A collection of essays, outdoor adventure stories, ruminations, wordplay, parental angst, and blatant omphaloskepsis, generated in all seasons and for many reasons at 64.8 degrees north latitude

Friday, April 25, 2014

If I were a carpenter

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“Um…”   Lizzy hesitates.  She looks at her toes.  “Um, I don’t really know.”
People ask kids this question all the time.  My kids.  Other kids.  Kids they’ve only just met.  Heck, I catch myself asking it, too – or sitting around with other adults, guessing about it.  See the way she focuses on the Legos?  She’s totally going to be an engineer.  Or an architect.  Something spatial and math-y.  I mean, just look at her – she’s got the focus, the precision, the awkward social skills…
Why I do this is a mystery to me, because the question makes my kids squirm – just as it made me squirm, when I was a kid.
Oh, I came up with answers.  (Grownups demand answers, or they get all testy.)  When I was six I said I was going to be an astronaut -- until I learned that half-blind kids can’t grow up to fly stuff.  So much for the Mars expedition.   When I was seven, the age the twins are now, I told everyone I was going to be an inventor.  This was handy, because it was both specific enough to satisfy the annoying adults, and vague enough to satisfy myself.  If anyone pressed, “What are you going to invent?” I could justifiably retort that I didn’t know, because I hadn’t invented it yet.  Moreover, invention covered a multitude of topics and interests.  I could invent new kinds of games or puzzles.  I could invent time-saving machines for household use.  I could invent astonishing modes of transportation, up to and including interstellar travel.  Inventing offered a lot of wiggle room.
It wasn’t enough that I was supposed to know my future career before I hit third grade.  Oh, no, I needed to be planning ahead by honing my studies to match my future goals!  Thus, along with the question about career choices came another frequent (and clearly related) zinger: “What’s your favorite subject at school”? 
Our society tells us that we need to look for the superlatives:  the fastest, the smartest, the favorite, the best.  You’d better know what you’re good at kid, so you can narrow down those choices!
What was my favorite subject at school?
Well, it wasn’t gym.  The one-eyed thing, coupled with the erudite-but-uncoordinated nature of my immediate family, made me an instant dud at everything from softball to soccer.  Besides, our elementary gym teachers approached their daily toil with all the enthusiasm of galley slaves chained below decks.  “Pushups.  Ready, begin”.  A blare on a whistle.  A bouncy red ball rebounding off the side of my head. 
No, gym wasn’t my favorite class.  Nonetheless, I loved moving my body, running fast, climbing, hiking, biking, and wrestling.  I wanted to be on top of mountains, at the bottom of the ocean, in the rainforests of the Amazon and at the North Pole.  I hadn’t ruled out “Explorer” as a viable career option.  I hadn’t decided against a physical, kinetic, future.
During my college summers, when many of my earnest, ambitious Harvard friends took internships in D.C. or New York, I worked on the Adirondack Trail Crew.  I whacked things with an axe.  I moved Very Large Rocks. 
And these days?  Yeah, I have a thing about running, biking, skiing, and all that.  You might have noticed.
What’s your favorite subject at school?
Music?  No, music wasn’t my favorite class, either.  Our music teacher, who was (really) named Mr. Rogers, was a grim and exhausted man, near retirement.  He stood up behind his piano, glaring over the top of it at his students, as if daring them to act up. Anyone who misbehaved had to write out the national anthem.  All the verses.  You’ve never heard anyone sing them, ever, but trust me -- there are a lot of verses. 
I was usually sickeningly well-behaved in school, a total brown-nosing nerd, but in music class I grew creatively devious, writing parody versions of the inane songs, and handing them out to just enough classmates to make Mr. Rogers twitch.  He was widely rumored to pick and eat his own earwax.  I was fascinated by this.  I mean, boogers, sure.  Those merely tasted slightly salty.  But the appalling taste of earwax made me almost admire Mr. Rogers.
I was certainly not a star in music class.  Still, I imagined myself someday writing comic parodies that would bring down the house.  I loved the emotional swell of music.  I played my parents’ records over and over – from Gilbert and Sullivan to Tom Lehrer to Pete Seeger to Beethoven.  When I got my first real job, it was in the Audiovisual department of the public library.  There were these new items in the collection called “compact discs”.
I’m no more musical as an adult than I was as a kid.  But when, having been cast as an extra in a local Shakespeare production some years ago, I was told that I’d be required to sing and dance, I forged ahead.  I sang.  I danced.  In public.  For people who had paid actual money.  So I guess I haven’t 100% given up on that path, either.
Art?  Well, I was never terribly artistic, but I liked it anyhow.  In sixth grade, when my classroom teacher turned out to be as useless and well-informed as a broken mop, I spent increasingly lengthy periods of time in the art room.  The art teacher, Mr. Wyatt, let me get away with this because he was indisputably awesome.  He was an enormous black man with a keen eye, a startling sense of humor, and a thumb that he’d famously almost cut off in the paper cutter.  He probably knew that I didn’t have real prospects with my flat, wishy-washy watercolors, but he liked the whimsy of my painting of a mouse pilfering from a teacup (using a tiny ladder and a tiny teacup of her own) well enough to frame it.  It hung in the school hallways for years.
These days, I get sucked into art projects by my kids.  Clay?  Oh, who can resist clay?  Finger paints?  Zentangles?  Yes, yes, bring it on.  Pictionary?  Sure. 
I lose at Pictionary, but who cares?  I can’t, somehow, quite let go of art.
Seventh grade broadened the art field to include wood shop.  Which was, of course, awesome.  I wanted to take more wood shop in high school.  I even put it on my schedule, but my guidance counselor told me no.  Girls who took all Advanced Placement courses simply did not take woodshop with a bunch on non-academic boys.  No more wood shop for me.
Screw you, High School Guidance Counselor.  Wanna see the house I built?  With, like power tools and stuff?  Ok, so the sheetrock is weirdly bumpy all across the ceiling and the cabinet doors don’t close; that’s okay.  Carpentry.  When I grow up, I’m gonna be a carpenter. 
But I’ll also be a seamstress and a cook, despite the limp and appalling attempts junior high made to educate me in those fields.  Stuffed animals sewed from kits and cocktail wieners wrapped in crescent rolls?  Really?  Really?  The only thing that’s positive about cocktail wieners in crescent rolls is getting to say “cocktail wieners”.  Snigger.  Snort. Cocktail wieners.  But, hey, I have a sewing machine, now.  I make, you know… clothes.  And food.  I make food, too.  Lots of food.  From scratch (um, mostly).  For unclear reasons, in my copious spare time, I seem to end up catering 100-person dinners for hungry ultra-racers (see “gym” above).  Luckily, hungry ultra-racers are anything but picky.
What do you want to be when you grow up?
History, geography, politics, and social studies were not my strong suits at school, either.  I abhorred memorization -- and history lessons seemed to be an endless drudgery of learning disconnected names and dates.  It was all about battles, state capitals, dead presidents, and yellowed documents.  History was my big sister’s province, not mine.
And yet… the stories my sister invented for me – usually when we were stewing together in a bathtub full of hot water, in which I don’t recall ever doing any meaningful washing – were cool.  I’m pretty sure they were blatant Little House on the Prairie rip-offs , because she seemed to be perpetually immersed in that series from age six to age ten, but perhaps I’m misremembering.  In any case, there was plenty of rambling detail about adventures enjoyed by brave and resourceful little girls, and that was good enough for me.  I preferred science fiction, for my own books, but maybe history was… okay.
It seems that, even now, I still haven’t quite given up on social studies, geography, and history.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  The older I get, the more I realize that everything is political – whether I want it to be or not.  I feel compelled to educate myself, in order to take part in important discourse regarding what country we’re currently attacking.  I want to vote wisely, of course -- but it’s more than that. 
Recently I realized – quite to my own shock – that the two books I read last month were NOT NOVELS.  Nor were they about science, or math, or language.  No.  One was political – a darkly funny work by the inimitable Molly Ivins.  The other was a rambling and fascinating social history books by the charming and amiable Bill Bryson.
This latter work, entitled “Home”, educated me on any number of peculiar historical facts, large and small.  Among other things, I learned that Jethro Tull was not only an 80’s rock band, of Thick as a Brick and Aqualung fame, but, originally (1674 – 1741), an English agricultural pioneer who invented a marvelous implement called a “seed drill”.  Somehow, that fact made totally my day.  Because (snicker) “seed drill.” (See also “cocktail wiener.”)
Yeah.  Okay.  When I grow up, I’ll be a historian.
If music, gym, art, sewing, woodworking, cooking, and social studies were never entirely cast aside, other school subjects were even nearer and dearer to my heart all along.  Math.  Physics.  Biology.  Earth Science.  Chemistry.  And (admittedly the odd duck in this geeky family of loves) English.  Words!  Numbers!  Logic!  Truth!  Facts!  Proof!  Experiments!   Oh, yes, yes, yes!  Bring it on! 
I adored every one of these subjects.  I loved them when they were taught brilliantly, as they were by a whole host of my teachers, starting with the guru of the second grade, to whom I’ve already devoted much of a previous blog post.  I loved them when they were taught idiosyncratically, as by the guy with the massive handlebar mustache, two fingers fewer than the regulation number, and a great story about a lawnmower (which explained the latter attribute).  I couldn’t help liking the teacher who was never seen without his lab coat, and who let us make peanut brittle over the Bunsen burners.  I admired my earnest Mathletes coach, and I both loved and hated the English teacher who asked me to explain to the rest of the class full of fourteen-year-olds -- every single one of whom had already hit puberty, except for me -- what Shakespeare meant by the term “maidenhead”.
So, yes.  When I grew up, I was going to be a mathematician, and a scientist, and a writer.  No problem, right?
But, honey, you have to choose a major.  You have to narrow things down.
College arrived.  I faced the “choose a major” dilemma with not a small amount of panic.  I wallowed my way from physics (I took classes in the wrong order; it turns out that multivariable calculus was needed BEFORE third-semester physics, and didn’t work too well concurrently) to geology (I suck at memorizing rocks) to biology.  I ended up in an odd hybrid major, biological anthropology, which was heavy on biology and other flavors of science, but also let me take some archaeology and a class on ape sex.
Obviously, I was completely equipped for the workforce.
My next move, of course, was to take a clearly career-advancing step by… joining the Peace Corps.  I planted trees with small children, ate my bodyweight in fresh fruit every week, apologized for the several hundred years of bad behavior by everyone with my skin color, and biked a lot.
Following this up with a Master’s degree in Forestry and Environmental Science seemed like just the thing.  Because… trees, and science, and being outdoors, and saving the world, all rolled into one!
Um…. Okay, how about a job at an environmental non-profit smack in the middle of Alaska?  A year or two there, and I’ll be ready to move on.  I’ll TOTALLY know what I want to be when I grow up.
Either that, or I’d find myself (along with my wonderful new Alaskan husband) building a cabin (carpentry).  And cooking dinner for a 13-person community (home ec).  And exploring the wilderness (phys ed).  And, unexpectedly, completing a PhD in a brand-new interdisciplinary program, and subsequently landing a professorship in the field of climate change modeling, interpretation, and adaption.
Um, what?   What kind of subject is that?
Well, climate change is a tricky issue, y’know.  It is, seemingly against its will, a political and economic problem.  It spans the wobbly terrain between biology, chemistry, physics, math, computer science, geography, and sociology.  Trying to interpret and explain the ramifications of climate change to wide audiences requires a handle on all of the above, plus clear writing, good communication skills, and some talented visuals.
I’ll come clean here: I’m not very good at being a climate change researcher.  In fact, sometimes I’m remarkably bad at it.  I spout math when I should be simplifying things.  I use acronyms when – well, ever, because no one needs those damn things.  I juggled too many balls, and I drop them like mad.  My Powerpoint presentations are about as artistic as a watercolor mouse in a teacup.  I’m not being humble.  One of my coworkers kindly offered me a book that might have been titled (although it wasn’t) “How to make your presentations less craptastic.”  I’m bad at this.
But I keep trying.  The learning curve hurts my brain, and I fall short a lot, but I’ve come to realize that I’d rather fall short than not reach.  Our society tells us to excel, to be the BEST, to be the TOP.  We’re told to narrow our view and focus on the stuff we’re good at.  But… I find so many joys in the races I have no hope of winning, the crooked woodwork I built myself, and the pot of lentil soup that is four stars short of gourmet.
I like having a chance to try – and maybe fail – at a whole lot of things at once.  Moreover, I like seeing subjects – math, art, gym, politics – as part of a complex and irrevocably linked whole, rather than as artificially separated bites to chew and digest separately.  I like the interconnectedness.  I like the confusion.  I like the challenge.  Sometimes, I like my own mediocrity.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“Um…”   Lizzy hesitates.  She looks at her toes.  “Um, I don’t really know.”
Hey, that’s okay, kid.  Rock on.  But if you want to get them off your back, tell them you’re going to be an artist, a scientist, a writer, AND an inventor.  That’s what I’m gonna be, too.  When I grow up.

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