Soul Murder
Nov. 11th, 2007 03:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thisnewday Because I believe, perhaps naively, in the transformative power of the written word, I've ordered a back issue of the British lit mag Granta for my son Jason. The subject of issue number 55, published in autumn of 1996, is "Children." The particular article that I want him to read is called "Soul Murder," by David Mamet. I heard it read several weeks ago on Public Radio's Selected Shorts.
It's a wonderfully-written piece although, given its subject matter, painful in effect. At least I found it so. That having been said, no synopsis can possibly do it justice. But to provide context for what follows, I'll attempt one here.
The narrator is sitting in the lobby of a train station watching a family consisting of a mother and her three children, all of whom are probably younger than twelve. Two of the children are sitting with their mother, on a bench near their luggage.
The third child, a little boy, has been separated from the rest and is sitting on another bench within sight of the narrator. His head is bowed, his legs are drawn up to his chest, and he is silently rocking back and forth. He is apparently being punished for some unspecified misdemeanor.
The mother, for her part, seems at her wits end and, apparently not satisfied with having ostrasized and publicly humiliated the child, continues to pick at him. Through it all, he continues his silent rocking. Finally, when he gets up to use the bathroom, she calls him back and makes him wait while she and the other children use the facilities.
By this time, the narrator is in a state of anguish over the child's predicament, wondering what he can possibly do to alleviate his suffering. Is there maybe something he can give the child which might console him? He reaches into his pocket and finds only a quarter.
Then he has a thought. He will walk over and sit beside him on the bench. He will give him the quarter and tell him that it's a special quarter that he must keep. Because every time he touches it he will have the thought, "I am a good boy."
What happens next reveals such wonderful insight, on the part of the writer, that I'm truly amazed, every time I read it. The narrator imagines that he'll tell the boy that he will someday lose the quarter, but that when he does, he musn't worry--because that's part of the plan. And that afterward, every coin that he touches will trigger the thought, "I am a good boy."
Unhappily, the story ends with the narrator being jarred, from his kindly intentioned but ineffectual daydream, by the mother's return. She is, of course, no less hostile toward the little boy and orders him to follow her and the others as they disappear down the hallway of the station.
My own son has never been what I'd call a great reader. But he has occasionally surprised me with his interest in certain books. And he's actually written a few stories about his own wayward childhood. Which, in a way, frames a recently acquired and unfortunate irony in his own method of parenting.
Commenting on his suddenly negative and inflexible discipline, my wife has asked him, "What would your life have been like if we'd been that way with you?" But instead of considering the question, he's immediately defensive, threatening, on a recent occasion, to move out if we continued to "interfere."
There is, of course, more to it than that. There always is. But it's gotten to the point where something has to be done to break this impasse. The other day, like the narrator in the train station, I watched silently as my grandson, after obediently dressing himself for school, was harassed to tears over the possibility that he'd "stretched-out" the bottom of his shirt.
When asked by my son why he was crying, the little boy simply and truthfully replied, "I don't like it when you're mean to me." Rather than add to his anguish, by engaging my son in a verbal exchange that would've accomplished nothing else, I left the room. Then I listened as the discussion continued, slightly nuanced but still unabated.
As I later told my wife, I'm completely out of patience with this. We've got to find a non-threatening way to get through to our son. I know it's a lot to expect of Mamet's fictional narrator, but perhaps this is his chance to be heard, by a real parent in need of guidance, and to positively affect the life of a child...
It's a wonderfully-written piece although, given its subject matter, painful in effect. At least I found it so. That having been said, no synopsis can possibly do it justice. But to provide context for what follows, I'll attempt one here.
The narrator is sitting in the lobby of a train station watching a family consisting of a mother and her three children, all of whom are probably younger than twelve. Two of the children are sitting with their mother, on a bench near their luggage.
The third child, a little boy, has been separated from the rest and is sitting on another bench within sight of the narrator. His head is bowed, his legs are drawn up to his chest, and he is silently rocking back and forth. He is apparently being punished for some unspecified misdemeanor.
The mother, for her part, seems at her wits end and, apparently not satisfied with having ostrasized and publicly humiliated the child, continues to pick at him. Through it all, he continues his silent rocking. Finally, when he gets up to use the bathroom, she calls him back and makes him wait while she and the other children use the facilities.
By this time, the narrator is in a state of anguish over the child's predicament, wondering what he can possibly do to alleviate his suffering. Is there maybe something he can give the child which might console him? He reaches into his pocket and finds only a quarter.
Then he has a thought. He will walk over and sit beside him on the bench. He will give him the quarter and tell him that it's a special quarter that he must keep. Because every time he touches it he will have the thought, "I am a good boy."
What happens next reveals such wonderful insight, on the part of the writer, that I'm truly amazed, every time I read it. The narrator imagines that he'll tell the boy that he will someday lose the quarter, but that when he does, he musn't worry--because that's part of the plan. And that afterward, every coin that he touches will trigger the thought, "I am a good boy."
Unhappily, the story ends with the narrator being jarred, from his kindly intentioned but ineffectual daydream, by the mother's return. She is, of course, no less hostile toward the little boy and orders him to follow her and the others as they disappear down the hallway of the station.
My own son has never been what I'd call a great reader. But he has occasionally surprised me with his interest in certain books. And he's actually written a few stories about his own wayward childhood. Which, in a way, frames a recently acquired and unfortunate irony in his own method of parenting.
Commenting on his suddenly negative and inflexible discipline, my wife has asked him, "What would your life have been like if we'd been that way with you?" But instead of considering the question, he's immediately defensive, threatening, on a recent occasion, to move out if we continued to "interfere."
There is, of course, more to it than that. There always is. But it's gotten to the point where something has to be done to break this impasse. The other day, like the narrator in the train station, I watched silently as my grandson, after obediently dressing himself for school, was harassed to tears over the possibility that he'd "stretched-out" the bottom of his shirt.
When asked by my son why he was crying, the little boy simply and truthfully replied, "I don't like it when you're mean to me." Rather than add to his anguish, by engaging my son in a verbal exchange that would've accomplished nothing else, I left the room. Then I listened as the discussion continued, slightly nuanced but still unabated.
As I later told my wife, I'm completely out of patience with this. We've got to find a non-threatening way to get through to our son. I know it's a lot to expect of Mamet's fictional narrator, but perhaps this is his chance to be heard, by a real parent in need of guidance, and to positively affect the life of a child...
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from one Parent of the parent to another
Date: 2007-11-15 03:59 am (UTC)One of his "traditions" is to take his daughter, now five years old, to the Carousel Mall to ride the Carousel. He also takes her all over to places he wants to go, people he wants to see, without taking into consideration her little person requires regular meals, a nap time and (dare I use the dreaded word?) "routine." Last year they came here late (for her) about 11 pm. They had been gone all day and came into the house arguing. She had fallen asleep in the car on the way home, he brought her in and was telling her to get ready for bed. She wanted grandma time, she threw herself on the floor sobbing while her daddy yelled at her. I asked my son to calm down. It was late. then I asked his permission to pick her up. I got them both soothed down, her cleaned up and in her pj's. While he used the bathroom, I tucked her into the sleeping bag/air mattress. She sat up and threw up all over herself, the bed, the carpet.... Well, later after my son and I cleaned her up and put her on the couch (he had to sleep on the floor) we talked. I started with I recognize he is an adult and he is the father. Then I offered to share some experience about small children. We talked adult to adult. I tried to help him understand a small child's needs for rest and the dreaded "routine."
Each time he expresses frustration with their relationship, I acknowledge he is an adult, he is the father, let me share from my experience.... he does give her lots of positive feedback and allows her to explore (within safe limits) her world.
It is a formula that works for us. And for her. And maybe for others. (of course it depends on the relationship of the two parents.)
Peace.
Re: from one Parent of the parent to another
Date: 2007-11-15 06:42 am (UTC)while having our grandson at home provides an extraordinary opportunity to participate in our grandson's upbringing, it exponentially increases the number of potential flashpoints for our son's sensitivity to a perceived lack of autonomy.
the other cautionary note to self is that my own impatience about these things, while perhaps understandable in view of my close relationship with my grandson, could, if not held in check, be the ultimately devastating deal-breaker...
Re: from one Parent of the parent to another
Date: 2007-11-15 03:53 pm (UTC)The other realization I was given this morning after "sleeping" on the topic. I wondered if our children are jealous of the realationship we have with their children. When I was raising my son, I was a single parent who tried to do it all for her son's protection and growth (raising him to be independent because I did not know how long I had to live) .. so there was a level of expectation I had for him. And then comes the granddaughter who is a delight and I have few expectations of her other than learn to be an independant and "good" person. With my son I felt overwhelming responsibility for his person and development. With my granddaughter I feel some responsibility and a whole lot of unconditional love.
This morning I have been thinking that maybe my son felt "bypassed" or shoved aside so that I could get to his daughter. I have been as welcoming of him as her when they visit. And I make time to be with him as mom and son even if it is just to play cards, have a couple of drinks and talk. He's still my son. When his daughter is asleep, and we are "just talking" sometimes I can introduce the topic of parenting - better received when there's no conflict going on.
Now he is a parent trying to do the best he can. And I try to talk with him as one parent to another, because our relationship has changed, too. Thank God, for the better.
And that, too, is changing (I'm working carefully on this) now that he is married.
Being a parent ... at any stage ... is scarey business. All the more reason to help one another as much as possible.
Pastor Rose here endeth the "sermon."
Soul murder
Date: 2007-11-16 01:36 am (UTC)A line from "Parenthood" with Steve Martin, Keanau Reeves, Marsha Mason - KR character has gotten Steve's "daughter" pregnant. He's swigging milk from the carton and says something like, "You have to get a license for a dog or to drive a car, but anyone can be a father." This to the man who's doing all he can for his kids, including the daughter impregnated by the one talking to him!
Crazy world.