John Y and The RP: Sending our First Borns to College

The RP and John Y. Brown, III

 

— friends for nearly two decades — have a lot in common.  A youthful political addiction, a more mature wisdom of the folly of politics, much, much better halves who’ve helped then grow up, truly demented senses of humor (albeit, John Y. is more demented and more humorous). Now they find themselves coping at the exact same time with one of the most difficult rituals of middle age:  sending their first borns off to college a few hours from home.  They both were pretty apprehensive as the magic date approached, and pretty blue once it passed.

Today, they share their reflections with the RP Nation.  Enjoy:

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JOHN Y:

The importance of ice cream and fathers. And kids.

Our son moves out tomorrow to go to college. As I drove home late from work my mind was reeling—reeling about the immediate future (getting ready for tomorrow’s big event), about the present (the final night at home before our son moves out and moves on) and, of course, about the past (memories which now seem eerily ancient of a boy who is no longer a boy anymore).

My best memory for both my children is what we came to call “ice cream night.” For nearly 9 years –every Monday night—I would pick up my two kids while mom had the night to herself. When we started Johnny was 6 and Maggie 2. It became a weekly tradition with dad. We had a routine and we stuck to it almost without fail. We’d get ice cream (usually at Graeters) and then go to Barnes & Noble bookstore for an hour or so where we’d look at books and magazines, get something to drink like hot chocolate and make up some activity. Sometimes we’d play slow motion hide-and-seek so we wouldn’t be noticed by the bookstore employees. Sometimes the kids would make up a play for me in the children’s book area. Sometimes I’d read something to one or both of them. Later we’d listen to music or just sit in the cafe and talk. But we were there every Monday night. Until we weren’t.

It’s hard to persuade a 15 year old to do much of anything especially hang out with Dad on Monday nights. But I remember a few years earlier asking my family if they would be on board with me running for Lt Governor with then House Speaker Jody Richards. They were. The only hesitation was my son asking if  that meant we’d no longer get to do ice cream on Monday nights. I told him softly and candidly “It might.” He looked down at the ground for several seconds but knew something bigger was at stake and then said, “That’s OK.”

I’ll never forget that and tried to keep our Monday nights going through the campaign. And did a better job than I expected. Even the state Democratic Party chairman knew Monday nights were a special–sacred, really–time for me and my children and would ask frequently during the campaign if I had taken care of business the previous Monday night. I was able to say I had more often than not.

I am grateful for those 9 years. More now than ever.

Tonight as I drove home from work I was approaching Graeter’s ice cream and decided to call to see if they were still open. They were. And so was the Barnes and Noble bookstore across the street. Both stayed open until 10pm. I called my wife and she got both kids to meet me for ice cream again and even joined us herself this time. We were buoyant at the funny irony of it all. We ordered our ice cream and sat and laughed about how we can’t go back in time. Perhaps most can’t. But tonight I was able to–at least briefly.

I hurried everyone out of Graeter’s to go by Barnes and Noble one last time “for old time sake,” I said. The kids agreed. We walked through the doors and were greeted by staff offering to help us and reminding us they were going to close in 3 minutes. I recognized one of them from our earlier days. We walked up together to the magazine section and lingered for a minute or two chuckling awkwardly with one another. And then we were told the store was closing. The kids left and my son drove my daughter home. I stayed inside a few minutes longer to do a quick once around to see if everything was as I remembered it. It was. And then I unlocked the already locked entrance door and let myself out. And drove home alone.

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THE RP

Commemorating the 10th anniversary of my father’s passing the same week I dropped off my oldest daughter Emily for her freshman year at college brought forth a rush of conflicting thoughts and emotions.

One of my most cherished possessions is a letter penned to me by my father on my first day of college.  He didn’t actually give it to me until decades later, for later-to-be-obvious reasons — both my mom and he were putting up a brave face to help compensate for the natural homesickness I would be feeling on my first days from the roost.

It is intensely personal, so despite the public life I’ve chosen for myself, most of my dad’s words will remain in the exclusive possession of his intended audience.

But I feel compelled to share his closing paragraph with my friends, because my father — whose poetic stylings far exceed anything I’ve written — so incredibly encapsulates my inner conflict in the days following my own first born’s first day of college.  And for those of you who’ve gone through this rite of passage, perhaps you can identify with my dad’s words as well:

Please remember that we love you without reservation, and are here when you need us.  We wish that you never have pain, but know you will, and hope that you can use our feelings for you to get past your own hurts and failures.  You sure have helped us with ours.

While Lisa and I have tried hard, especially over the past few years, to prepare our daughter for independent life, there’s only so much that any two of us can do.  It’s impossible to reconcile the desire to fully and completely protect your child from the harms of the world with the understanding that at some point, they need the freedom to make their own mistakes, seize their own triumphs.

And that’s the heart of my struggle.  I’m so damn proud of what an extraordinary young woman my daughter has become, and so excited to see how she will continue to grow and flourish, given her newfound independence and the opportunity to study, learn, and make new relationships on a remarkable college campus.  But she will always be the little girl I held in my arms; she will always be the fragile flower that I would sacrifice my life to protect.

Letting go is the most difficult thing I have ever done.  But I know it is also the most important.

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JOHN Y:

Parting advice to my son who is leaving for college.

Walking around the campus alone with my son for a few minutes I told him I felt an obligation to dispense some last minute advice for college and for life that I failed to fit in to date. He explained that he was good—and that my mother had loaded him down yesterday with the most obvious advice: go to class, study hard, don’t drink alcohol and if you do drink don’t drink too much and so on. He assured me no one had given any advice to the contrary–i.e., don’t study or go to class and drink a whole lot–and that he had pretty much figured out all that advice already himself without needing it reiterated by a grown up.

“I understand,” I said. There was a long pause. “OK. I gotta give you something. And I will limit it to just one piece of advice. Here goes. College is an adventure where you have the opportunity to discover yourself. So don’t miss out on the adventure part  or the discovery part.  OK? That’s it. Oh, and keep an open mind. You know….be like Columbus. Columbus was funded by the queen, kinda like parents funding college. He didn’t really know where he was going but was passionate that it was important and he was relentless in his pursuit. He also partied a bit. And he ended up accidentally discovering America. So, even though you might think you need to discover India, so to speak, as you discover yourself, you don’t really know what you will discover. Let the process lead you to yourself.  You may be seeking India or some college major or career—but instead discover something even better. Know what I mean?”

“OK. OK, Dad. Yeah, I know all about Columbus and get the metaphor. No more advice please.” Said Johnny.

“OK” I responded. “That’s it. No more advice.” Pause. “Oh yeah, and if you get serious with any girl in the near future, make sure you like the mother. That is probably what…..”  Johnny interrupted, “Dad!! Stop. We are done with advice for now.”

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THE RP:

This past weekend, I read a review in the Sunday New York Times of Sex and God at Yale, a new book that explores the hyper-sexualization on college campuses. The book places special focus on some second-rate New Haven institution that now hosts a “Sex Week,” featuring porn stars and adult video purveyors teaching undergrads new techniques. (Giving new meaning to the expression we Harvard undergrads yelled every year at The Game: “Yale Sucks!”)

My first reaction was to note how much things had changed in the 25 years since I attended, a tinge of jealousy and missed opportunity.

My second reaction, remembering the topic of this post, was “Yikes!”  (OK, admittedly it was stronger than that.  But I used up my adults-only post-quotient in the previously few paragraphs.)

My anxiety is not in the prudish, hyper-vigilant sense.  It’s a genuine case of fear.  Perhaps it was always this way, just under-reported because of the sexist times.  But over the past few years, there’s been considerably more discussion of the rise of reported assaults against young women on college campuses.  While, fortunately, the “boys will be boys” sentiment is no longer acceptable in higher education, the mix of alcohol and teenage male hormones can too often be a toxic brew.

I trust my daughter completely, or as completely as I can be allowed to expect.  But now no longer being comforted by the slam of the front door at curfew time, I have to trust some undermanned campus police force and the good will of (young) men.

At the same time, I know we’ve raised a very strong young woman.  So ultimately I will hold my breath.  And maybe buy her a can of mace.

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JOHN Y:

I’ve written about how my son leaving for college is a great source of pride —but the proud feeling is stretched thin by the sadness that weighs it down and drowns it out. But it is a proud moment. But tonight it’s mostly sad for me.

They say that sky divers feel the most fear seconds before they jump. Once they jump it turns into an adrenaline burst and the fear trails off. I suspect the night before a child leaves for college is the saddest time for a parent. The “day of”—when you help move them in to their dorm and wish them the best—that’s kind of like a sky diver jumping. A parental leap of faith, if you will. It is done. And you are in mid air and don’t have time for fear –or sadness.

It’s funny. I felt so painfully empty earlier tonight that I felt like writing a song or a poem. A country western sad song and/or a mournful poem. And that’s the funny part.

I have never written a song or poem. And thankfully won’t be starting now.

But I can write a Facebook post about it. So I did that instead.

When it is time to leave after you helped your child get moved in at college, it doesn’t feel as much like an ending as you might expect.

It does a little, of course. But it feels more like a beginning, too. A new beginning in multiple ways–a new era is beginning for the son, the younger daughter, and the parents as well.

It was the “first day at school” for all of us in that sense. Something new and strange. Something that is both a little bit awkward and and a little bit exciting— as we turn the page that ends one chapter (on the backside of the page) and begins a new chapter on the front side of that very same page.

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THE RP:

As we took the two hour drive to drop Emily off at college, we committed perhaps an unpardonable sin:  We spent our last few hours pre-matriculation torturing our daughter with Eighties’ music.  That’s right, I had the clever idea of tuning to the satellite radio station that featured music from mine and Lisa’s college era.

Of course, the synthesizer-dominated, big-hair groups of that miserable period between rock and grunge were featured most of the time, broken on occasion by singer-songwriters like John Cougar and Sting who would have felt just as comfortable in the 70s.

But I was most moved by a song I hadn’t really placed in the era, but one that indeed hit the charts in the Summer of ’85 as I pack my bags for Harvard:  Bryan Adams’ Summer of ’69.  While a bit cliched, the lyrics reminded me of the sense of freedom and pure unknowable excitement that accompanies the perilous transition from childhood to adult responsibility: “Man we were killin’ time/We were young and restless/We needed to unwind.”  While I didn’t buy my six string at the five-and-dime, I remembered sharing the singer’s embrace of new-found, reckless independence.

Most of all, I prayed that his nostalgic chorus would be true for me as well: “Those were the best days of my life…”

For many years, I thought Adams was right — my four years at college were an extraordinary time of growing, learning, and having incredible, irresponsible fun. I’ve only more recently learned that middle age can even be better — the responsible joy I have shared with my family in the past few post-politics years exceeds any of the undergrad exuberance.

But I couldn’t help to think that Emily has four of her best years immediately ahead of her.  And that helped deal with the pain of losing her.  Because nothing can last forever…

Thanks Bryan Adams!  You finally made up for that sugary Robin Hood crap:

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JOHN Y:

Advice I did not give my son about college but probably should have.  Or more aptly, “Advice they won’t give you during orientation.”

The advice I did give was the lofty and aspirational “College is an opportunity to discover who you are
, and an invitation to become all you can be, etc, etc.” And that is the most important part.

But there is a crasser and more practical angle to the college experience that I am going to save for a later discussion.
It is that college needs also to be viewed as a sort of obstacle course. A kind of test in itself to see if you can navigate and finish something monumental that you have started. This isn’t the pure “life of the mind” part–but the part where Niccolo Machiavelli or Tracy Flick’s character in the movie Election would excel.

And it is important.

The part that doesn’t just test what you have learned but tests whether you can navigate a new and challenging environment. I remember when I was in college taking an introductory course in psychology and the professor wrote on the board something to the extent that human intelligence was essentially the ability to quickly and effectively adapt to new environments and challenges.

After all, life doesn’t provide the artificial safety of a multiple choice test, with the answers listed to choose from; it is open ended essay. And we get to write both the questions and the answers.

It’s the part where, yes, you have to learn but you also have to seemingly “sell out a little” by being sensitive to appearances, i.e. you have to “appear to have succeeded in learning.” It’s a survival technique, at bottom. If someone learns the most in college–acquires the most knowledge and insight— but doesn’t have a GPA that reflects it, he or she has limited the practical value of their education and done themselves a personal disservice as well. Same with refusing to join organizations and engage in extra-curricular activities.

It is idealistic and heroic to want to play the intellectual rebel —and part of the maturation process. But it is not the “end part” of the maturation process but rather the “middle part.” If you are 22 years old and still making your points to the world by posing as the rebel, people stop taking you seriously. The hero rebel of age 15 gets morphed into the emotionally stunted adult whose rebellion looks more like fear of adulthood than precocious courage.

So what is my point? It is this. Learn to suck up–a little bit anyway. Show me someone who doesn’t brown nose a little in college and I’ll show you someone condemned to a professional ceiling in middle management. They will never go much farther than being known for clever remarks around the water cooler at work. Which is fine for some talented people. But not talented people who want to leave a mark and have something to show for their lives at the end of it all. And are armed with the privilege of a good college education.

So dream, strive, work hard and swing for the fences. But don’t forget to kiss a little behind along the way. You aren’t really “selling out.” You are just learning to “navigate” this thing called life in the final crucible before being let loose to the next level, an important but overrated stage of life referred to as adulthood. Just remember that navigating well is a form of intelligence. Maybe, as my college professor explained, the most essential form of human intelligence.

If I am not being clear enough about what this looks like, this clip from the movie Back to College captures it well. Sometimes you have to use discretion in articulating the “truth” as you see it and “giving the teacher (and all in your future who grade you) what he or she wants.” The ultimate lesson here is that it is not enough to just “deliver the truth (as you see it)” but to deliver the truth in the right way, in the right voice, in the best context so that it can be understood and appreciated and, ultimately, useful in a way that it was wanted and requested.”

In short, know Kurt Vonnegut. But also know your teacher, too. 

If you can do only one, you have a solid future ahead. But those who can learn to do both? Well, they will make the future

. Of course, all students know this…but they may not know it’s ok to say out loud –or take the time to hone this ability in college or take pride in succeeding with it. And that’s what they won’t tell you in orientation but is important to know. 

(Language warning)

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