Thirty-seven words shaped gender equality in the American school sports and education landscape that our kids take for granted today. 

Title IX of the Educational Amendments of 1972, signed into law by President Richard Nixon that summer, reads:

“No person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any education program or activity receiving federal financial assistance.”

These 37 words seem almost ridiculous to celebrate now. Of course, girls have the same opportunities as boys, right? Even mentioning this legislative initiative to my 13-year-old daughter resulted in her giving me a WTF look. “What? Duh, Dad. Girls can do anything boys can do,” it seemed to say. “Wait, that was actually a thing back then?”

Yes, gender inequality was “a thing.” And, as we look at the impact of Title IX over the past 50 years, parents should tell our kids all about it.   

State of gender equality in 1972

While civil rights laws of the 1960s banned gender discrimination in hiring practices, similar protections for female students did not exist. In fact, Title IX originates from concerns about educational — not athletic — opportunities for women. 

At the time of its passage, women made up fewer than half of all undergraduates at federally funded universities. At the graduate school level, they constituted less than 10% of those enrolled at law or medical school. On the athletic fields, only 4% of females played sports at college levels. Addressing these gender inequalities in school sports became Title IX’s most pervasive legacy.

Title IX and sports

If our daughters were magically transported to the early 1970s, they would see field of play far different than what they experience now. 

For instance, according to the Women’s Sports Foundation:

• Boys had 10 times the athletic opportunities in high school as girls
• Fewer than 30,000 females played a sport at a college level

These are, in my daughter’s terms, “WTF” stats. These are what we should tell our kids about to show how far we’ve come because of Title IX. 

According to most recent data, nearly 3 million more opportunities exist for girls to play school sports post-Title IX. As a result, now 44% of collegiate athletes are women and 60% of high school girls play a sport. 

As I raise my daughters, I never consider the availability of athletic opportunities an issue for them because they have the chance to join any sport they choose. This would have been impossible without Title IX.

Title IX and the myth of lost opportunities for boys

A myth exists that Title IX has hurt our sons. In fact, parents may have heard Title IX talked about in relation to a situation where teams were impacted because of a lack of availability to female students. This may be when a school has a boys’ wrestling team, but none for girls. Or, it may be when it offers girls’ volleyball but no corresponding opportunity for boys. Let’s be very clear: the opportunities and resources available to our sons still exceeds those provided to our daughters – particularly in sports at all levels. 

A recent report by the NCAA shows that while participation ratios have narrowed significantly, the dollars spent on male sports is twice that of female sports at the Division I level. At the Division II level, the sum is still 25% higher. During the past 20 years, males gained 73,000 participation opportunities while females gained 67,000. 

The criticism that Title IX has hurt boys’ sports is, simply, false.      

More work remains for true gender equality

Given the quantum leaps Title IX has made for equality in the past half century, far more remains to be done. This is where our kids can affect the future.

As Title IX turns 50, the protections of transgender athletes from discrimination must be addressed. While a complicated issue with political, social and religious veins, the treatment of biology as it relates to the activities available for participation must be addressed. 

The scope of Title IX is likely to expand to how sexual discrimination cases are handled. On the table for potential changes are presumption of innocence and burden of proof mandates – both amended during the Trump administration. 

So, while Title IX has been a resounding success, there are more issues it can help solve. As parents, we should not allow the tangled, highly politicized future of Title IX to shadow its monumentally successful past. 

My daughter’s dismissive “duh” reaction to me reminding her of the effort it took to create a girls’ soccer program should not go unnoticed. 

The 2021 announcement of the University of Iowa’s female wrestling team – the first for the men’s college wrestling powerhouse – should be celebrated by parents everywhere. 

As my son takes the SAT this fall, I will remind him that he is rightfully competing against everyone – not just the white males that monopolized collegiate undergraduate programs before the 1970s. 

So, parents, let’s wish a loud “Happy Birthday” to Title IX. 

And, just as loudly, let us wish the inequalities it has addressed over its 50-year existence are not a “thing” my sons and daughters will have to explain to their children.

Photo: ©Rawpixel.com / Adobe Stock.

Often, I’m confused by the folks who are certain THEIR generation had it right.

Their mindset comes with a wild confidence that any generation following theirs is diminished, either of intestinal fortitude or common sense. They shake their fist and curse about society being destroyed by these “kids.” This new generation, yet to have any power to shape the world, is always The Bogeyman. The harbinger of the apocalypse.

Yet the folks who have been on watch for decades slide right on past responsibility and consequences. Even as a child, this seemed silly to me.

I believe I have a slightly divergent perspective because I’m part of a unique generation. We grew up in a very analog, and yet increasingly digital, world. My first phone had a rotary dial, a long spring-like cord and stayed anchored to a wall, but I also had a gaming console. In the mid-1980s, this magic box let me hunt pixelated ducks and control a robot with spinning gyros. I had one of the first PCs in my friend group, and I was certainly the first to figure out how to connect my computer, via a landline, to bulletin boards around the world, and not just for boob pictures (but maybe for boob pictures). It was a world where I’d still rather play outside than inside; however, I wasn’t exactly bummed to check out the latest video games.

We turned out all right. Right?

Over the last few months, the aggressive social media algorithms have figured out I find historical photos interesting. Now the robots flood my feeds with them. As you might expect, our digital overlords always send me ones with some sort of inflammatory caption that engages the masses.

A good example of this will be showing an old playground with equipment that now seems wildly dangerous. The caption reads something like: “I remember when playgrounds were more fun, and kids weren’t so scared. LIKE IF YOU AGREE.”

Of course, those of a certain age will flood the comments about how weak the next generation has become. I’m particularly fond of the “X happened to us, and we turned out all right,” comments. We know for a fact, though, that the generations precededing us didn’t all “turn out all right.”

I often wonder if these older generations know it’s all their fault. This sounds negative and accusatorial. It’s not. It’s meant to be matter of fact, honest and truly logical.

After all, they raised us. They sent us out into the big, scary world. Didn’t they tell us that the weird neighbor was harmless? Push us on the swings with rusty chains, and let us loose on monkey bars that were crazy high and suspended over nothing but asphalt? Who put us in the cars with no seatbelts? Cars they smoked in with the windows closed.

Yes, they told us to suck it up. They told us to walk it off. They did all this, and in response, what did we do? Did we get weaker? Did we become pathetic creatures afraid to leave the house?

Nope. We grew up. We got smarter.

New generation trying to improve, not erase

Now, playgrounds are a little softer and safer. Not because the kids are softer, and not because we are weak. Because it makes sense to try to make things better. Also, now much of the newly designed equipment allows kids with certain physical needs access and enjoy it. This is somehow “weak”?

Furthermore, why in the hell doesn’t the past generation celebrate the fact their progeny tries to make the world a little better? It seems a previous generation is only happy if nothing changes. It’s as if their time was the best time, and any other time is ruin.

In certain ideological circumstances, I can understand the divide. But how in the world does making things safer and more accessible for every child somehow signal the downfall of modern society?

I’d like to hope my children grow up to change the world for the better. Even if I don’t understand the changes, even if some make me uncomfortable, I’d like to think I’ll be there, beaming with pride and celebrating the achievements. The last thing I’ll ever do is hold them back, judging them by my antiquated standards, and accusing them of destroying society.

As a man in my 40s, the state of the world is now at least partially my fault. I’ve had at least 20 years as an adult to try and make the world better. In most ways, I feel I’ve failed. It is my hope that I at least succeed as a father, and maybe in some small way, serve society by raising the next generation to change the world. I promise not to get in their way with folded arms and a sour puss, bitching about their clothes, music and how soft they’ve gotten. 

Well, just as long as they stay off my damn lawn. 

Photo: © Jess rodriguez /Adobe Stock.

An old-fashioned family Thanksgiving, in all its festive splendor and pageantry, will soon be upon us as will all the relatives you have been blocking on Facebook since the 2020 presidential campaign. Thanks, vaccinations and unplanned natural immunity!

If there was ever a Thanksgiving to hide the silverware, this might be it. Oh, America – wondrous country of purple mountains majesty and amber traffic lights we routinely run – how could you be ingenious enough to invent pizza-stuffed pizza crusts yet be unable to guarantee us all a safe space around the family dining table every fourth Thursday in November?

So before we sit down to stuff ourselves silly on dead beast and bloated opinions about critical race theory, let’s set some ground rules for a less contentious family Thanksgiving:

• As previously mentioned, stow the silverware, preferably under lock and key. This includes all carving devices. No plastic cutlery or breakable ceramic dishware, either. Cook and slice everything before family arrives. Serve up nothing but the softest of finger foods on damp paper towels. Two words the kids will love to hear: dippin’ gravy.

• Glassware can shatter and create sharp edges, perfect for making a point about mask mandates. So lock them away for the day along with opinions on Marjorie Taylor Greene and Dr. Fauci.

• Don’t even think about serving alcohol. This year, it’s nothing but tap water in waxed paper cups. This will make our delicate ears less likely to endure unsavory conspiracy theory rants about space lasers and the antiviral powers of horse dewormer in humans.

• Place family members with opposing viewpoints on opposite ends of the table. As a buffer, seat the kids in the between. If you need even more buffer space, add inflatable yard decorations.

• Avoid holiday table decorations that may instigate heated historical discussions by referencing any of the following: pilgrims, indigenous peoples or the Dallas Cowboys.

• In addition to eschewing political and medical discussions, avoid the other usual topics that create divisive feelings among family members: religion, sex and the New England Patriots.

• Speaking of football, just avoid the day’s games lest a fight starts over players kneeling for the National Anthem.

• Skip the pre-meal blessing to avoid someone being tempted to take a knee during it.

• What to do for entertainment without football? Stick with the mind-numbing balloon banter and lip-synching banality of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Chase with repeated viewings of The National Dog Show because who doesn’t love a prancing Lhasa Apso?

• If you pursue that last route, don’t invite over your third cousin, the crazy cat lady.

• Just skip the TV altogether. Take a long family walk to burn off those excess calories and pent-up rages about “patriotism versus insurrection.” Caution: Scour the course beforehand to make sure it doesn’t venture past any health clinics, gun shops or Chick-fil-A stores.

• In case none of these measures helped, conclude the gathering by setting a generous slice of pie in front of the most objectionable attendee. Top with a heaping amount of whipped cream. Then smash it directly into the idiot’s face.

Family Thanksgiving argument photo: ©Monkey Business / Adobe Stock.

I’m gonna break character here and tell y’all something. Normally, I try to remain positive and affirmative and gentle, bordering on Pollyannaish, but some days I feel different, discordant … broken.

The something I want to tell you seems obvious to me. These are dark fucking times. You may quote me.

The news, honestly, breaks me often. The pain and suffering. The jingoism and economic imbalance. Pleas for money so our kids can fucking eat. Campaigns that say nothing of weight or promise and only attack with a ferocity that shears my soul.

I go on Facebook — the only social network I use, and shouldn’t but do — to see puppies and kittens and kids growing up and affirmations from that Nordby guy and C.S. Lewis quotes from my neighbor and people falling down and old friends and guitars. Instead, I get only bitterness from disgruntled “friends” and ads for things I don’t even know what they are and posting after posting of the tragedies around us.

You know what’s absent though? Others. A shit-ton of friends who’ve just given up on the whole thing are absent. Small businesses no longer notify me of the “open mic” nights, artists and old mates and musicians aren’t making the videos or telling the stories or showing me pictures of their works in progress. I miss that.

Also absent in the media that bombards us:

Hope.

Remember back in ’08 when Obama ran on a platform of hope? All those yard signs and posters and bumper stickers with that “Hope” logo. Yeah, that was sweet. Now they’d look anachronistic and naïve, don’t you think? Imagine walking through your neighborhood and seeing one. You’d probably think, “What the fuck! Like, where is hope anymore, hell, what is hope anymore?” We seem a long way from those days.

But are we?

Darkness still brings out the light

Our local food bank recently moved from a church basement to a much larger and easier to manage former retail space. There they can work with more families and donating is much easier and, although there are more in need, more are donating. That sort of looks like hope to me.

Families, students and teachers from all across the globe are struggling and wrangling and blundering and, ultimately, succeeding in finding a way to educate and engage in this socially distanced era. All so a generation of kids can get an education. Wanting that for them sure seems like hope.

My own sons, 15-year-old twins, work incredibly hard at their schoolwork and their friendships. They chat and play games online at home and sit for hours masked and uncomfortable at school all day in hope of a better future.

Protesters want a more just and right future. This is hope.

People on both sides or in the middle (or wherever) truly want a better future, but for whom? Well, that’s to be determined but it’s important to see that almost everyone is looking forward to something. That’s hoping.

I see hope in the wave of an old friend, not seen for months, in the school parking lot. I see hope in the first soccer practice in months, in a high school orchestra spread all over a stage and auditorium so they can play together. I see it in free masks and smiling eyes at the grocery store, in the orange and rust mums planted on autumn porches. Whether we want to admit it, we do these things and so many more in hope of a better future.

I see a lot of folks, myself sometimes included, mired in fear because we see so much to be afraid of. A long litany would probably be effective here, but I’ll pass. Don’t even do it yourself. That’s what I’m trying to get at here: fear is darkness, light, hope.

Dark fucking times, right? Maybe not so much.

I truly wanted this piece to be edgy, rough and cutting, but I couldn’t do it. I fall back on hope, every damn time. I turn on the light of it, and the brighter hope shines, the darkness of fear cannot get a foothold, the shadows are too lit.

The Avett Brothers have a new song out called “Back Into the Light,” the chorus of which goes:

It’d make some sense, if some was made to me
Sometimes I don’t see love in anything
And just when I surrender to my shadow
I snap out of it, and step into the light
I step back into the light

It is easy these days to surrender to our shadows. Fearmongering, it seems, is a national pastime. So watch a parent with a baby and see that light. Watch a teacher in their classroom, virtual or not, and see that light. Look for candidates of compassion, leaders with values, and see the light surrounding them. Look into the eyes of your own children and there, just behind that glaze of confusion and fear, you will see the fiery spark of hope. I promise.

I am a Pollyanna after all, albeit one with resting bitch face.

About the author

Bill Peebles left a 30-year career in the restaurant business to become a stay-at-home dad to twin boys. He writes a blog, I Hope I Win a Toaster, that makes little sense. He coaches sometimes, volunteers at the schools, plays guitar, and is a damn good homemaker. He believes in hope, dreams, and love … but not computers.

Light through door photo: © peterschreiber.media / Adobe Stock.

Others can give you a more riveting account of that day. What they saw. What they felt. What they smelled. 

Stories that are breath-taking and heartbreaking in the same sentence. Someone living out a surreal real-life action movie.

Nothing extraordinary happened to me that day – Sept. 11, 2001. I was just one of the millions of spectators. But as I cut through Union Square in Manhattan on my way to St. Vincent’s Hospital in Greenwich Village to give blood, I do recall one lightning bolt of a thought flash across my mind.

There is no way I’m bringing a child into this world.

I was 25, single, and under no threat of the ladies forming an ovulation line at my doorstep at any point in the near future.  But the sentiment was there. Fuck this place and everyone in it. What’s the point of building anything – of trying – if the worst, most reckless impulses of this species can wipe it away in the blink of an eye.

And I’m not just talking about the terrorists. Shortly after 9/11, a store on my block covered their window with a huge sign that read “NUKE THEM ALL.” It was still there when I moved away nine months later. For all I know that sign is still there today. The person who put it up probably has a Cabinet position now. I could see where 21st century America was headed. 

Twelve years later, my wife and I brought our first child into the world. So, what changed? 

It’s human nature to be defiant. We’re hard wired for it. Here I am writing this and here you are reading it. We’re both products of millennia of defiance. Ancestors who faced famine, war, disease, persecution. People with less resources at their disposal than you or I. And yet they soldiered on. They held a tiny baby in their arms – your great-great-great-great-whatever – and made a bet that things would get better. Diseases would be cured, famines would pass, education be acquired, representative government truly attained. Maybe not in their lifetime, but sometime. Maybe even in a far off and distant land. 

What can I say? I’m a product of people who took a chance that things will get better. So are you. So are we all. 

I had the same thoughts on 11/9/16 that I did on 9/11/01. And I had more skin in the game to boot, with a wife and daughter. What made it worse, was that this time America did it to itself. I’ll be honest, if I see the wrong headline at the wrong time, I wonder if I did the right thing bringing life into the world. It’s easy for despair to get a toehold.  

And yet, almost a year to the day later, we welcomed our son into the world.

Irish playwright Samuel Beckett once wrote, “I can’t go on. I’ll go on.” Is the damage done this century to our society, our environment, our world irreparable? I don’t have a crystal ball – but I’ve got two bets on the future that says it’s not.  

Photo by Jason Greene

Thanksgiving can be a stressful holiday for many reasons, but the elections and politics of the past few years make it more taxing than usual. Keep your sanity intact this holiday by avoiding the following Thanksgiving conversations and topics:

Blue/red wave: Unless you are talking about your plans for a beach vacation.

“Make _____ Great Again” jokes: “Pass me the gravy so I can Make This Turkey Great Again!” We get it, Grandpa Republican, we get it.

Fight Club: IT’S THE FIRST RULE OF FIGHT CLUB! Don’t talk about Fight Club.

Safe spaces: Exception — You may say, just once, “No controversial topics while the football game is on. The TV area is a safe space.”

“Happy holidays” vs. “Merry Christmas”: This includes “season’s greetings,” too, smart guy.

Guns, gun safety, gun control: No one is going to change anyone’s mind on this issue in one afternoon. Not even if you threaten to withhold the pumpkin pie.

The safety of tackle football: This will be a difficult topic to avoid considering it will likely be the only distraction on TV all day, so see “safe spaces” above.

“Her emails”: Hillary’s or Ivanka’s.

Feeling the Bern: In the political sense. Also, “Feeling the Burn” in the STD sense.

Refugee caravan vs. invading foreign army: Don’t make my intern take the microphone from you.

Starbucks holiday cup design: They are paper cups, people. Paper. Cups. Drink your latte then toss ’em into the recycling.

Recycling: Dang it!

If retail stores should be open on Thanksgiving or wait until Black Friday: Because Friday, obviously.

Kneeling during the National Anthem: Seriously, dude! See “safe spaces” above.

Fake news: Some of those sites deemed fake may be the most Fair and Balanced news sources your relatives rely upon, so it’s probably best to avoid the topic altogether.

Weather: Because you KNOW it will immediately pivot into a conversation about Global Warming.

What Thanksgiving conversations can you have? The Red Sox winning the World Series seems like a potentially safe topic … even for Yankees and Dodgers fans, I suppose.

In all seriousness, if you’re still reading this, everyone’s best bet may just be to stick to talking about stuff you can control. Local stuff. Conversations about what your kids are up to, stories from grandparents about their lives growing up, and without a doubt, spend time talking about what you are thankful for, not all the BS listed above, but the stuff that makes you happy, and grateful in your life.

A version of Thanksgiving conversations first appeared on Indy’s Child, and was updated by Kevin McKeever. Photo by Alex Iby on Unsplash.

Dear Day After the Midterm Elections,

Hi, it’s Tuesday. It’s relatively early now, and the polls won’t close for a handful of hours, but I wanted you to know that I’m thinking of you.

I know, I know, we are all tomorrow, and we are always a day away. Annie nailed it. Wednesday just seems so full of finality, nothing personal. And yet, everything is personal, isn’t it, Wednesday?

I wonder what is decided tomorrow, if anything, in terms of terms and the politics of it all. I wonder if the results are in. Are concessions closed?

There were children in the polling place today. Every single one. They are the future, you know (the children I mean, but polling places, too). We’ve all heard the song. And yet, like us, they are also the now and living in it. We will all be the past soon enough. Some of us sooner than others.

The kids were holding onto hands of their parents and grandparents, uncles, aunts and siblings. Some just held to hope. Many seemed awed, others louder than strangers cared for, but aside from those fast sleeping, their eyes were open and seeing everything.

It’s good that they had a chance to witness democracy get its second wind. Or is it gasping for air? You tell me, Wednesday. I’m OK with spoilers. Seriously though, are things better where (when) you are?

I suppose that is the gist of my note, the purpose to my inquiry, I want to know if we’re going to be OK. I want to know what those kids were watching.

Perhaps I sound too defeatist. It’s just that I have been burned before. Remember my cousin from a couple of years ago? Talk about giving Tuesdays a bad name. Super, my figurative foot. I’ll admit, I’m nervous. There’s a lot riding on me today. I mean, have you been on social media?

The cusp of hope sounds so much more promising, and that will be the case whatever your report, Wednesday. Even if democracy takes another punch to the gut, hope will return upon the inhale. That’s something, I suppose. It may have to be.

I just don’t want to disappoint the kids, you see. That wouldn’t be right by today or any tomorrows. We don’t need more fodder filling stained calendars with past transgressions. We need something better than that, and most of us deserve it. The question then, Day After the Midterm Elections, is did we get it?

Midterm elections photo by Element5 Digital on Unsplash.

“Come here,” I said. “You need to see this.”

My oldest boy walked toward me, his hands bright and swollen in mismatched oven mitts, one of which complimented the apron.

He knew what it was that he needed to see, or at least the gist of it. I had been calling him to my side of the kitchen island for the better part of an hour, skipping from video to video, Twitter to Facebook and back again.

“Watch this one,” I said.

This one featured a man twisted as a pretzel. He was stale, salty and, apparently, wanting for beer.

My son watched in silence for a moment, the words screaming from the screen loud enough for everyone.

“That guy is an idiot,” he said. “Who keeps calendars from 1982?”

He knew the whole story, having heard it from TV, friends, his parents and the internet.

“Do you see the anger?” I asked. “Do you think that comes from guilt or embarrassment?”

“I think it’s entitlement. It’s like he can’t believe anyone would question him, but nothing he says sounds very honest.”

We talk about it a lot. We talk about the heavy haze of glory days, and how generations built false narratives around masculinity, gender, race and everything in which entitlement was encouraged, openly and often. When you’re a straight, cisgendered, able-bodied white man in America, life is an inside joke, whether you get it or not. Some punchlines are more taut than others.

At the end of the day, we all owe someone something, be it money, helping hand or apology.

Recently, I wrote about my anxiety in a piece for The Washington Post, which may make this one seem redundant or opportunistic, the furthering of a personal brand built upon the trending of a hashtag: #mentalhealth, and all the obvious, endless success that it implies.

To point, a friend of mine believes men speaking about mental health, specifically celebrities sharing their own stories while promoting upcoming films and the next big game, is nothing more than a calculated PR move meant to garner goodwill. Frankly, I find the suggestion off-putting.

There are few personal positives for anyone when publicly outing their struggles with anxiety or depression. Saying a thing aloud does not make it less so. It does not make it go away. If anything, it only serves to mark their rain cloud all the darker, coloring them in contrast, shadows against the sunlight of a Stepford society.

Perhaps this is why the suggestion of staged PR event rubs me as wrong, for sharing one’s story of struggle is not a selfish act, it is a selfless one, regardless of timing or platform.

The individual benefits gained from speaking about mental health are negligible, but the impact it has upon the audience is immeasurable.

Boys who are taught that men can’t discuss their feelings and personal issues grow into men who believe they can’t discuss their feelings and personal issues. Rinse. Repeat.

It is bigger than that, of course. There are books and studies and lecture halls, all overflowing with fact, experience and opinion, the what and why of men’s mental health and our relationship(s) with it.

Additionally, there is the added element of fatherhood and the context within which we frame conversations about mental health when speaking with our children. Are we discussing an example or are we living one? How do we separate assumptions of difference from perceptions of weakness? How do we offer assurance while also needing it? What is said aloud, and what is left to discover?

These are the layers built upon the issue itself, a perfect parfait of panic attacks and parenthood. The sweet embrace between moments that are too often less so.

I don’t know that I can stress enough how far from perfect I am. I am deeply flawed, filled with regret and anger of my own. My boys know this, because I wear my faults honestly, scars and tattoos, my skin a spotted stretch of timeline.

I can only hope they recognize the contrast that I offer, an appreciation of love and lessons, fluid and evolving. Masculinity is messy and moving, in my case highly melancholy. It is stitched from failure and forgiveness. It is many things, but it should never have been what happened in that hearing.

“Are the cookies ready?” asked my youngest son, bouncing into the kitchen with a tablet in one hand and a book in the other, the dog fast upon his heel.

“They’re cooling,” said his brother. “Come here, you need to see this.”

Photo by Mark Mühlberger on Unsplash

As our American holidays continue the slow decline into commercial bliss, I try to take the time to consider the message I am conveying to my children.

The Fourth of July is a celebration of a free nation, a place where ideas can be challenged freely and change can be implemented. Does it work perfectly? Of course not, it’s something I constantly take for granted and I want to remind myself why it’s important, so I can pass it along to my children.

Here are five messages you should reinforces with your child this Fourth of July:

1. Be thankful for what you have

Kids don’t know how good they’ve got it. When I was growing up I had to beg to get call waiting and chose poorly in my BETA/VHS gamble. It can always be worse, ask the people who lived through the Great Depression. Be thankful.

2. Nobody is perfect

My son came home from school one day and told me his teacher had said the President was a mean man. I said, “Son, the President has a hard job, I’m glad I don’t have to decide the things he does. The people who run this country are always going to make mistakes. It’s always been that way and always will be. The best thing you can do is figure out how you can make it better. A lot of people talk about the way things should be, but the important ones do something about it.”

3. Freedom isn’t free

The reason we have candy-soaked parades and get to play with explosive items past our bedtime is because many men and women have fought, and some even died, for us to keep us safe. Thousand continue to do so today. They are forced to make decisions we would never even have to consider. Tell a soldier how much you appreciate them today.

4. History keeping repeating

For every young whippersnapper who is making things “worse,” you will find an old coot who can’t stand how things are these days. We cannot change the past with the future, but we can use it to make a better one.

5. Pay it forward

Children are an endless stream of wants and needs who find it inconvenient when the world does not bend to their will. Whenever my son takes out a library book, he never wants to return it. “If you kept all of the books, there would be no library,” I have told him. “Someone built that library, so everyone could learn something. Whatever you take from it, you need to give back.”  Should a country receive anything less from its citizens?

At some point, the American Dream changed from something a person worked to earn to a right that was given and deserved. We get the privilege of living in a country where we can speak our minds and know our rights. Our forefathers worked together, despite their differences, to build something worthwhile to pass on to their children. Parents have a responsibility to teach their children how to acknowledge the past, live in the present, and prepare a future for the generations to come. Every child who understands that this Fourth of July is one more person to keep the real American Dream alive.

Photo: Jason Leung on Unsplash

On the same day President Trump reportedly said “s—hole” countries in Africa were inferior sources for future American immigrants, my 12th-grade daughter was starting to read Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness in English class. The juxtaposition was too much.

Conrad’s British novel indicts the racism of European imperialism in Africa in the late 1800s, specifically during the ivory trade. Ironically, however, many readers consider the novel a racist text because of the way it backgrounds Africa, stereotypes the “primitive” natives, and treats the whole continent as a blank slate for the white imagination.

So there I am debating the relative racism of a British writer’s 1899 novel, when Trump’s 2018 “s—hole” comment (and preference for Norway) drops into the mix. Talk about the return of the repressed. What a shameful moment for our public discourse that deserves bipartisan condemnation. This is not a criticism of Republicans or Democrats — just a call for all Americans to reject such language, and for all parents to help their children navigate the fallout.

After processing my disgust, I brainstormed ways to turn the incident into a teachable moment. First, my daughter and I discussed how wrong the statement was, but also how Trump’s denial that he said the word and his lack of an apology compounded the problem. I also condemned Trump’s defense that he had to use “tough” language to make progress on the immigration issue. What he said was not tough, straight-talking, or just politically incorrect. It was supremely ignorant and arrogant. Not only is the statement not true about African countries, but it completely ignores the destructive legacy of American slavery in many of those countries.

Second, I searched for recent books that explore parenting and racism in our current, far from “post-racial” reality. I was pleased to find Julie Lythcott-Haims’ recent memoir, Real American. Lythcott-Haims, who also wrote the free-range parenting book How to Raise an Adult, is the daughter of an African-American doctor and a white British teacher who married in 1966 in Ghana. Real American explores what it means to grow up “a biracial black woman in America,” sometimes in searing detail.

She explains that while growing up in white-dominated upper middle class environments, she struggled with her identity as white, black or sometimes neither. Rarely did she feel an integrated sense of self. As she declares, “I come from people who survived what America did to them. Ain’t I a Real American? . . . I’m so American it hurts.”

We need bipartisan parenting

Lythcott-Haims’ journey was filled with microaggressions. A poignant example is when her close white friend in high school said: “I don’t think of you as Black. I think of you as normal.” But over many years she learns to accept “my light-colored skin, the sound of my voice, the biracial kink of my hair … I would one day fully embrace my Black self like a long-lost mother, hold myself in my own arms.” She is also happily married to “the Jewish boy named Dan” who long ago “loved me when in my deepest self-loathing over being both too Black for whites and not Black enough for Blacks I couldn’t even locate a self with which to love myself.”

Lythcott-Haims and her husband are now parents of two multiethnic children, and she tells them: “You are part Black, Eastern European Jew, and Yorkshire coal miner. … You come from people who survived.” She also appreciates her husband’s efforts to become “the best possible white father to our Black son,” saying “He develops his consciousness about the Black experience by reading, listening, watching, informing himself.” If only all non-black Americans could engage in similar self-education, especially President Trump.

Beyond discussing Real American with me, probably the best way my daughter fought back against the “s—hole” comment happened a few days after it was reported. On Martin Luther King Day, she participated in a “Day of Service” involving people of many ethnicities. The whole experience reminded me of how much our children are watching and listening to the adult world, especially one dominated by cable news. Passionate, partisan debate over important issues like American immigration is fine. But blatant racism demands bipartisan rejection.

Bipartisan Parenting Photo: Aarón Blanco Tejedor on Unsplash