Posts from — February 2011

It’s about the word, “modeling.”

We’ve all heard the term and we’ve all been told that this is the way to properly raise a young adult.  By “modeling” correct behavior we teach them the ‘right’ way of living.  It only stands to reason.  By  modeling our “healthy relationships” and our “charitable pursuits” and our “good citizenship,”  we are showing them by setting an example, of how best to lead a life that they can believe in and be proud of.

Except that… I  just can’t do it.  It’s too dangerous. Instead of teaching my son to “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” I tell him, “Sweetheart, if someone is being ‘done unto,’ get the hell out of there as fast as humanly possible.” I’ve lived in Los Angeles wa-aaay too long to believe even for a second that by being a good citizen I will get home from work alive.

I keep a very low profile. I don’t even use my turn signals on the freeway if I’m changing lanes. It’s suicide. The moment you do, every driver behind you for six miles automatically speeds up. I lie like a dog to get an entire evening to myself alone. I swear at telemarketers. I steal handfuls of “bulk cashews” at the grocery store.

I am a bad model.

In the interest of full disclosure, here are a few other lessons I’m teaching my son.

Give people the benefit of the doubt.
( Just don’t make eye contact with them on the street.)

The world is a beautiful and loving place.
(But for God’s sake, never open the front door)

Accept yourself.
(Just not when you’re dressed like that or with that hair.)

Don’t dwell on the past.
(That’s mom’s job.)

Follow your gut.
(Oh dear God, I can’t even bring myself to say that out loud to a teenager.

Rae

My son had three friends spend the night. We really do have a perfect home for this kind of activity, as his room has no floor space, heavy dark blinds and the house next door is right up against the windows, so it’s airless. The kids just love it. About every two hours I open the door and fan it frantically, shoving air into the room and blowing the potato chips on the carpet back and forth. “No!” they scream, “Close the door!!”

But last night at about midnight I heard an odd kind of beat coming from in there. Low voices. Rhythmic voices. Hmmm. Some kind of male teenage tribal thing? Slowly I opened the door and peered in. They were sitting in a circle and passing around a Pepsi can that I soon realized was standing in for a microphone.
“What do you want, Mom?”
“Uh…”
“Can you close the door, please?”
There was no smoke. There were no bottles or lines of white powder. I closed the door.

The next morning I asked Danny what they had been doing.
“Freestyling,” he replied.

“Ah,” I nodded, then oh-so-casually slid over to the computer to look it up on Wikipedia. Apparently ‘freestyling’ is rap, but it’s when the rappers are just making it up off the top of their head… (as opposed to what must be the exhausting preparation they do for their other songs.) The description went on to say that sometimes rappers use freestyle to “battle.” One-upping each other like a blinged out, pissed-off version of the Algonquin Round Table. Trading line upon line of witty, biting repartee that mostly rhymes with Motherf…..

But the way I understand it, rap is based on the anger and hopelessness of the street. So looking at these well fed, well dressed, entitled young men, I had to wonder, what do they have to rap about? And then I couldn’t help myself. I started thinking of the rap “flows” my son might come up with.

Ch-ch-ch Charter school is killing me
Mom says no car if I get a “B”
Friends all got Lexus, Mercedes.
Screw the grades man, my license please.

And so, there they sit for hours. Making up lines about girlfriends they don’t have, drugs they don’t take and fury they can’t possibly feel. I keep trying to figure out if I’m for this or against it.

On the one hand, they are writing. Right? Rhyming. Thinking. Putting thoughts together. That’s good. On the other hand they are copying a genre that has no foundation in their actual lives. Is that like the teenagers from my generation pretending to be punk rockers? Is this their version of garage bands?

Every single summer vacation
Gotta go with them to a different nation
They say it’s for my education
But I hate freaking Italy, and screw the Croations

Wanna stay home with my three six-ty
Play Assassin’s Creed and Call of “D”
I mean, aren’t I already a legacy?
Success in life a guarantee

It could make one a little angry, you know? To be killing yourself to give these kids things that you never had… education and knowledge of the world… and to know that they are spending their evenings spitting out rhymes about how they despise their life. Makes you want to make up your own parental rap. Not to spend an entire evening on it or anything, but it could go a little something like…

You and your friends, oh you got it so rough
Think you could be a gangst’a but you ain’t got the stuff
Out on the street, I could sure call your bluff
Cause baby, I got the credit card.

I don’t care if it rhymes. I feel better.

Rae.