentrate on the event. Instead, I walked over to Joe Ehrman, the man who runs the program. Joe was once a football player with the Baltimore Colts, an NFL linebacker who’d gone into the ministry after retiring and then started this program to help kids.
I asked Joe what the neighborhood is like.
He shook his head and said, “One way during the day, another at night.”
“Joe, what is up with that sign?” I asked.
“This is a tough neighborhood, Bill,” he explained in a soft and patient voice. “These kids see everything. They see drugs, they see violence, and they see weapons. And if they see a gun, we want them to know what to do. As you can imagine, if Share Our Strength is here because these kids have hunger and nutrition issues, you can be sure they also have issues with access to housing, access to health care, and a whole range of needs that are all tied together.”
We stood there looking out over these kids, who were just first, second, and third graders. They were at an age when school was still fun for them. They were sweet, mischievous perhaps, but still innocent. Yet as we stood staring at them, we knew that if we returned to their classroom in a mere six to eight years, many of these frolicking kids would be in serious, perhaps life-changing trouble. Some of the girls would be pregnant. Some of the boys would have joined gangs. Some, boys and girls alike, would have criminal records. It seemed impossible, looking at their six-year-old smiles, to believe that this would happen right before our eyes, or that we would let it happen. But statistics, past experience, and inadequate resources assured us that it would. One moment we can hold them in our arms, and the next they are slipping right between our fingers. Botanists watch plants grow using time-lapse photography. They can isolate the moment when a plant bends toward the light. They can freeze-frame, stop, and study it. But when is the moment a growing child bends toward darkness? And why must we wait to watch it on the eleven o’clock news?
What is the true condition of America’s children today? Many are doing just fine, but fourteen million children still live below the poverty line, and millions of others are at risk from guns, lack of health care, and numerous other threats. Every day, 2,756 children drop out of high school, and 5,753 children are arrested. The essayist Roger Rosenblatt captured the hypocrisy that disguises our neglect in the title of an article he wrote for The New York Times Magazine: “The Society That Pretends to Love Children.” In it, Marian Wright Edelman asks, “How do we honestly examine and transform the values and priorities of the wealthiest nation in history, which lets its children be the poorest group of Americans and lets a child get killed by guns every hour and a half? . . . How do we make it easier rather than harder for parents to balance work and family responsibilities and to get the community and financial support they need to carry out the most important task in America?”
