“Teach your children well … and feed them on your dreams … ”
When Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young sang those lyrics in about 1970, many families were waging war with each other. Generations were clashing in ways we had never before experienced. Skirmishes about haircuts and clothing escalated into full-blown battles about politics, Vietnam and personal freedom.
In retrospect, it is amazing that we survived as well as we did. Some of those old quarrels seem silly now. The length of hair or skirts, even some political issues of the time, have gone up in smoke, legal or otherwise.
I suppose most parents and children have long ago declared peace, or at least détente. We learned a few lessons from that time, as well. One is that love transcends generations, no matter how dissimilar the individual choices are.
In so many ways we are not as different from out progenitors as we like to imagine. I see so much of my parents in my brother and sister. I, of course, am totally unique. Except that my grammar and speech patterns are much like my parents”. And, although I hate to admit it, even some of my attitudes and ideas are reflections of them.
Like it or not, parents imprint on their children in surprising ways. We may try to teach a few lessons on morality, etiquette, religion. But, in the end, I think that the deepest lessons are learned when we are not trying. Children pick up more from actions than from instructions.
I am taking classes in “How Not to Teach your Child.” They aren”t offered at the W, or the Y, or even in church. These classes are free and held in the aisles of any store in town.
I am appalled at how parents speak to their children in public. (It must be much worse at home.) They yell at them, screeching in ugly, angry voices. I don”t speak to my dogs in such an atrocious manner.
The problem never appears to be anything earth-shattering. Usually the child wants something sweet, or they are standing someplace the parent thinks is in-the-way.
I understand that children must learn the word “no,” particularly when it comes to food that is not good for them, or being underfoot. But, sometimes I think my ears may bleed from the vitriol and abrasive tones of voice that spew from those parents” mouths.
I ache for the targets of such wrath, and am embarrassed for the adults. Often it is the primal rage that frightens me. Other times it is the language.
Last week I was in one of our big-box stores. A woman shrieked at her very young teenage daughter to get out of my way. I wanted to hug the girl, and tell her that she wasn”t in my path, but, was so terrified of the mother that I did nothing. The child, about 12 or 13 years old, shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot, pressing her body against the racks of bread. The plastic wrappers rustled against her back.
I would like to change the lyrics of that old Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young song. My revision would go something like, “Treat your children well … and feed their dreams.”
And to the children, I add, ” … just look at them and sigh, and know they love you.”
Adele Elliott, a New Orleans native, moved to Columbus after Hurricane Katrina.
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