We went to an air show, and
while I enjoyed it, the people-watching very nearly eclipsed the Blue
Angels. (Sorry, guys.)
In front of us was an extended family
group, two parents, two small children, and two grandparents. They
spoke Spanish, so I understood only a word here and there. But one
didn't need to comprehend to see how they worked as a unit to make
the experience good for everyone, including little children. They'd
brought water and hats, snacks, chairs and a blanket spread out to
play on, and toys from home including planes. They purchased souvenir
toys (although why an inflatable hammer larger than the child is sold
at an air show, I can't guess) and snacks the group shared. Most of
all, the children had frequent adult attention keeping them happy and
engaged while some of the adults went off and did their own thing,
like checking out the helicopter or viewing the show from a different
vantage point. The little ones played until the planes were about to
fly by, then one of the four adults directed their focus to the
reason they were there. The whole family seemed to enjoy the air
show, and the pride in Dad and Grandpa was a pleasure to see; it was
obvious they'd served.
To the left was another extended family
group of two parents, five children under six, and two grandparents.
While the men strolled off, bought beer, and made the experience good
for themselves, no one did the same for the children listless in the
heat. There were not enough chairs for everyone to sit, and when the
baby slept in her carrier and a sibling dared to sit in the stroller,
there was scolding and threatened swats. The family may have eaten
before we arrived, but there were no snacks and no water for the
kids, although the adults had beer. No one had brought toys or
pastimes; the older children kept busy playing in the dirt with a
bottle cap and a stick which had missed the nearby trash can. No one
attempted to engage them in the air show or anything else. The boy
was threatened with physical violence twice, and it was obvious that
he recognized the risk of a beating as genuine.
At one point, Grandma mentioned she was
36, which suggests two generations of women having a child at 15. I'm
sure that's not easy, but I didn't see anything suggesting the
parents or grandparents were doing everything they could to make
these children feel valued or happy to see the planes. The kids were
young, but the older three had good mastery of being half-invisible,
shoulders hunched, heads bowed.
We were not perfect parents--who
is?--but I wanted to grab those adults and force upon them a crash
course in parenting. I can't get the hopeless eyes of those kids out
of my thoughts. It's way too easy to imagine all four girls seeking
attention and approval from others any way they can get it, thereby
repeating the cycle of early parenthood, while their abused brother
eases his misery with drugs or alcohol. I'd really like to be wrong
on that, but I don't think I am.
And what does this have to do with
writing? I'm getting there. The bottom line is that good writing
isn't going to do itself, any more than those neglected kids are
going to raise themselves to be fine adults. Like those parents to my
left, the writer faces many, many days when other things are more
important, when writing is too damned hard, when you want to have
some fun for once like everybody else, when it seems pointless to
try, when you're so exhausted or despondent the energy to do your
very best just isn't there.
The result won't be as tragic as those
kids' futures, but the point is, you have to try, hard and
consistently, to have a genuine shot at success. Be the family in
front of me at the air show.
