Mowing Down Personal Responsibility

“If you want children to keep their feet on the ground, put some responsibility on their shoulders.” – Abigail Van Buren (Dear Abby)

I thought of this quote when I read a letter to the editor of the paper in which my column (this blog) appears.  "Dude, you are so not immortal" 10/3/13  The writer took me to task for an earlier column in which I expressed incredulity and eventually anger over a Crescenta Valley High School student who purposefully walked in front of my moving car on the main drag in front of the school.

Briefly, the primary point of my column was not that the kid was simply careless or had absentmindedly wandered into traffic as he was distracted by friends or texting or simply a glitch in his teenage programming. I get that kids do that all the time. Oops. Been there, done that myself, in fact. But when that happens and they dodge death by mere millimeters – most typical kids will react with shock and make apologetic gestures at the driver. None of that happened this time. Nope, this clown’s condescending smirk and absolute refusal to acknowledge that my truck was within inches of his awesome self (how do you ignore a horn?) telegraphed that he knew exactly what he was doing and could not have cared less.

In her letter to the editor, however, the woman writing about my column was loath to judge the young man as being anything but “goofy and lovable.” And yet, she was quick to suggest that I was surely driving above the speed limit (I wasn’t). She also recommended that I attend anger management classes. To that I can only say – the fact that I was able to restrain myself from circling the block, hunting down the loveable chucklehead to pummel some sense into his bad self speaks to my obviously impressive ability to control my anger, thank you very much.

Speaking of impressive, I’m fascinated that the letter writer had the skill to discern what really happened without being a passenger in my car. After reading the letter to the editor, my immediate response was, well, now I know whose kid was hell bent on become a human hood ornament.

But then I began to wonder how it is that so many folks today are reluctant to judge the actions of people (especially teenagers and young adults) or make excuses for their behavior. Instead, they point the finger of blame at other people, situations, supposed inequalities, injustice, economic conditions, and on and on and on. It seems to be a national epidemic.

Take, for example, the recent syndicated column by veteran reporter, John Stossel. In the column, “Longing to Be A Victim” Stossel recounts that Vice President, Joe Biden’s niece was arrested last month for throwing a punch at a cop. Although major media reports had detailed the woman’s well-known addiction to alcohol and pills, even this wasn’t given as the reason for her attempt to deck the cop. Nope. Rather than take responsibility (or even acknowledge that her substance abuse played a part in the incident), the niece excused her actions saying she is a victim of the “pressure she faces” because her uncle is vice president. Poor baby. I’ll be she’s really just a goofy and loveable gal.

Another quote I like is from Ann Frank, who said, “Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person’s character lies in their own hands.”

What worries me is that too many parents (and adults in general) refuse to take responsibility for correcting and guiding upcoming generations. When excuses are automatically made for our kids’ behaviors, or if responsibility is deflected to others, how will they learn responsibility?

Even the new Federal mandate that “kids” can stay on their parents’ health insurance policies (those who still have a policy, that is) until age 26 is part of a troubling trend. News flash: if you’re 26, or 21 or even 18, you’re not a kid. Sorry.

I certainly don’t want to turn one encounter with a jerky kid into an indictment on society. But seriously, if we can’t even agree to call the act of purposely walking in front of a car a dangerously stupid thing to do, we’ve got big trouble.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

The Wages Of A Summer Job

Last week I revisited some of the summer jobs of my long-ago youth. (The Summer Job of Personal Growth) I was reminded of this topic when my wife and I visited our youngest son recently at his summer job at Hume Lake Christian Camps high in the cool, clean air of the Sequoia National Forest. Tough gig, right?

In that column, I reminisced about one particularly sweaty summer spent out in our family’s garage sorting through thousands of nuts and bolts and other zinc-plated hardware without the benefit of even a transistor radio to help me pass the time. As coincidence would have it, the rules for counselors at Hume Lake don’t allow them to have their iPods on duty either. Even more unique in this day and age is that there is absolutely zero cell phone reception up there. And no internet. Or TV.

Oh, the horror of it all.

So what does everybody do all summer? They live life. They explore. They sing songs. They talk to each other. I mean, deep, meaningful conversations. They study the Bible. They pray. They play. They play some more. They experience the beauty, wonder and joy of God’s creation without the almost overwhelming digital distractions so present in our lives today. Sounds like heaven to me.

On any given weekend, my son doesn’t know what job he’ll have the following week until a staff meeting on Sunday afternoon. Although he has worked some weeks as a cook in one of the camp’s kitchens (they feed as many as 1,200 hungry campers at each meal!), most weeks he works as a counselor to a group of boys of either elementary, middle school or high school age.

That means he spends the next six days being the boys’ confidant, mentor, security guard, pastor, nanny, activities director, trail guide and surrogate parent. He eats all three meals with his guys and sleeps in their cabins (or covered wagon in the case of the younger boys). So far this summer, he has experienced the joys, stresses and frustrations of caring for homesick kids, frightened kids, bored kids, angry kids, troubled kids, barfing kids, lonely kids, clingy kids, kids who won’t eat, kids who won’t stop eating, gassy kids, kids with acute arachnophobia and everything in between. 

As camp staff, he’s gets a weekly salary (which works out to be around $4 an hour) plus meals and a place to sleep at night. When he isn’t counseling, his living quarters are unfortunately only slightly better than sleeping in an abandoned rail car in suburban Fresno.

As I write this, he has two more weeks at camp until he comes home for several days and then leaves again for his sophomore year in college. He is exhausted beyond his ability to express it. He has caught several of the nasty colds and flu bugs that have raced through the camp this summer. He deeply misses his friends and family. He misses the internet and his music.

And he couldn’t be happier.

During our visit, my wife and I saw that our son has already earned something that won’t show up on any pay stub: namely, patience, fortitude, resilience, commitment and most importantly, what it means to be there for a kid who needs comforting, advice, strength, guidance, friendship and reassurance at any hour of the day or night.

In fact, my son said something during our visit that confirmed our suspicions. During a quiet moment, and with a heavy sigh, he said, “Dad, I think I’m starting to understand what it’s like to be a parent.” Let me tell you, it was all I could do not to dance around the room like the quarterback on a winning Super Bowl team.

But I didn’t. My face muscles almost cramped from trying to keep a straight face and not grin from ear to ear. I simply said, “Well, mom and I are very proud of your dedication and commitment to these kids, son. You’re certainly learning a lot this summer.”

At least I think that’s what I said. I couldn’t actually hear my own voice over the Mormon Tabernacle Choir belting out the Hallelujah Chorus in my head.

Please don’t tell the folks who operate Hume Lake, but I would have paid THEM to hire my son this summer. I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is an edited version of my column first published yesterday, 8.4.11 in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

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