TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 202

[Tobie Shapiro]

April 18, 200000007


Dear Every Single One,

	Meyshe has been working on some pieces to 
play for his class.  I've tried contacting his 
teacher to set up a recital date.  But I never 
heard back from him.  Then yesterday, while I was 
out briefly with Feyna, he called the house for 
me.  Evidently, there is a talent show for the 
entire student body on the 27th, and they were 
expecting Meyshe to play something for that. 
Well, it's not the same as a recital, but it's a 
performance.  Bren told my mother to tell me that 
they expected Meyshe to bring his viola today to 
school for a rehearsal.  But Meyshe doesn't have 
anything ready.  Honestly, he's nowhere near 
prepared to play anything.  "It doesn't have to 
be perfect," said Bren.  But that's not relevant. 
Not to Meyshe.  If you ask Meyshe what he wants 
to be when he grows up, he will say, "A musician, 
an artist and a writer."  He means it.  He is not 
proficient at the viola yet, but he is dedicated 
and he practices dutifully.  With enough work, he 
could do it.  Forcing him to play when he's 
sounding bad would be demoralizing for him.  I 
wrote a letter to Bren explaining the situation, 
and told Meyshe not to bring his viola today. 
And I told Bren please not to get mad at Meyshe, 
because it was I who instructed him not to bring 
his viola.  I, the villain.  I, the evildoer. 
We'll see how this thing shakes down.

	In the meantime, preparations, 
appointments, forms being filled out, the great 
machine is moving forward for Meyshe to go to 
college in the fall.  I have registered him with 
the DSPS (Disabled Students' Programs and 
Services) which required proof of Meyshe's 
disability.  Evaluations, tests, IEPs, letters 
from physicians describing his disability and 
suggesting what services he may need.  They are 
required to offer him accommodations as needed to 
make his education available to him.  It makes 
mom nervous.  Out in that big world, fending for 
himself.  Again, unprepared.




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How We Grow Up


	My mother tried to grow up in the 1930s. 
She was born in 1920, a nice even number, and was 
nine when the great depression hit.  Desperate 
times for so many, great upheaval, great 
political gestures.  The United States was not 
yet a world superpower.  They didn't even talk in 
terms of super powers.    Superman didn't show up 
on the shelves until 1938.

	I tried to grow up in the 1960s, another 
time of great change, great tragedy, great 
cultural revolution.  My generation was crazy.

	My son and daughter are trying to grow up 
in the first decade of the twenty first century. 
We are too close to this era to be able to fit 
the pieces together in hindsight.  From what I 
can tell now, it is a time of great fear: fear of 
what is in the food you are eating, fear of the 
corruption of the environment, fear of strangers 
who may abduct or abuse you, fear of the future, 
fear of running out of batteries, fear of 
learning disabilities, behavioural disabilities, 
new definitions in the DSM IV, fear of lawsuits, 
fear of terrorism, fear of everything flying 
apart in the next chaotic shock.  Watch out, 
kinderleh, you may get hurt.

	It is a new set of realities in every era.

	I wonder what my children are going 
through and how to help them on their way.  There 
is way too much to learn, to adjust to in this 
era.  It takes far longer to learn how to protect 
yourself from the powers that be.  The predators 
in the urban jungle can shape-shift.  They can 
appear to be your advisors, your buddies, or get 
lost in the anonymous miasma of a bureaucracy. 
The predators have expensive and convincing P.R. 
The oil company cleans up the environment and 
nurtures an innocent field of lilies.  The fast 
food chain donates a certain percentage of the 
till to the Foundation to Combat Obesity.  The 
bank wants to be your father figure.  Everywhere 
people who merely process you are trained to 
smile and call you by your first name, suggest 
you have a nice day, offer to save you money on a 
special deal just for you that is being offered, 
actually, to everybody.  You may take your life 
in your hands and vote, but the issues are all 
shrouded in doublespeak, the candidates are 
packaged by a fleet of handlers, they are 
purchased by the highest bidder, and the 
propositions are twisted so that you have to pick 
up some pretty big rocks to find out what lurks 
beneath the surface.  It is an era when things 
are seldom what they seem.  Your undoing could be 
disguised as a helping hand.

	People want to believe in something.  But 
there is rarely anything honest enough to 
believe.  It would be easier to shut off your 
valve and let nothing in, or shut off your 
anxiety by ignoring everything, every clue of 
danger, every warning sign, every evidence of 
lies.  Just sit back and believe in the National 
Enquirer, or in the most flamboyant 
televangelist, or in the market, the pyramid 
scheme, the amassing of property as a sure sign 
of happiness.  How will we live our lives amidst 
such a storm of confusion?  The hall of mirrors 
is where you are born now.  My children will have 
to make sense of it if they want to survive.

	Can Meyshe be equal to the task?  He is 
so gullible, so impressionable, so unsavvy, so 
pure, honest, and good.  This is a dangerous 
place for him.  How can I train him to watch out 
for himself?  Who will watch over him after I'm 
gone?



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Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net