Listening, a Story of Teenagers

So many things going through my head this Friday night. We have had a nice rainstorm out here in the drought zone, which is a very good thing. The wetness all around us feels like a blessing from the Rain Gods.

But first, my kids. I continue to be concerned about my youngest child, particularly regarding her difficult adjustment to being a freshman in high school. Tonight, as I watched her joke with her brother who is a senior in a different high school, I suddenly realized how helpful the whole Mom's House/Dad's House model of parenting can be for children of divorced parents.

Her mom has never allowed TV. I always have. It's as if we represent the yin and yang of parenting.

As Julia and Dylan watch silly TV shows together tonight, they talk and laugh and share impressions about the powerful cultural influences that dominate the views of their peers. She tends to ask him questions and he tends to provide answers. In the process, they are of course playing out ancient gender roles, but every now and again she seems to have the answer to something that he is wondering about.

This is a subtle interplay, one I notice only because I am always hovering in the kitchen, cooking them dinner.

I think it is in these secondary moments, where she knows what he does not, that the both advance and grow as people. And indeed, if we are ever as a species to become better, women's voices have to matter every much as much as men's.

What we really need to learn to do is to listen to each other.

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Over Coffee

Today, the morning after another of their late Sunday nights watching their favorite shows on TV and on Netflix, I gently started cooking bacon for my two youngest sons at the hour they really needed to be waking up. I've learned over the years that there is nothing like the smell and sound of cooking bacon to get a young man's attention.

The youngest and tallest starting stirring soon afterwards, as I gently reminded him that he had promised that he would set his cellphone alarm, which he neglected to do, in order to get him to school on time.

He ate his bacon and waffles, tucked the lunch I'd prepared for him into his backpack and off we headed to his bus stop. "I checked a minute ago and it said the bus would be here in 15 minutes," he told me. "Now it says 6 minutes."

"No problem," I replied. We got there in time.

Back home, his slightly older brother was up and had eaten *his* bacon.

After that, I had a choice to make: Get to work on-time, more or less, or spend some time with my 19-year-old.

As I have done throughout my "career," I chose the latter option.

Some people have labeled me a "legendary" journalist. I kinda doubt that. I know I have been a very good and a very hard-working journalist all of my adult life.

But as important as that work has been to me, it has never, ever even come close to my work (and joy) as a father. You could give me all the awards in the world, and I've won a few of them, but none of that acclaim would come close to the joy I feel for what I've tried to do, with mixed results, as a dad.

So, no surprise here, but I turned up at work an hour and a half late, after coffee with Aidan. We had a wonderful and revealing conversation. He is dealing with a lot of tough choices. Far tougher than any of us in public broadcasting face. I'll try to post about that later this week.

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The Homeless and Us

One of my favorite posts to edit since arriving at KQED was yesterday's by one of our interns. The article is about an Oakland artist who uses found materials on the street to construct small, free homes for homeless people. Read it. If only we all could have such impacts in our lives?

Today my youngest (#12 above) soldiered on in a losing cause, 2-13. In the photo above, she got to the ball first. I told her afterwards how proud of her I am as she continues competing in sports at a time when not much else seems to be giving her pleasure about life.

It is so hard to see such a wonderful young woman struggling with the complexities and disappointments of being a teenager.

Earlier today, I picked her up at a BART station after she made her way there from the East Bay. Only the second time she's done that. She had a distant look on her face and said nothing.

While waiting for her, I watched so many old, broken, sad people, some of whom are no doubt homeless. Across the Bay, one artists is doing something for them.

Maybe we all could do better?

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