R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Aretha and I both hold respect in the highest regard. When I was a child, I remember vowing that when I grew up, I would remember how hard it was to be a kid. I wouldn’t forget how it felt to be dissed or ignored or humiliated by adults who assumed my feelings weren’t as valid as theirs. I would assume that children and teens were honest and friendly until proven otherwise. I swore to my private self that I would not deny kids their dignity. After each fresh embarrassment from adults who casually dissed or ignored me or my friends because of our youth, I would remind myself not to forget the eternal teen inside of me and the real teens around me as I got older. I’ve tried to keep the promise I made to my child self all those years ago.

Before I was a mother, I often imagined what a child of mine might be like. I dreamed of talking to her (I usually imagined a girl) honestly and enthusiastically and sharing my favorite writers, musicians, places, values and thoughts with her. I saw no reason why I couldn’t have a child who could appreciate many of the things I delighted in, even if they were not her own favorites. I reminded myself that a child (or any other person, for that matter) could not enjoy all the things I loved, so I would need to try not to overwhelm her with my enthusiasm for things that didn’t grab her and back off when she needed to have her own opinions or be with her own thoughts. I knew I would sometimes fail, but I knew that as much as I believed in anything, I believed that every child should always feel not just loved but also respected. Even when we disagreed and I had to correct her or refuse her, I hoped she would feel that I took her feelings into account and listened to her point of view. I have always felt that if I accomplished nothing else in life, if my child felt consistently loved, respected and rewarded for good behavior, my life would have been worthwhile.

I always imagined having a teen child whose company I could delight in, despite all of the time-worn jokes about how annoying and difficult people become when they hit their teen years. I saw no reason why I shouldn’t have the pleasure of reading Dickens or Twain, Harper Lee or Shakespeare aloud with my child, since I enjoyed sharing them with my mother when I was young. I looked forward to learning about writers from my child as well, and to having my world open up in new ways as we explored the world together and I discovered new things to love by trying to keep up with her passions. I had loved most of my mother’s (extremely wide-ranging) musical tastes growing up and enjoyed most of the literature she recommended; I saw no reason why I couldn’t keep my ears and mind open and find something fresh in much of the music my child might discover and share with me. I had starry-eyed fantasies of the fun I could have with my teen child someday, and others teased me about them and thought I was being unrealistic. I was determined to prove them wrong.

I have always wondered, who does it serve when we condescend to children because of their youth? And why deny oneself the joy of seeing life anew through a child’s eyes? Why would I close my eyes to my child’s vision of the world? And why wouldn’t I share the things that really matter to me with my child? I swore I could keep my eyes and ears open and listen to what was important to her. I would try to respect it even if I didn’t agree with it, and even if it was difficult to understand her tastes, I would share my passions, but would try to understand if she couldn’t get excited about the paintings of Velazquez or the novels of Thomas Hardy or the art songs of Gabriel Fauré.

I’ve had people tut at my vision of motherhood. I’ve seen wry smiles and rolling eyes from people to warned me again and again that my daughter would become difficult, petulant, self-absorbed and superficial once she hit her teens. Years ago, a total stranger watched my daughter and me laugh together while waiting in line at the post office, and she made sure to tell me, right in front of my child, “It doesn’t last. Wait till she tells you she hates you for the first time.” Just a few months ago a shop owner told me earnestly how all teens lie. I protested but she responded that my belief in my daughter’s honesty was misplaced; it was clearly a sign of my naïveté. She even had the gall to say these things to me with my daughter present. I wasn’t surprised to hear that her own son lies to her regularly, since she clearly has such a lack of faith in him and has long been convinced that dishonesty is simply a universal teen trait. To her, teens don’t merit respect whether they’re present or absent. Thus they learn not to show her respect, either.

If one expects nothing from a child, one cannot be surprised to get little or nothing in return for that lack of faith. What is surprising is that so many children give so much back to their parents and teachers despite the paltry offerings of respect or trust doled out to them. Their parents assume the worst of them, deny them the respect they themselves expect, and they talk openly of their low expectations of their children. Naturally, their kids adjust their behavior to fit the low expectations. If a parent expects a child to make little effort, to be disrespectful, messy, lazy and sullen, it is hard for a child to want to make the extra effort required to prove the parent wrong, since the efforts may not even be noticed.

In the U.S. children who get along well with adults and actually want to please the grown-ups around them have often been called names and considered suck-ups or freaks. If they value the good opinion of those who are in positions of authority, they risk being mocked. Where do they learn this? As much from other adults as from their peers. Adults expect this disparagement of those who try to get along with their parents, teachers or bosses. Adults gossip about coworkers who are “too nice” to the boss, they assume that those who care about the teacher’s good opinion are merely trying to fake their way into favor for good grades. So many adults don’t understand a child (or another adult) being motivated to please an adult out of a simple desire for respect and kindness in return. How sad that politeness and civility have sunk so low in this society.

This culture teaches kids and parents alike to expect and even justify bad behavior; this makes life easier for the kids who aren’t asked to hold themselves to high standards, and for parents who make excuses for their lack of effort with their children. Of course, many parents make consistent and concerted efforts to show their children respect and to expect the same in return, and some are unlucky enough to have teens whose own trials, hormones and emotional ups and downs lead them to difficult behavior no matter how loving or attentive their parents are. One cannot blame all of a child’s behavior, good or bad, on the child’s parents. We have all known people who seem to be extraordinary human beings who have horrible relationships with their children for no reason understandable to the outside world. And how many remarkably kind and respectful people have we all met who were never shown those values and virtues at home? But if little is expected from a child and few expectations are set by a parent, how much more difficult it is for that child to blossom into a friendly, well-socialized and hard-working individual. We cannot guarantee our children’s personalities or strengths, but why not treat them as if we expected them to be worthy of our trust and respect, and give them the best of ourselves as well? Why not assume that our good example makes a difference? Because living as if it matters is what makes it matter.

My mother’s 37-year career as a high school teacher brought her in contact with thousands of teens. Hundreds of them had troubles at home that affected their schoolwork, and many had earned bad reputations from other teachers for being difficult or surly. My mother had luck with many of these kids by pretending not to know of their difficult histories and starting afresh with them. When they failed, she reached out to them and told them why she expected them to do better next time and what evidence of value she saw in them. She let them feel she was personally disappointed when they did not do well, that their successes mattered to her. Some of them had never felt like anyone cared about their work or their successes before; mattering to someone made a huge difference.

My mother was a tough grader but she gave warnings and second chances so students could have more opportunities to earn admiration and taste successes of their own making. When her students got good grades they knew they’d really earned them. Many kids blossomed in her care precisely because she held them to a higher standard. She let them know that she saw no reason why they couldn’t do better no matter what their histories, their home lives or their parents’ expectations were. What made the difference was her belief that they had the power to make things better for themselves, to work harder, be kinder, show up on time, do what was asked. Respect bred responsibility and success. It seemed such a small thing, believing in them, but it gave kids enough respect for themselves that D students managed Cs, cutters began showing up to class, and disrespectful kids learned to hold their tongues or get the hell out of the classroom before they could interfere with the other students’ efforts.

My mother and I were quite close when I was a teen. She trusted me a great deal, and I was eager to prove that her high expectations and her trust in me were well placed. She was an enthusiastic parent who loved sharing new discoveries. Her greatest pleasure came from finding her own enthusiasms and beliefs mirrored in other people, so we got along very well when I shared in her opinions. When I differed from her, things grew very difficult; she needed to be in control and would not brook opposition or variance in opinion. Fortunately, many of our tastes were similar, so I could avoid her wrath by focusing on our areas of agreement. I loved her company, for the most part, and felt she had much to teach me. I grew up thinking there was no reason why I shouldn’t enjoy my own teenager’s company when the time came; the only difference would be that I would be more respectful of my child's differing interests and opinions. I would listen, I would remember, I would understand when she would not or could not be a mirror image of her mother. I have tried hard to live this way.

The glorious result of all my hopes, expectations and determination is that I have been extraordinarily lucky. I have a remarkable child with whom I share many my favorite things. She actually does enjoy Dickens and Twain, Harper Lee and Shakespeare, and she has taught me to love Eoin Colfer and Philip Pullman and J.K. Rowling. She is kind, honest, respectful, helpful, but also open with me about her well-considered opinions. She has a marvelous sense of humor and a wonderful wit. As for being moody or difficult, as I was warned she would be, she is far more even-tempered and empathetic than most adults. Her closest friends are are much the same: polite, funny, thoughtful and deep-thinking.

Of course, I’d love to think that I could take credit for her being so amazing, but as much as I believe in the power of respect, kindness and open-mindedness to breed similar qualities in others, I also know that she is her own amazing self, that children are not blank slates for us to draw on but come with strong personalities and traits, and that there is some mysterious and wonderful good fortune at work here. I am tempted to pat myself on the back sometimes when I see what a delightful person she has turned out to be, but I am also humbled to recognize how differently things could have turned out. No matter how determined I was to treat my daughter as I thought I should have been treated as a teen, her willingness to listen to me and to follow my advice or requests are her own traits, her own choices; she has become the person she is by making one wonderful choice after another and determining how she wants to behave, think and respond. I am grateful every day for my daughter’s love of art and music, her remarkable talent for design, for her passion for poetry and prose, for her willingness to try new things and places, for her generosity of spirit. She repays my faith in her and my belief in the strength of her character daily. She encourages me to believe in other teens’ essential goodness. She proves to me that I was on the right track all those years ago.

Me and My Blowtorch

So, there I was melting crayons onto painted canvas with my blowtorch, when . . . okay, I don't even want to finish that sentence, there's plenty of information in it already. This week I've made jewelry at one of my weekly art workshops with my teen friends at the Ground Zero Teen Center, gathered vintage detritus at antique shops and garage sales for a couple of assemblages I'm working on, and I even sorted materials for a new fabric project. But the coolest material I've worked with lately has to be molten, brilliantly colored wax. The method of melting it is pretty exciting, too.

A few months ago I tried melting crayons on a hot plate in little metal cups and then painting, dripping or pouring them onto canvas, but I couldn't get the effects I wanted and it was messy and slow. I'd been fantasizing about getting a blow torch and attacking crayons with it for years, but I thought it would be too expensive or messy or dangerous. Then I realized I could work around all of those limitations, and I knew I'd never rest satisfied till I'd seen just how a crayon held in a pair of kitchen tongs reacted when hit with mind-blowingly hot, focused heat. Wow, is it fun.

Of course, it spatters, splatters and smells. The crayon vapors are noxious and rather awful when inhaled indoors. And there's the matter of spraying firey butane into the air as well. But oh, it's fantastic to drip, splatter, add materials to the molten surface, heat it all again, swirl the colors gently together and mix in odd textures and things that shimmer, then see what emerges.

My first two pieces remind me of dragon skin (though I'll admit I've not met many dragons in person), and I'm thinking these materials and techniques could lend themselves to a whole series of pieces inspired by fantasy creatures. I'll post my first two pieces in my assemblages gallery tonight; to get there, go to the Assemblages page at my website, lauragrey.com, then scroll down and click on the photo to enter into my waxen underworld.