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CHILD ONE: Oooh, pretty!

CHILD TWO: Pretty lights! Pretty lights!

(The children dance in a circle, delighted by the noise and fanfare. The camera cuts to the door of a mobile home. A grizzled, gray haired man and woman step outside to admire the fireworks. They are dressed in cheap cotton pants and shirts. Across the front of their shirts are stitched the same words: "Coca Cola is Mother****ing Good! Drink the God**** Coke, Yo!")

GRANDPA JOAD: Yep, the fourth of JU-ly. Mighty good to see the country celebrating.

GRANDMA JOAD: Reckon the gov'mint will give us our three gallons, Pa?

GRANDPA JOAD: Hope so. They promised us three gallons a gas at Christmas. Wouldn't do to lie on Jesus birthday, now would it?

Medium Shot: Two children run toward GRANDPA and GRANDMA JOAD: They are carrying something in a bag; they are very excited.

PANASONIC JOAD (he is a boy of about fourteen): Look what we found, Grandpa! (He dumps the bag upside down and several corroded cell phones and Ipods fall on the ground.) Ain't these the talking machines, Gramps?

GRANDPA JOAD: (he picks up the devices; then breaks into a broad, toothless grin.) Panny, you know what you got there?

PANASONIC: I dunno. If they ain't the talkin' machines, maybe they be—what do you call 'em—digitalis watches?

GRANDMA JOAD: (She cackles in glee): No, they ain't no watches, Panasonic Samsung Joad! Them's phones! And them other ones is for music.

SNAPPLE JOAD: (she is a dirty faced little urchin of six or seven. In a pleading voice): Tell us about the rap music, Grandpa! Tell us about the S.U.V.s and the fast food and the bling...

Allow me to explain:

Every so often, I give failing seniors extra credit assignments as a chance to redeem themselves as academic aspirants. Since the statewide initiative was put into place mandating that schools "teach through all modalities," extra credit assignments can now be delivered in various ways: written, oral, visual, or interpretive dance. This particular student chose to build a miniature replica of the Globe Theater. On the day the assignment was due, he, with obvious pride, placed his creation on my desk.

"What's this?" I asked.

He gave a politely restrained snort. "What do you think it is?" he said.

"I don't know. That's why I asked."

"It's the friggin' Globe Theater, dude!"

(Students nowadays really do call their teachers—even teachers over 50—"Dude.")

I stared at the thing. It was round, more or less. It was made of Popsicle sticks. I saw remnants of the original flavors all over the "theatre" walls. I counted lemon, lime, grape, raspberry, cherry, chocolate, and orange among the construction materials. Possibly boysenberry.

"It's just a bunch of old Popsicle sticks arranged in a circle," I said. "For all I know it could be Stonehenge—or Gumby's house."

"Could I get credit for that, too?" the kid asked eagerly.

"You haven't given it enough thought. You haven't even washed the sticks."

"Dude, I worked on that for an hour!" the kid said, affronted. "Do you know how many Popsicles my family had to eat so I could make Shakespeare's condo or whatever? We all got cold headaches."

For a little while we argued back and forth. Finally I executed my professional prerogative to make a judgment. "I am not giving you extra credit," I said. "In fact, I'm pretty amazed that you would even think of submitting this for a grade."

The kid turned purple with outrage. "If—if you weren't a teacher, dude, I would punch you in the head!" he nearly screamed. Then he added in a wounded tone: "You are really hurting my self of steam, man."

I looked at him. "Your what?" I asked.

"My self of steam!" he shouted. "Are you deaf, old man?"

Several years ago I made a startling discovery. My students really like themselves—a whole lot, in most cases. But they don't want people like themselves to represent them in court. Or operate on them. Or do any work for them that might require real proficiency.

I’ve been a high school teacher for nearly a quarter of a century. During that time I’ve seen the effects on children who live without the regular and sustained influence of caring, grown-up men. It is a mess. There is no other way to describe to it. It is a harmful, hurtful, angry mess. Of course, there are happy, well-adjusted children (and adults) who have lived without fathers. But an absent father leaves a special kind of hole in a person’s life.

I decided long ago that I didn’t want children. Sometimes my students ask me why. They assure me that I would have been a “good” father, and that I should get busy solving this problem right away. They assure me that just because I’m over fifty, I can still make up for lost time. I explain to them that being with kids for forty five minutes a day is nothing at all like being a father. I explain to them that being a father requires a lifelong commitment, a willingness to put a child’s best interests first above your own. I explain that unless you are a hundred percent certain that you want a child, you probably shouldn’t have one. I explain that neither my wife nor I ever heard the “bell” go off announcing that we wanted a child.

My students seem to find this puzzling, if not downright “selfish,” the label society reflexively applies to anyone who chooses not to have kids.

My wife and I certainly are selfish, if you define that word as caring about both our own happiness and that of any kid born into this world. We’ve always felt that kids deserve to be the center of their parents’ lives. Their parents should give up things for them— not reluctantly but joyfully. They should want to sit by their sickbeds, and see what their homework looks like, and insist on feeding them healthy things. If they don’t feel this way, then they don’t have “the calling.” There’s no law that says everyone has to have kids. There are already lots of kids, and too many of them aren’t getting the attention they need to grow into fully-developed human beings. My wife and I are able to give attention to kids; they just happen to be other people’s. We’ve tried to be selfish—responsibly selfish.

As Father’s Day approaches, my wish for my male students is that they will grow up to fulfill the responsibilities of parenthood. I hope they do a better job than my generation (many of whom are their parents) did. And if they’re not certain that they want to be fathers, then I would strongly encourage them not to make babies. In this way, too, they will honor both fatherhood and childhood.

 
View Donald Gallinger's Official Website Blog at http://www.donaldgallinger.com/dons-blog.html

I knew Bobby from the time I was ten or eleven until I was seventeen or so. We weren’t best friends, but we were good friends. (A good friend at that age is someone you do things with but won’t necessarily admit to liking the girl in study hall, the one who sits near the waste basket.)

Bobby had red hair, a powerful build, good intelligence, and a dreamy romanticism that even at age fourteen most of his friends thought ridiculous. I remember one summer he carried around a picture of his girlfriend and proudly showed it to everyone, whether they asked to see the picture or not. Bobby always had a girlfriend and she was usually nondescript. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Bobby would murmur, as he let you gaze at the photo.

My friends and I would mumble “Yup” or something equally soothing. What else could you say?

Bobby’s parents were devout Catholics. They were strict but not oppressively so. They had both been raised in New York City—poor kids but with plenty of ambition. In our little town in Connecticut, Bobby’s father, an internist, was something of a local celebrity. He was one of the first MDs in Connecticut to be awarded a law degree. For six years, Dr. Hawkins attended law school at night. He studied by listening to taped lectures while he traveled between his office and law school. Eventually he became a partner in a law firm. He still practiced as an internist, but he also became a much sought-after expert in medical malpractice suits.

One summer, when Bobby was sixteen, his father let him drive his car—a white Thunderbird convertible. Bobby cracked the car up when he lost his concentration from staring at a girl’s ass in his rear-view mirror. Dr. Hawkins made Bobby get a job at a local gas station until the repairs were paid off.

The only time I remember Bobby getting into a serious argument with his parents was when he wanted to play football. They were afraid he might get injured. I have no idea what sorcery Bobby used to get his parents’ permission, but finally they relented.

Bobby played varsity football from his sophomore year on and proved to be a great defensive tackle.

Bobby enjoyed a minor sort of fame in his senior year in high school. He accepted a bet from two of his friends. One gluttonous evening at “All You Can Eat” night at China Village Restaurant, Bobby devoured eight helpings of Shrimp Chow Mein. He threw up in the parking lot, and was banned from China Village on all subsequent “All You Can Eat” occasions.

I lost touch with Bobby after high school. I went off to college and didn’t see him again.

I heard that he went to a famous music school in Boston.

View Donald Gallinger's Official Website Blog at http://www.donaldgallinger.com/dons-blog.html