Coming of Age in a Time of Turbulence

Parenting an 18-year-old right now is like being blindfolded in a leaky lifeboat in confused seas, one rogue wave after another slamming us. What guidance can I offer on the cusp of her graduation from high school? What comfort? 

She wants to help, wants to be part of mending this broken world. What can she do that doesn’t feel like an empty gesture, virtue signaling, or preaching to the choir of her “woke” friends? Her questions are mine, only more urgent. She is on the cusp of fledging (– but where? how? I am moving, dismantling the nest. Her summer job at overnight camp is gone, and with it her summer home. Her dishwashing job and babysitting gigs are gone. Graduation will be piped into our dining room through my laptop, the inadequate conduit emblematic of our evanescent plans, our fading certainties. The uncertainty is all-encompassing, too much most days to talk about.)

Last night we walked down the street with Rosie’s small homemade Black Lives Matter sign and my small Love Lives Here sign repurposed from an earlier affront. We joined a loose crowd of masked neighbors spreading from four corners of a major intersection, 500 people by my estimate. Local high school students organized the nightly gathering, with just a handful the first night. Last night was night 4. It was peaceful, quiet except when pep-rally-style cheers would break out in response to cars and trucks honking their support. The cheering felt a bit incongruous, insufficient, in conflict with the gravity of the moment – but perhaps necessary, an expression of hope for and by a generation raised in a growing pile of tinder. 

That tinder heap is made of unaddressed racism. It is built of growing inequality, it fills the yawning opportunity chasm. That tinder is the dry detritus of lost hope. Every unanswered assault on justice, every unatoned act of bigotry, every act of inhumanity is another fallen leaf added to an incendiary pile of hurts. Our kids are growing up in this tinder pile. They see it building, they feel the dry air, the growing fire threat, the crackling electricity of the coming flashpoint. Wildfires are ready to break out with a single bolt of lightning, an errant match. They ready their small buckets, uneasy. How can their little splash of water make a difference? 

We discussed this in more concrete terms today. Should I post something on Instagram, my daughter wonders? Is it a good idea, this suggestion for raising money for Black Lives Matter? Who is my audience, and don’t they already agree? How can we change the conditions for black people when this country was built on their very inequality, their very inhumanity? When generations of implicit bias built the system, and everything hinges on it? She has read about it, she has more words for it than many. But still no answers. And what about cops? We talked about her friend’s father, and my friend’s husband, decent and caring police officers. How must it feel to be lumped with humanity’s worst? Who will want to be a police officer if we paint them all with the same brush? What happens if we have no cops – except maybe the most militaristic?

We talked about supporting black businesses, and listed the ones we knew in our town. We talked about school policies – about the disproportionate disciplinary statistics in her school, and how “pushout” happens. We talked about expanding our social circle, pushing our own boundaries.

We talked about Rosie’s decision to put in for a randomly assigned roommate at college rather than pairing up with someone through on-line admitted student forum. Another admitted student had reached out to Rosie – she looked lovely. She looked like Rosie. Her life looked like Rosie’s. Her Instagram feed looked like Rosie’s. No, Rosie decided – this is an opportunity, freshman year of college, to be thrown in with people whose lives don’t look like ours. It is a small thing, but today I told her today it is a Big Thing. It is all we can do: put ourselves in the path of the unknown. Put ourselves in the path of challenge. This is the key to personal transformation, and through personal transformation we can change the world. 

At least, that’s the hope. Last week I shared with Rosie something my mother shared with me years ago, an unattributed quote on a poorly reproduced Xerox:

Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, for the world needs people who have come alive.[1]

It feels like we are at the top of a roller coaster, only air below us, holding our breath in anticipation of the plunge. The air feels explosive, unpredictable, uncertain. 

Tonight Rosie wanted to go join the protest again. We brought our signs, walked down the street. The crowd was thicker, louder, maybe 30% bigger than last night. Rosie did not want me to take pictures of her. I think we both understand this is not about us. This is not performative. We are not going to change anything individually. This is about strength in numbers, being part of a movement, adding ourselves to the great flow of the river of change. 

Perhaps I can’t guide my daughter, but I can join her. We can link arms and try to make sense of the chaos around us, try to add ourselves to the ledger on the side of justice. I’m grateful for her companionship during this strange silent rocket-launch of a graduation. 

Tonight's gathering in Arlington Center (Night 5)

Last night's gathering (Night 4)

Caouette Family Zoom graduation ceremony for Rosie

An afternoon respite in Gloucester

Magic hour at Good Harbor Beach 

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[1]Google tells me it is slightly paraphrased from Howard Thurman, whom Wikipedia describes as an African-American author, philosopher, theologian, educator, and civil rights leader. And guess what! The quote is usually misattributed to the nonexistent “Harold Whitman” whom many incorrectly assume is Walt Whitman.