What Do You Do When It's All Over?

There is a great little cautionary essay in the Wall Street Journal, called "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior." [Jan. 8, 2011] by Yale Law Professor, Amy Chua from her forthcoming book "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother."

The essay, some 30 paragraphs long [and well worth reading], makes the case that Chinese children are raised in a superior way that stresses achievement.  In the Chinese view, children need to achieve. In order to achieve, they need to work. In order to work, they need to be driven. In many cases, the parent must be the driver because children, left to their own devices, will give up.  And parents should enthusiastically and without remorse play the role of driver, even if the child balks or resents being driven.

Chua states:

"Western parents try to respect their children's individuality, encouraging them to pursue their true passions, supporting their choices, and providing positive reinforcement and a nurturing environment. By contrast, the Chinese believe that the best way to protect their children is by preparing them for the future, letting them see what they're capable of, and arming them with skills, work habits and inner confidence that no one can ever take away."

As if the Western approach is in some manner in conflict with the aims stated as what the Chinese believe.  What Chua is missing is the recognition that children are not fungible. One child may be a tennis prodigy, another a math whiz.  In her essay, she states that Chinese children are only allowed to learn violin or piano, never the ... clarinet?  And why not?  If one wanted to create a culture of enforced sameness, a culture where innovation and creativity were squelched, she has, in my opinion, described the perfect petri dish for incubating such an environment.

Her proscribed approach is primitive and unyielding, the only redemption occurring if the child is or becomes successful. While there may be small victories along the way [her child learning the piano piece], the endgame had better yield a similar victory, otherwise the child's resentment will be justified.  And then what, Professor Chua?

It is in my nature

Merry Christmas!  I'm blogging again.  Just too many ideas in my head not to.

First, I was reflecting on the biography of genius jazz guitarist, Ted Greene [who sadly passed away much too soon] written by his widow [they were never married, but that's a minor nit, she was for all practical purposes his wife] Barbara Franklin.  What struck me was the story how late in his life Ted came under the thrall of a homeless women. And Ted, having a heart as large as his knowledge of chord theory, started - more or less secretly - providing money to this homeless woman.  And the woman concocted ever more complex and compelling tales of hardship and misery and imminent disaster in order to fuel Ted's sympathy. Only after some time had elapsed did Ted realize that he was being conned by an addict, a low-life, a grifter.  The story struck me as sad, and maybe a little funny - funny in the way that is not entirely unsympathetic to either Ted or the women.

Which is to say, the story is a bit like the koan about the frog and the scorpion, in which the scorpion, perched on the back of the frog as he is ferried across the river by his benevolent host the frog, stings the frog thus assuring that both will drown. When the frog, dying, asks the scorpion why, why have you done this?  The scorpion replies "It is in my nature."

This notion, "It is in my nature" permeates so many of the things I think about.  The recent brilliant song "Belinda" [lyrics by Nick Hornby / music by Ben Folds] is but one example.  In it, the singer, evidently a man in his fifties or perhaps early sixties, is singing about his one hit, the eponymous Belinda.  He is wistful, he is sorry, he misses Belinda. Why did he ever leave her? He met a stewardess who had "blonde hair, big breasts, a nice smile ... she gave me complimentary champagne." 

In short, it was in his nature.

The Ballad of El Goodo

I live in a tiny space. A tiny perfect little space that contains a universe. And that space is the mysterious, boundless universe known as music. It is infinitely deep and wide, it contains all things. One note can summon all the colors visible and many only hinted at by the visible world.

That's my world.

And near the middle of that world, very close to its perfect beating heart, was Alex Chilton.

Alex died last week, on March 17, much too soon at age 59. Alex was all the good things about music as an art. He was intelligent, spirited, uncompromising, talented, willful ... brilliant is too vague a word. His body of work serves as a cogent commentary of all that surrounded him in the musical world. He took the best of the Beatles and discarded the rest. He revered soul, tin pan alley, New Orleans barrelhouse, blues in all forms, and good old pop music. And he could play it all.

He was humble. It was his music that was audacious.

Don't just listen to Big Star. Or his solo work. Or the Box Tops. Listen to all of it. Repeatedly. And deeply.

God bless you Alex.

Calling Dorothea Lange

I spent an enjoyable weekend in Fresno, California, visiting friends. I ate, had great conversation, ate some more, drank, and drove around a city that should sparkle like a jewel, as it is located in the very center of the country's richest agricultural area.

Instead, Fresno stood as an example of our nation's inability to shift quickly. The most troubling aspect of capitalism is that everyone's problems are no one's problems. And indeed, the problem created by the blight of dire poverty was writ large in Fresno.

We passed buildings that were half completed, boarded up. Some will undoubtedly never be finished. Homes were abandoned, plywood on the windows. We went to no less than three restaurants that had recently been reviewed online. All three were shut down tight, with various explanations. If business had been booming, no doubt all three would have been open. This morning, the Starbuck's had the sadly familiar notice that it, too, would be closing next week.

The most troubling sight was something that I thought I would never see in my lifetime: a Hooverville. A tent city. I felt the ghost of Dorothea Lange tap me on the shoulder. It was a feeling that sent a chill through me.

And in this season, when Congress and President Obama are deliberating over much-needed health care reform legislation, dealing with North Korea, filling a Supreme Court vacancy, extending incentives for car buyers, and other issues, who is troubling over creating jobs for the able-bodied tent dwellers of Fresno?

Can't say enough ...

about Laura Nyro.

What she did for modern pop music shouldn't be underestimated.

Before Laura Nyro, who came to prominence in 1967 both as an artist and as a songwriter, there was a certain oppressive formulaic quality to pop music. While many bands, notably the Who and the nascent prog and heavy blues bands were expanding the form of pop music in terms of length, they didn't much challenge the conventions. Nyro did that by infusing standard pop music with jazz, blues, tin pan alley [the pre-1960 kind of tin pan alley, not the Neil Diamond or Jeff Barry-Ellie Greenwich kind] and just a kind of raucous, smart-girl joy that made her writing so ingenious.

Her songs didn't follow the standard format [verse/chorus/verse/chorus/bridge/chorus]. They followed whatever felt right. Whatever fit the mood, the story, the "feel" of the song. The songs slowed down. The songs sped up. They danced, and jumped around. They went on way too long. They ended too soon. But after you heard them, you knew who you were dealing with. Someone who would challenge you. And you were being challenged by an incredibly talented 20-year old girl.

I'm a saloon and a moonshine lover, indeed.

From the Department of "We Need Better Copy"

The genetics profile company, 23andme, has you spit in a cup, and you mail it to them, and you essentially get a carfax on yourself. All this for $399, quite a bargain.

And really, quite useful, at least in theory. So, here - directly from their very own website - is some copy that you may consider when deciding whether or not you should purchase this interesting service:

"You may learn surprising things about yourself.
There is a chance you could be surprised by what you learn about your genome. For example, you could discover that your father is not your biological parent. You could
learn that individuals with your genetic profile are at increased risk of developing a currently incurable disease. You might learn something unexpected about your ancestry. In certain cases, these discoveries could have social, legal or economic implications."

Wow. That makes me want to rush out and buy it right away! I've always suspected my father is not my "biological parent." Wait, biological parent ... no, he's my biological parent. What I meant was that I always suspected that he was the source of my deep-seated feelings of shame. Is there a marker for that?

In short, you supposed smart guys and gals at 23andme need better copy. How 'bout playing up the conversation starter aspect of the test results? Or, what a lovely present for the extremely self-absorbed person [or people] in your life. You must know at least one.

Dennis Quaid is in my Belly!

Sometimes I post just to write about something unusual. Right now would qualify. In my GI tract, I have a small encapsulated camera traveling through me, sending pictures to a pack that I am wearing outside my waist. The little pack is blinking blue right now, because it is happy. If it were to blink orange, it would signal some problem with the system, and I would have to call my doctor. So, somewhere in my torso, I have a little tiny cameraman snapping pictures of my ileum.

[The title of this post is in reference to this crappy movie].