Intergenerational Amnesia

A few days ago, Cooper and Ashley drove the road to Hana.  The entrance is near Pa’ia, a town on the north shore of Maui that’s about half hour from where they live.  This drive is stunningly beautiful, traversing lush jungles, plunging waterfalls and breathtaking ocean views. But it’s also a commitment.  It takes all day, is wind-y and treacherous in places, and in recent years, has brought conflict with the locals.  Some are furious about the theft of their homeland; all are irked by the traffic.  Cal and I drove the Road to Hana again about three years ago. We didn’t have any problems, but we were also careful not to wander into anyone’s pot patch. 

Road to Hana

Cooper is burbling over when he tells me about their day.  They made it to Hana town.  But their real destination was Ohe’o—the Seven Sacred Pools—about 10 miles beyond the town.  Their pictures tell the story.  A selfie of the two of them, grinning beatifically under a waterfall.  One with Comet, their little rescue dog, on the trail.  Beautiful shots of rain forests. 

“Ash and I were asking each other,” said Cooper, “Is this the best time of our lives?  Can it get any better than this?”  The two of them, for all their challenges settling into Maui, are making friends, making a living, making a life. They have a recurring gut feeling: we belong here. “Nobody cares what you do here,” says Cooper.  “They appreciate things, live in the moment, enjoy the outdoors.”  I think, not for the first time: Why did I raise my kids in the Bay Area?I'm not sure they fit here.

These comments from Cooper make my heart sing.  We all just want our kids to be happy.  Then he added something that surprised me. “Mom, thanks for not caving in on the X-Box when I begged for one.   I think it (the absence of video games in our house) taught me how to entertain myself.”

Startled, I thought back to the 1990s, when Cooper and Carson were young.  This was before cell phones, thank goodness.  I look at moms on the playground now. They are watching their children, nominally, but they also have their heads bent over their phones.  Would I have been able to resist the siren call of work or other demands coming at me from that little tyrant in my pocket?  I doubt it. 

“M-o-o-m,” Cooper had lobbied.   “Everyone has one.”  And it was true.  Every family room on our street was equipped with an X Box or PlayStation, and these were the places my boys wanted playdates.  I didn’t mind if they sneaked in Grand Theft Auto or Kung Fu Fighter or whatever when they were elsewhere. I just didn’t want the endless fights about screen time at our house.  The dance of making it a reward for one thing, or withholding it as a punishment for something else. I was not a really strict parent.  But for some reason, I dug in my heels about video games.

I wanted my boys to hear the mantra of my childhood: go outside and play!

So was I right about the X-Box?  Maybe.  But whether or not I was, it is exceedingly cool to hear from your child: Thanks Mom—that was a good call. Doesn’t happen all that often.

Hiking in Memorial Park with friend Jessica, circa 1998

I think I did precious little of it with my Dad.  After mom died, he became both mother and father to the four of us.  Imperfectly.  But the effort; the love; was clearly there.  And even in my little nine-year-old brain, I could sense it. When I graduated from college, I wrote him an emotional letter thanking him for being the father he was. He was embarrassed, but pleased.

Dad was a United Airlines pilot for 40 years. At one point the most senior captain in the system, he was the first United pilot to fly the 747.

For Dad’s 80th birthday, I arranged a party, inviting the extended family from around the country to a gathering at Coronado Island near San Diego.  I asked people not to bring presents, but illustrations of how my dad shaped their lives.  Person after person got up and gave a testimonial about Dad’s integrity, character and kindness; how often they tried to follow his example.  It was a magical evening. His face, worn down by his disease, beamed.  Later, when I walked him to his room and bid him good night I asked: “Are you exhausted?”  “Exhausted?” he said. “Oh no.  The charge of this will keep me going for a long time.” He died 13 months later.

Three generations of Dad's family: sister Verna, mother Anna and his two oldest children, Dave and Susan

Every generation has to break away from the one before. Strike out on their own, forge new identities, reject things their parents say—and eventually, maybe, come back around and embrace some of them.   Teenagers are impossible because they are supposed to be. It’s their job.  But once we are through that time of appropriate rebellion, how often do we go back and say—whoa, I was really an ass, wasn’t I?  And you did a really good job. It’s like there is this giant intergenerational amnesia. Which makes me think that Cooper, in many ways, is way ahead of me. 

There’s an aphorism in the grief world: having lost someone, and suffered greatly for it, be sure to love well those who are left.  I think about this transitive property of love; its pass-it-on quality.  In the name of those we have lost, let’s make sure we shine it on those who remain.

We can do it with our parents, with our elders; with anyone who has touched us.  So why don’t we, more often?

Live performance light sculpture, Carson Sloan