Fatherly Advice or How to Make Sure That They Don't Put Onions on Your Burger

It was crowded at Onie’s, the lakefront hamburger joint. This was a regular stop on our family boating excursions on the large lake we loved so much.  The lake boasted 525 miles of shoreline full of deep coves to explore.  Dad was always Captain. We would seek out glass surfaced coves for skiing and private spots to anchor and swim.  We would beach the boat on sandy, wooded islands and spend time hanging out with other boating enthusiasts. Mom might pack a picnic, or we would head to Onie’s place.

Dad had mastered the skill of smoothly docking the boat. My job for as far back as I can remember was to jump out of the boat onto the dock and grab the handrail on the bow to make sure we stopped in just the right place.  I knew how to do a quick and neat tie-off on the dock’s cleats. Boat secured, we headed into the grill pronounced Oh-Nies. That’s a long I and accent on first syllable.

Mom secured a table for us.  525 miles of shoreline and only two places you could dock your boat and eat!  It was packed and I was around ten years old.  I was painfully shy. I don’t mean to be cliché. It actually caused me physical pain to move outside my comfort zone and talk to strangers.  My stomach would clench, I would get shaky, and my muscles would tense.  My mother would gently ask that I say hello to whoever was addressing me, but my throat would dry up.  She would usually answer for me to save me the distress.

I walked to the counter with Dad. He always placed the orders.  He rattled off what the others wanted and then turned to me and said, “Tell him what you want.” Surprised that Dad was not ordering for me, my throat closed. There were people waiting behind us.  The short order cook was busy flipping burgers and dropping baskets of fries. The order taker looked impatiently at me as I remained silent.  Dad knew what I wanted. I looked at him with pleading eyes. He ordered for me.

Relief. Ahhhh. I can breathe.

We sat at the table and talked happily. I absorbed the excitement of people happy to be boating after long work weeks. The place was jammed and you would have to turn sideways to make your way between folks to leave, or use the restroom, or make your way to the counter.

The previously impatient counter guy shouted out our order number.  Dad squeezed his way through the crowd of hungry boaters to get the tray of food. He returned and Mom distributed the burgers, fries, and hot dogs. 

I was a picky eater.  When Dad had ordered my burger he had clearly said “No Onions”. As usual I immediately unwrapped the sandwich and opened the top bun to check that they got it right.  Nope. There on top of the meat was my standard mustard and catsup with tiny chopped up onions inextricably mixed in. I complained out-loud to my parents. Mom said to just scrape them off. Ugh, that never worked. “I can’t eat this”, I said. 

Then it happened. My father looked directly at me and said, “Take it back”. What?  He wanted me to go through that crowd of impatient and hungry people and ask for a new burger?? Yes, he did.  I pleaded with my father to do it for me.  I think that with my freeze-up at the counter being fresh in his mind, Dad decided this was a teachable moment.  He said that everyone else was happily enjoying their food and if I wanted to take the sandwich back, I would have to do it myself. Mom tried to volunteer to do it for me.  Dad drew a line in the sand. I was near tears. And then he said something that has stuck with me to this day.

Still looking directly into my eyes, Dad firmly said,” LeGette, you have to assert yourself.” He continued on with some tough love advice. “Have some self-confidence. They got your order wrong. Make them fix it.  You are going to have to stand up for yourself for the rest of your life. You can start now.”

I can’t say I was happy. Or that it was easy. I slid sideways between people and went to the counter, burger in hand, and shoved it forward. Impatient guy, “What’s wrong with it?”. I squeaked out “onions”. He grabbed back the sandwich, chunked it in the trash, and hollered out to the cook,” Hey idiot, I wrote NO ONIONS on this order!”.

Wow.  That felt kind of good.  They quickly corrected the issue.  I returned to the table with new sandwich in hand. Dad gave me a big smile and said, “Way to go, buddy!”. Now that felt great. My father is a master Dad.

Through the years he would use a similar method to show me how to navigate life. To be confident. To be a man. To be kind, but to stand up for myself.

Thank you Dad.

The EOG or Are We Human or Dancer

This morning my daughter whimpered in the backseat as she absentmindedly fondled my iphone. She was our DJ as usual on the ride to school.  At age eleven, she had learned to rapidly scroll through Youtube, toggle between Spotify, and keep a steady stream of Pop music playing via Bluetooth over the sound system as we made the twenty-minute commute.  The two of us were already exhausted.  The insane, frenzied buildup to End of Grade Testing had taken a toll. Do we test too much?

My youngest daughter is smart, lively, and has a strong spirit. At six months of age in an orphanage in China she was labeled as “Failing to Thrive”. Thus began the long road of labels and near labels; the road of circumstances that try to break her spirit.  She came into our lives a scrawny, one toothed seventeen-month old.  Deep bruises marked her thighs from whatever restraints she had suffered at the hands of institutionalization. But she was a livewire!  She grabbed at things and put things in her mouth like she wanted to take it all in, hold on fast, and ingest the whole world! Ha!  Failing to thrive?

The world is not fair. She has to learn this lesson over and over. It’s not fair.

The world is not fair.

So this morning we make our way to the third elementary school my little scholar has attended on her way to fourth grade. We haven’t moved.  It’s a constant search for the right situation for our beautiful daughter. The song she has chosen to play as she tries to calm herself down from the EOG induced, morning, panic attack is by The Killers. She has been obsessed with this song for the last week or so.  She has played it from her laptop as she eats breakfast, through the headphones in the afternoon, and over our stereo on the weekend. This is the first time on the way to school. Usually it’s Taylor Swift or Taylor Swift, but this morning the haunting lyrics of Human by The Killers are soothing her.

We tried to avoid this.  She started having anxiety about the tests a few weeks ago.  She had outbursts at school.  This was new. At this school she had been happy.  She was thriving.  So when she raged and screamed uncontrollably at bedtime about the Test and how she didn’t want to go to school anymore, we wrung our hands and worried that once again circumstances were conspiring to break her spirit.  What could we do?  She has to take the test. Right?

This past weekend she was chilling on the sofa listening to Human amplified through our thirty-year-old Cerwin-Vega speakers.  She called out, “Da-ddy” in her typical shouty style.

“Yes?” I said. She asked, “What do you think about this song?”. Hmmmm…. I did like it, I told her.  “It’s pretty cool sounding…. but I don’t get the lyrics.” I think I said something like they must be over my head as I wandered back to the next room. She had started the song over…” Are we Human or are we dancer?”  I shrugged at the strange grammar and busied myself with nothing of importance.

We called a meeting with the school.  We had informed them that our daughter would not take the test.  That’s right, we were advocating for our child.  Don’t judge.  You haven’t walked in our shoes.  The administration didn’t know how to react.  They sought guidance from the mysterious TESTING coordinator from the Ministry of Squashing my Child’s Spirit!! The Ministry decreed that we had a choice!  Yes!

Hold on… She must take the test or withdraw from the school. The Test must be administered or we can withdraw her from the school.  The school where she thrived.  The school she loved until a few weeks ago.  The school which we had been on the lottery waiting list for two years for. We would lose our spot. The test must be administered. Period.

“Are we Human or are we dancer, my sign is vital, my hands are cold”. 

Yesterday my little audiophile blurted out of the blue, “Puppets!”.  “What?”, I asked. She said, “you know, in that song by The Killers, dancer means like a puppet.” Wow.  I think my daughter is brilliant. These stupid educators must be blind.  They can’t see the genius, the complete brilliance that she had sorted this out?  That she was some sort of Savant who could decipher the code in poems and lyrics that had eluded me? “Da-ddy!”. “Yes?” I ask.  She says, “I googled it.”  Ok.  So it’s a different kind of brilliant.  But brilliant is brilliant.

At the meeting with the various representatives involved in the spirit crushing conspiracy, we were told that they had considered our reply that our daughter had the right to refuse the test. Yes. They agreed that she could refuse the test.  However, they would have to offer her the test and after she had listened to the directions she could say no to the test.  My wife suggested that it might be difficult for a child to refuse a test the teacher is telling them to take.  They grudgingly agreed and suggested that we just instruct her not to open her booklet and that as soon as someone was available they would remove her from the room.  “my sign is vital; my hands are cold”. The strings tug and lift us from the conference chairs and lead us out of the school in silence.

Yesterday our daughter declared,” I might take the test”. We assured her it was Ok to say no. Just don’t open the booklet we explained as we exchanged troubled glances. “Are we Human or are we Dancer?”

Bam!! This morning started with a bang!  Our strong willed girl was kicking a metal file cabinet as hard as she could.  Straight out of bed and into full on, raging, panic attack mode!  This was bad. We had exactly one hour and fifteen minutes to get her through this, into the car, twenty minutes to the school, and into the testing room.  She was screaming now, “I DON’T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL!”  Sobbing, screaming, heart wrenching anxiety. No way was this going to end well.

The bottom line is that we contacted the school, said all the wrong things, and I probably permanently alienated half the staff.  Ok.  I alienated all the the staff. Somehow, our little fighter calmed herself enough to get dressed and we managed to get out the door with barely enough time to make it.

“Are we human, or are we dancer? My sign is vital; my hands are cold.”

My sweet little one huddled against me, sobbing, as we made our way to the car. So here we are. Exhausted.  We are listening to Human by The Killers.  The lyrics are penetrating my brain as the speakers blast the electronic dance beat that seems to be soothing her. “Are we human or are we dancer?”  Are we puppets? Dammit!  I do not want to be a puppet.  I want to turn the car around, tell her that she can stop worrying because Daddy is human and has compassion and is going to take her home. But I keep driving. I don’t change direction.

Am I human or am I dancer?  If I had to answer this question as The Killers keep suggesting that I must, I’d have to say that I am both.  I am both at the same time.  Simultaneously the flesh and vitality of humanity while also cold and wooden like a puppet being lead on strings. This morning the two parts are in a battle. The puppet master has incredible leverage.

So as I drive my daughter to school today and Human keeps repeating it’s pleading chorus, my sign is vital and my hands are cold.

Update: My brilliant daughter has taken to calling Common Core "Complicate it More"! Haha.  Reminds me of when she was at a school in kindergarten that was on Torrence Street. She called it "Torment Street".  LOL