Friday, March 16, 2012

Rhino-Headed

The last few weeks we have changed my son's afternoon routine.  He rides the bus and stays with a close friend and their family until we get home to pick him up.  They have two older sons, and their influence on Cruz is undeniable (Max Lucado future book title #1).  He wears shorts on cold days, longs to play Call of Duty like a "big boy" and generally feels at home among the men.  When we arrive to pick him up, he is frequently outside with them shooting hoops, or running just for the feel of air hitting their face.  Freedom.  I love my son's spirit.  It's all or nothing at times.  Full blown adventure.  It's also exhausting.

I've mentioned before that we have been looking into some medical and therapeutic (is this the right word I'm looking for?) advice in getting my son to focus more at school and to help him lessen his outbursts at home.  The last 2 years he was in school with us, and I admit, he was the least of any of the teacher's worries in Columbus.  In the suburbs, I think my son is the kid that teachers shake their head at.  "He's yours next year," I can hear them say in the hallway.  Even I occasionally walk into a 3rd grade classroom like some NFL scout surveying the wide field of new recruits.  The kids greet me with high fives and hugs.  I ask them if they are "ready" for fourth grade, my class.  They smile their approvals.  And always, the third grade teacher points to the one kid in the corner and says, "I can't wait for you to have----"  The first round draft pick.  The adventurous, untamed (Max Lucado future book title #2) boy.

Cruz has a lot of those similarities.  Perhaps the difference is he has consequences, 2 parents and some decent amount of stability.  I know how I was in school.  Around the 3rd or 4th grade, my environment began to take over.  I had been exposed to the break-up of my home (and to some degree, it wasn't like War of the Roses or anything, but I always felt like the only kid being raised by a step-parent) and too much television.  My mom would joke that the only movies I wanted to watch in high school were for sex, blood and violence.  I've taken enough measures to keep those things away from my son.  I gave up playing certain games at home (Cruz used to call Grand Theft Auto "Daddy's Bad Game"), changed the channel on frequent occasions and steered him to a different rash of movie that my dad allowed me to watch.

But along the way, my son clung to the typical adventure story lines.  He is engrossed with the fantasy-lightsaber fights of Star Wars, the explosions of Avatar (I know that was too much for him at his age.  I fell victim to the look of the movie and what a cool dad I would be for allowing him to watch it) and the curiosity of warfare.  He found a demo of the popular Call of Duty game, and there were times he favored the launching of grenades to the seemingly innocent world of Mario.

In this I am guilty.  I raised my son with a fence-straddler mentality.  I was raising him Christian in our words, sometimes with our actions and what he sees when we are around our friends, but the indoctrination of the world also weighed heavily on him.  The underlying brattiness of Spongebob, the Disney and Nickelodeon shows that are devoid of parents or buffoon-Dads who give kids the message that men aren't men.  If another house allowed Call of Duty, so be it.  What's a little PG-13 cursing going to hurt.  But I only have my own life to show that too much tv and lack of supervision eventually led to fishing for R-rated and "adult situation" movies on Cinemax, later to the simulated sexual gyrations of the Playboy channel, to stashed copies of more graphic magazines like Hustler, and eventually a full blown habit of pornography.  Those innocent movies of warfare led to more violent movies and a small collection of Horror movies I'm sickened to watch now.

And indeed, the deck is stacked against many boys like Cruz.  Schools are a woman's definition of what education looks like.  It's a girls's dream.  Do good, get a sticker, teacher smiles, repeat.  Even I fell into this category.  I read countless books on keeping the classroom female friendly.  Not too much competition.  Call on the girls more.  Balance the learning out, you big male lug.  And over the years, my girls have done very well, but sometimes that's inherently the nature of many girls.  Not all.  But the biggest difference I have felt with my girls is allowing them the tomboy to feel "cool," the fatherless girl to feel loved and wanted and the diva to know that if you speak to other girls in that tone, you allow guys to talk to you that way as well.  My boys?  Over the years I have increased the competition and allowed my boys to sit where they best learn.  I allow them to "buy" the rolling computer chairs, have items in their desks other teachers would forbid.  I play games with them and look forward to beating them.  Girls want my time, the attention, the affirmation, and for my boys they seek that affirmation through play and competition.  Deep down, all boys want a man to give them that affirmation.  "Am I man enough?"

So it is with Cruz.  Asking him to even sit at dinner would constitute a riot.  Not having the ability and freedom to make noises would diminish his smile.  Our walls are made for the bouncing of balls, what else could they be for?  But school is not that place for him.  Even if he ends up "tamed" there is an underlying, almost threatening side of my son that grows.  He has my mood swings, my temper.  This morning, he hyperventilated over not having enough time for breakfast, not having technology day because he didn't get his incentive stamp, and not being able to wear his titanium necklace that gives him the "power" to succeed (Max Lucado title #3).  He's downright grumpy at times.  He complains.  Damn if I don't see my dad sitting across from me, sighing from some ailment he thinks he will catch simply from absorption or osmosis, dreading the day and walking forward rhino-headed.

And this begins the debate.  Is he exhibiting a form of depression, some undiagnosed bi-polar or mood disorder?  I joked with my wife that if he is ODD (in educational terms, ODD stands for Oppositional Defiance Disorder, which for me designates kids who have no parental upbringing, have been exposed to more than they can bear and simply don't give a damn what you tell them) that I would "beat his butt."  I face these type of kids at school.  Not my son.  Will medication help him focus?  Will it take away that adventurous spirit?  I know there is much to ask and figure out along this journey.  I know I have already been assessing myself and how I parent.  Time to turn off the tv.






Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Coined

I get a kick out of the names some of my students, ex-students and others have at school nowadays.  I'm totally old-manning myself, but names like Richard, Ted or Jennifer are pretty much extinct.  Perhaps I am "white-boying" myself as well, considering many of the names in question derive from African-American households.  The Hispanic population as I know it have yet to live up to this worldly expectation, as the little brown kids I see have names like I remember.  Still, there is something to be said at names like the ones below:

Pure Animosity White (yes, that's a name)
Any deviation of alcohol for your kids's name, like Chardonnay or Margarita.
Hippie names.  Why would you name your daughter Freedom?  You know why?  Cause every boy will be saluting her behind the high school.
Countries and continent names.  Somewhere a boy named Instanbul will meet a girl named Antartica.
What about Lemanjello and Oranjello?  Lemon jello and orange jello.  I kid you not!

Lately, my church has been on a new study titled, "Hello, My name is" based on this website and book.  It's opened my eyes to how much words matter, and the name we give our kids, the names we earn and unearn, and what name God calls us to be.

In Spanish, the word "rey" means King, so I always figured my name meant "Kingly."  Looking it up, I came to find out it means "Wise Ruler."  Growing up, I hated it.  No teacher pronounced it correctly and I always felt it made me sound ethnic.  Ethnic is not something I valued as a kid growing up.  You could be white, it was okay to be black, but to be some unpronounceable kid in the back of the room was a no-no.  Once, after too many humiliating first days of school, my YMCA baseball coach goes around the circle so we could introduce ourselves.  In one of my first attempts at rebellion, I answered, "Ray."  He walks me over after practice and compliments me on my attitude or something to my mom, using my new name.  My mom was like, "Who is Ray?"

I had other names growing up.  I was and am still called Ronnie at home.  My grandfather coined the name before I was even born.  Ronnie was only spoken at home, and after my announcement to be called Ray, Ronnie met a certain death.  I stormed around the house making sure no one called me Reynaldo or Ronnie. 
My son would be so proud his daddy threw tantrums just like he does!

I had other names growing up.  Most of them were variations of Big Man or other large-inspired monikers.  People give one another nicknames all the time, sometimes positive or negative.  Most of the time, even our best friends would frequently call each other choice curse words.  Funny,  how we used such vulgar names as ways of showing our manly affection.  I even had a friend, Jake Hall, who would call me "Spick" while I yelled back some vulgar or crass nickname of my own.  Some names didn't always go over too well.  Because of my great Roman-on-steroids nose, I was called "Alf" in high school and even "Hook Nose" by my stepfather.  I used to contemplate plastic surgery like I was some Jewish princess with a recording career.  I gave myself some names too.  Fat.  Loser.  Failure.  Worthless.  These are our Given Names.  

Reynaldo was reborn after my move to Ohio.  Everyone loved the name up here, tried hard to pronounce it, asked me its origin.  Suddenly, my name mattered.  I found out that my Dad named me after a friend he served in the military with.  A man I'd never know.  I found out "rey" meant king and I have to remind myself that I'm only a king in my own mind.  My wife, somewhere, is rolling her eyes.

Now, I'm called "Mr. Cordova" and "Daddy."  I like those given names much better.  I give them nicknames back, normally by making puns with their names.  Once, during Sunday School, I actually forgot to give a nickname to one of my girls.  She was heartbroken.  Names matter.  And sometimes the ones we don't even  give matter too.

In accordance to the book I am reading, "Wild at Heart," I also am remembered that many names from the Bible had meanings.  Sometimes Jesus or God renamed them as well.  Saul to Paul, Sari to Sarah.  Rahab had a name too, meaning "vast."  Somewhere along the line of her life, she became a prostitute--her given name.  But in the book of Joshua, she was spared because of her treatment of the spies who stayed at her house.  She them became "Righteous"--her secret name given by God.  

Names matter.  My son Cruz was named with care.  Cruz Jesus.  The last name of Benito Cruz, my grandfather-in-training so to speak, that I grew up with, and Jesus, my grandfather's name.  Cruz also means "cross bearer."  I'm proud to have his named called.  Reycina is a blended name of mine and my wife.  But her middle name, "Milagra" means miracle.  She truly is.