Discipline (Vengeance)

     I hate disciplining our kids, but I do so for their own good and our sanities.  I suppose it's one of the more difficult and aggravating responsibilities of parenting, at least for me, because it seems so futile at times.
     Shouting doesn't work.  Kids love loud noises—firecrackers, thunder, sirens, helicopters, leaf blowers, and garbage trucks—preferably all at the same time.  Hearing a parent shout at them—they become immune to it after awhile—is like a DS video game in which the objective is to make Mom's and Dad's faces turn red, the veins of their necks bulge out, and their hands and arms tighten and flail about like animatronix until someone's head explodes like the stomach of a decompressed deep sea fish.
     To illustrate what I mean, this has happened every afternoon for the past two years:
     “Clean up your room,” I tell Jaren with I-mean-business brusqueness.
     “Yes, Daddy,” he responds.  (We trained them through consistent discipline to respond appropriately every time.)
     Nothing happens.  I come back later and discover this.
     “What did I tell you to do?” I ask, voice and tone rising to signal what's happening to my blood pressure.
     “I...don't...remember...”
     I point toward his room with searing eyes.
     “Oh yeah, clean up my room.”  He dashes off down the hallway in the proper direction.
     When I return later, his bed is somewhat fixed but the floor's still a mess.  “Ok, time out, I told you twice already.  Don't come out until dinner.”
     There's a thirty-three percent chance the floor still won't be cleaned properly by dinner time (down from sixty-seven percent a few months ago—progress!)  If so, he gets time out for the rest of the evening.  He still sometimes cries—just for show—over time outs but once he's in them he just lies on his bed or floor quartering his imaginary Star Wars friends.
     I tell myself not to stress over discipline because the underlying principle is so simple:  back up words with action by always enacting consequences for every instance of noncompliance.  After all, this is an autocracy in which we are the bosses.
     My wife is not with the program.  And the kids know it so what they do is make a game of it, ignoring her direct commands, hoping they'll get away with it—the sole form of legalized gambling in Hawaii.  Then, often enough, when she's in a good (lazy) mood, she'll pretend not to notice, which thrills them to no end as their ears turn red and pointy and arrow-shaped tails emerge from above their butt holes and their eyebrows start looking like Mr. Spock's (The Vulcan, not the Doctor).
     “Go outside,” she tells Braden, who's tormenting his siblings.  Separating them can be very effective and so can sending Braden outside since he hates it even though there's tons of fun things to do like sweep the garage and wash the car.
     Five minutes later, I still hear his voice inside, and it's obvious he's progressed to unanesthetized surgery.
     “What did Mom tell you to do?” I shout from my room, not wanting to go outside and get a coronary or stroke because that would just make my knotted stomach feel inferior to its overachieving sibling organs.
     “Go outside,” Braden slurs out.
     “Well?”
     This is when Deanne shouts at him and I hear him stomp out and I can tell he's fuming, showing utter contempt for our unreasonable authority.
     It doesn't bother me, though, because discipline has to hurt to be effective.  This is what makes discipline similar to vengeance but not because when he hurts, I hurt worse (sometimes).  So if I don't hurt or even enjoy seeing him stew in his own juices that doesn't mean I'm a sicko sadist, it just means he's bluffing to get back at us—sort of like a game of poker in which everyone adopts serious miens, secretly rejoicing their strong hands, though ours will always be strongest since we're the parents and can do with him whatever we want as long as no one finds out about it, thank God.
     No, what bothers me about discipline is Deanne's lackadaisical attitude that makes me out to be the bad guy every time.
     I remind her again and again of the need for consistency—the kids only behave when I'm around and if she would just discipline consistently for two weeks they wouldn't misbehave ever again.  She says, “Yes, Tim,” and I can tell she means it.
     But nothing changes.  Or at least not within two weeks.  Because she's not consistent enough.  At least not when I'm not around.  I know this because I catch Jaren whining—a big no-no—in a half-whisper to her, hoping I won't hear.  And this happens again and again and again.  And he's already six years old!
     I rationalize that her inconsistency is virtue:  she's modeling mercy, grace, and forgiveness (lets see Heidi Klum do that) of which we all need massive doses now and then.  If she were exactly like me the kids might be well-behaved all the time, but eventually grow up stiff and distant—strict model citizens, true—but lacking in love and compassion.  I'm also fearful that my strictness could break their spirits, so her laxity is a nice counterbalance that gives them room to breathe and act up like normal kids with snotty attitudes (while also giving me an easy “out” if things turn out not-so-hot).  Parenting like life, after all, requires balance and perspective.
     Though I complain, I must admit God has blessed me with a wonderful family, including Braden, a boy with a good heart and not an evil bone in his body.  But embedded within such virtuous body parts lies a bad, horrible, stinking lazy attitude that's about as responsible as roach crap.
     He does a sloppy job with the dishes.
     Discipline:  He gets to do all the dinner dishes for the coming week—obviously he just needs more practice.
     We discover through his social studies teacher who made him print out his grades-to-date and show them to us that Braden's gotten recent horrid grades that make our hair fall out (when we yank at their roots in frustration.)
     What's with teachers giving out mid-quarter results to or e-mailing parents these days?  (We refused to give him our e-mail address because Braden's school work is his responsibility, not ours.)  My teachers never contacted my parents mid-quarter or ever except through report cards.  (Even after I got a D once in fifth grade social studies from Mrs. Horaguchi, whom I once had a crush on—operative word here is had, because I could fill in the blank U.S. map with only thirty-two states, I just hid the thing and that was that.  That was my worst grade ever throughout my academic career that I can recall, though my memory's been lately going...)  And here's Braden getting C's and D's, and even an F for not turning in an assignment until very late and he didn't even follow-up the way he was supposed to by redoing them all and checking to make sure they were all B quality or better.
     Decisively, I have him hand write a five-page essay explaining what happened, what caused it, what he felt, and what he will do in the future to make sure it never happens again, then type it up with no spelling or grammatical errors, then attach my note requesting the teacher to sign-off on the accuracy of Braden's statements, then turn them in and show me the teacher's response.  Plus redo all the sub-par work for the teacher to critique.  Plus do all the chores for a week and remain in time out for a day.
     Then, because she's a glutton for punishment (mine, not hers) Deanne the following weekend (and for the first time ever) checks his on-line Jupiter grades (I told her never to do this because it's his responsibility, not ours) only to discover F's in other classes for assignments not turned in within the past week!
     She disciplines him by saying no scouting that Friday.   I say that's nothing to him and give him all the chores for a month plus one week time-out outside, plus letters for the two teachers to sign like before.  One of the letter reveals a lie.  He had told me upon questioning that everyone had gotten F's for not turning in their English reading logs because the teacher hadn't passed out the blank reading log forms beforehand.  Yet the letter describes others turning in their reading logs on time while he watched dismayed.  (These logs are due every week; he could've asked for a blank form or used a blank sheet of paper; his explanation was dismembered roach parts.)  So at that point I tack on an additional month of dish washing.  (I hate dish washing.  So does he.  Perfect discipline!)
     I tell Braden (an eighth grader) that the way things stand (his continued bad attitude and irresponsibility even after repeated discipline—this has been going on since grade school) I don't consider him college material anymore.  We're not going to expend all the money we've saved to date—billions of dollars that will one day cover perhaps a couple weeks of his college tuition at an affordable in-state university—only to have him squander that golden opportunity with continued lame, I-don't-care attitudes and that if he intends to do that, I may as well blow it all right now on a Canon, Nikon, or Leica digital SLR with full-frame sensor plus lens kit on sale used on e-bay so that I can photograph for his benefit all his current cute antics on film (actually temporal bits and bytes stored in electronic format upon reliable storage media that become damaged and permanently inaccessible every other day).  Henceforth, it's up to him to prove us wrong.  If he starts getting straight A's, fixing his bed every morning, and discovering the cure for congressional ineptitude, we may reconsider.  If he needs help with school work, he's old enough to ask us, teachers, classmates, friends at church—whomever.  And I convince him the chores he's doing are good.  Without a college degree, he'll probably end up working menial jobs just like it—all honorable, nothing to be ashamed of, and work that can't be outsourced to China or India (at least not yet, mainly because they pay too little.)
     And I say to him in closing if he just does things right the first time every time, he won't ever have to deal with this stuff again.
     He says, “Yes, Dad.”
     And Deanne agrees never to check his on-line Jupiter grades again.
     Best of all, I think he's slowly starting to catch on.  (And when I say slowly, I mean in a race against a glacier, he'd lose.  Unless it was a retreating glacier, in which case he'd win—assuming he crosses the finish line before the onset of the next ice age.)  But at other times, I get the distinct impression that to him, it's all just a game.  And as long as he gets a nice hot meal to enjoy in quiet comfort at the end of every day, he's happy, despite the walls crumbling in around him that only we can see.
     I tell Deanne, maybe that's how God wants us to be.  We have enough; shouldn't we content ourselves with that?
     Braden is a good kid that has taught me a lot.  And I love him dearly.  But his lack of regard still sometimes gets to me like roach eggs stuck to the insides of my underwear.

Chores

     In a way, it's much more demanding raising one child than three.
     Here's why:  When Braden was an only child, chores tripled (conservative estimate) compared to what they had been before due to changing diapers; laundering his soiled clothes and cleaning cloths; sterilizing bottles; preparing formula; and holding, burping, feeding, talking to, picking up after, bathing, dressing, transporting, and photographing him while trying to figure out why he cried so often.  Things eased a bit after he began sleeping through the night and didn't have to be fed or cleaned quite so frequently, but then again we couldn't leave him unattended for very long because he kept getting into trouble—even in our tiny baby-proofed apartment.  (He crawled everywhere, toppled over, banged his head, and put anything—including dead roaches—into his mouth.)
     When he reached age three, we had Penelope—the dearest, sweetest bundle of joy ever.  Rarely cried—and when she did, it sounded more like gentle gurglings than urgent pleas, unlike Braden's screeching wails that made us fear the neighbors would call Child Protective Services on us.  (Trust me, he didn't cry because of us, he cried in spite of us, a colicky baby that pushed the limits of the definition.  Never have I heard a baby cry anywhere near as loud or persistent.  And this all started from three days old when we first took him home from the hospital.  When he grew a bit older and I held him to my chest during his inconsolable fits, I plugged my near-side ear with a fingertip to prevent permanent hearing loss.  Plugging his ears was out of the question as it sent his pitch and volume that much higher, exasperated shrieks unimaginable.  He'd cry so loud and so long—an hour, say—that his voice turned hoarse.  Exhausted, he'd finally yawn and fall into deep, lost-to-the-world sleep, easing our jungled nerves for the next few hours if we were lucky.  Full disclosure:  He has a genetic disorder that I am convinced caused his infant fussiness.  There was and is no treatment or cure for it so it's our job to accommodate the best we can.  He outgrew the incessant fussiness after several months and has grown mostly normal since.)
     As much because we needed their help as to build their characters, we assigned them chores early, starting with straightening up after themselves, fixing their beds, getting dressed, attending to their personal hygienes (although potty training took awhile for the older two, especially Braden), and busing their own dishes to the sink.  Then as they grew, we added folding laundry; wiping the table; sweeping, vacuuming, and mopping the floor; and emptying the rubbish.  Additional chores a few years later included dish washing; setting the table; preparing certain dishes (cooking rice in the automatic cooker, making and serving milk from milk powder, preparing ramen with condiments, washing lettuce for salads, and cutting fruits); opening and closing the louvers and blinds; cleaning counters; carrying in and storing groceries; hanging up and taking down the laundry; carrying heavy bags; and almost anything else we feel they are ready for and capable of doing safely, being of the mindset that there is no greater satisfaction than a job well done and the best preparation for life is for them to become independent, capable of living on their own by the time they reach age eighteen.
     After dinner is a joy now—everyone to their assigned duties:  Jaren controls the light switches and wipes the dining room table; Penelope wipes the counters and stores away the small leftovers, Braden vacuums the floors; I put away the dishes from the dish rack, stack the dirty dishes, and prepare the soapy water; Deanne scrubs the dirty cookware, cleans the stove, and puts away the spices; and dish washing gets done by whoever's turn it is.  (Often enough, it's Braden or Penelope due to discipline for misbehavior.) 
     Whereas Deanne and I might have taken forty-five minutes to do a thorough after-dinner clean up, now we're usually done and out in less than half that time and sometimes in less than five minutes.
     Not to suggest that it's easier raising more kids than less—it's not, it's far more complicated.  As my friend Norm said, “As your children mature, the demands on your personal time lessen, but that doesn't mean things get any easier.  New challenges arise that need addressing.  And these are always changing.”  When I asked him for specifics, he mentioned character development issues such as honesty, work ethic, self-image, dealing with feelings and friends and mean people and other age-specific growth issues ranging from stranger anxiety to opposite gender parent attraction.
     Which reminds me of the teen years—I can see them coming.  (Actually they've already arrived—early for both Braden and Penelope—though maybe what we've seen to date were mere minor tremors before the big ones yet to come). 
     Remembering my teen years, I cringe.  If theirs are anything like mine were, then we're in for a rough ride.  (Well, not that rough.)  But I'm hopeful.  A Christian counselor once said that all the hard work raising children right when they're young pays off during their teen years when things are relatively smooth sailing.  We'll see.  At the least, those years should be interesting.

Pity the Rich, Famous, and Idle!

     A wise man once said, “The two greatest burdens in life are time and money, and the unhappiest of all mortals are those with an excess of either."  I’d add a third to that:  fame.
     I don’t envy the rich, famous, or idle in the least.  I’d literally die from stress and boredom if I had to live the stereotypical rich, famous, and idle’s shallow, meaningless life.  I’m sure a lot of people would say I could get used to that.  But no, the truth is most sweet, innocent people can’t, at least not happily—just look at lottery winners, Elvis Presley, Princess Di, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Michael Jackson, Lucille Ball, Elizabeth Taylor, Whitney Houston, Phillip Seymour Hoffman—the list goes on and on.  I’m sure they all started out happy enough, but somewhere along the way it got to them.  I’m certain they would all have lived happier lives as unknowns, working common, middle-class jobs, concentrating on family and friends first, perhaps indulging in a hobby or two, and giving selflessly to charities and helping those in need.  Versus life at the top, with no one to trust, feeling torn by all the hangers-on, imprisoned by the damning press and deranged stalkers, alienated by envious or judgmental friends and relatives, ever fearful of betrayal and losing it all, and struggling to contain an over-inflated ego.  As Elizabeth Taylor said, “Fame is just awful.  You lose all your privacy.  There are millions of other jobs—choose any one of them.  No one is forcing you to become a star.”
     Brook Lee is Hawaii’s very own Miss Universe 1997 (sure doesn’t seem that long ago).  She looked cute, innocent, and spoke clear and vibrant—absolutely gorgeous in the Miss USA and Miss Universe pageants, both well-deserved wins.  A year later, she appeared in some pop news show as a lead-in announcer and looked awkward, ill at ease, and uncomfortable in her own skin, striking unnatural poses as if to say, “I don’t want to do this, it’s not me, they made me do it.”  Her skin’s freshness was gone, there were bags under her eyes, and her All-American charm had seemingly transformed to Hollywood-wannabe-desperate.  I turned to Deanne, my newly wedded wife, and said, “You look better than Miss Universe.”  And I meant it.  After a pause, I shook my head and said, “I hope she’s alright.”  Now I don’t know what caused the obvious one-year turnaround, whether personal, professional, or otherwise, but I suspect the fame of being the supposed Most Beautiful Woman in the World and perhaps Hollywood-type success pressures had a lot to do with it.  I wished her well and still do.  And am I ever glad Deanne never won Miss South-East Asia or Ms. Universe.  Had she done so, I might instead be Mister Brook Lee today.  (Just kidding.) 

Competitive Sports

     I grew up pushed into competitive sports, had great fun with them early on, and took for granted their benefits and inevitability in nearly every boy's life until twelve years ago when my college buddy Norm said he was agonizing over which extracurricular activities to sign his kids up for.  I suggested baseball, soccer—.
     He said, “Ehhh.  I'm trying to avoid organized competitive sports.”
     Stupefied, I asked, “Why?”
     He said, “The sports themselves aren't the problem.  It's the everything else that goes along with them that are bad.”
     I thought a moment.  “Like bad coaching?”  I had had baseball coaches in Pony League that made it a point at times to ridicule my ineptitude and awkwardness.  I was a pitcher used only once or twice a season against Panaewa—the worst team in the league.  At a practice once, we held a scrimmage with me pitching and they bluffed steals while I was in the stretch.  (“Stretch” means the pitcher is standing sideways to the batter with his back foot on or immediately in front of the white rubber board (called a “rubbber”) on the pitcher's mound.  While in the stretch, if there are runners on base, any sort of jerky movements of shoulders by the pitcher without a throw to either home or to one of the bases is considered a balk—allowing each base runner to advance freely to the next base.  Pitchers may make all the jerky movements they want or chase after runners if they first “step off the mound” by stepping their rearward foot backwards a few inches to a position behind the rubber.)  As I peered over at Coach A or B at first or second base, he'd suddenly bound off in a mad dash toward the next base.  Alarmed over the eminent steal (whereby the base runner moves to the next base before getting tagged out with a gloved ball), I jerked around to get a better look to see what I should do next—throw to my teammate on first, second, or third base, or give chase on foot.  I balked every time.  Kyle shouted, “When you're in trouble, step off the mound!”  I nodded and yet, whenever it happened, I jerked.  “Balk!” Kyle shouted while his sidekick Doug shook his head with disdain.  “What are you supposed to do when you're in trouble?”
     “Step off the mound,” I mumbled.
     “What?”
     “Step off the mound!”
     “OK.  Try again.”
     Jumpy, I went back into the stretch and peered over only to see him jerk right in a feint, then take off like the Road Runner.  I was so jumpy by then that all my movements appeared jerky.  Balk!
     Kyle had me spend the rest of the afternoon in the dugout shouting, “When I'm in trouble I will step off the mound.”  Humiliated, I eventually mumbled the mindless phrase, only to have Kyle shout, “I can't hear you!”
     Decades later, I realized this was awful coaching.  (They also insisted that everyone hit off their front foot—the foot nearest the pitcher—with a pronounced weight shift that way—bad advice.  And they never let me pitch submarines—low deliveries—or knuckle balls—my best pitches.) 
     The reason I kept balking is I had never before stepped off the mound.  No one had taught me how or why I should do it or when or had me even attempt it.  Virtually all sports involve calling upon “muscle memory”—skills ingrained through repetition, until they become so familiar, they're second nature.  A good free throw shooter in basketball concentrates only on the basket and executing set ritual—everything else comes automatically via muscle memory.  What Kyle should have done was take me out of the scrimmage (and its attendant pressures to win or not embarrass myself) and have Doug tutor me on the side lines.  Doug should have had me step off an imaginary rubber dozens of times from the stretch until it felt sooo comfortable, I practically enjoyed it.  Except for the rare blessed few, all new sports skills feel awkward and uncomfortable at first.  I never, ever got over that discomfort and never, ever stepped off a mound during a real game or practice.  (Thank God no one ever bluffed or attempted a steal while I was in the stretch again.) 
     Getting back to my conversation with Norm, he responded, “The bad coaching; the must-win, beat-the-opponent-to-a-pulp at all costs mentality; the star-worship; the bad actors; the bad parents; the bad attitudes; the only-the-best-get-to-play priorities; the politics; the favoritism; the bullying, put-downs, and hazing; the conceitedness;... need more?”
     I saw his point.  Even though I had witnessed all these first-hand as a player, I had never before thought of them as faults.  They had all just seemed part of the game and culture and therefore inevitable for anyone who played.
     Reflecting back, I remembered my years post-Little League when due to my ineptitude I rarely got to play, and even the Little League year when I was assigned to the second-rate team that consisted of all the lousy players, unable to make the first-rate team that eventually had all of my most talented classmates.
     And I also remembered witnessing during games some of the most disgraceful parental behavior ever—fortunately in games in which I wasn't playing (because I was too lousy to be in championship games the really mattered—one of the few benefits of being less talented).  The Little League championship game (which featured the first-rate team I was too lousy to make) was temporarily suspended over a near riot precipitated by an umpire's errant call in the last inning.  It took minutes for most in the stands to quit hooting and hollering and even then, a team manager had to step out of the dug out onto the playing field and point out and shout down the most demonstrative of his player's parents, shaming him and others to finally sit and settle down.  Although play resumed, the atmosphere was charged with an uncomfortable tension—rare in sleepy, laid back Hilo.  As a side-note, my dad recently told me that a lot of the stars from that game have not done so well as adults—some were in and out of prison, some battled addictions, one died in a tragic accident, others were unemployed, divorced, or had other legal problems.  His point was that although they seemed so all-together back then, there may have been hidden problems that we only found out about later.  I said I doubt their problems related to their playing. He said no, but we held them in such high esteem, unaware of what would eventually befall them.
     And I remembered getting tormented by an older teammate in Colt League who even mocked me repeatedly during a game allowing fans in the stands to hear.  After that season, I quit.  It's amazing I lasted as long as I had.  In my last few years I averaged about zero hits and two strike-outs per game and all season I got on base twice, both on walks, and played in less than half the games.  As a second base in-fielder, I averaged about an error per game.
     At our Big Island high school championship basketball game, which Hilo High won, the awards ceremony was canceled over fear of riot.  One delusional parent taunted Hilo High supporters by gesturing dismissal of Hilo High's win and repeatedly signaled St. Joseph's number one status, shaking her head to their boos, shouts, finger points toward the score board, and jeers.
     In hindsight, I don't believe I gained any of the reputed benefits ascribed to team sports:  confidence, leadership ability, teamwork, work ethic, sense of belonging, or discipline.  Well, to be fair, there may have been times when baseball did help build my character, but, in general, there were far more avoidable negatives than there were only-available-through-competitive-organized-sports positives.
     Regarding our children’s participation, today's youth competitive sports teams can be very time-consuming—for both them and us, what with practices, games, travel times, pot lucks, snacks, refreshments, and set-ups and take-downs.  Since none of them have expressed interest or shown unmistakable natural athletic talent, we have yet to enroll them.  Sure, they (and we) miss out on some of the fun and excitement of doing well and maybe winning an award or two, but then again, they also “miss out” on the early disillusionment and ego issues and exposure to all-too-frequent bad behaviors and attitudes, including excessive pressures and unrealistic expectations.  Though they do lead lives less activity-filled than others, they’re fine with it and so are we.

Budget Travel

     As an accountant, I am aware that there are three things that are impossible for our middle income family to save enough for: our children's college educations, my retirement, and long-term health care insurance. But we try to do our best with the former two. As for the latter, in my opinion, only the extremely wealthy can afford it. (The only “affordable” long-term health care insurance plans cover approximately five years of nursing care—hardly long-term—which would only delay the inevitable spend-down of personal assets before Medicare kicks in.)
     And because we've lived for years with a five percent salary reduction due to The Great Recession (full pay recently got restored) our family has limited our travels to occasional outer-island trips of two or three nights each. The last time we traveled out-of-state as a family was to Seattle over five years ago. (Deanne did recently fly back twice to East Asia—once to visit her ill dad, the other for his funeral.)
     So to get the most out of our short stays, we packed frozen veggies and precooked rice; Cheerios; powder milk; empty water bottles; home-made scones; and preheated lunch boxes (sans meat) in our carry-ons, plus breakfast to eat before boarding the plane (we caught the low-fare first flights out at 5:30 a.m., which were still expensive compared to a few short years ago.) Each family member self-packed his or her own carry-on with clothes, toiletries, swim gear, a few plastic grocery bags (for wet clothes, dirty laundry, or footwear), and other necessities, all stuffed in a large plastic bag to keep things clean, dry, and organized. Upon arrival at our destination, we filled our water bottles, picked up our rental car, dropped off our luggage at the hotel front desk for safekeeping until check-in, then headed straight to a supermarket for fresh fruits for succeeding days' breakfasts, and luncheon meat and poke (seasoned raw fish) as supplemental proteins for our lunches and dinners. Sight-seeing followed with planned stops before noon to pick up a hearty protein (gourmet pizza, local beef burgers, or lunch counter entree) for takeout and to eat along with our pre-packed lunch boxes at a relaxing scenic spot. More sight-seeing and activities followed until late afternoon when we again picked up a protein (whole roasted chicken, ethnic or local food, or ribs) from somewhere affordable and tasty.
     Checked into the hotel room, we heated our rice and veggies in the microwave, ate dinner, cleaned up, bathed, and prepared for the following day, in which we basically followed the previous day's pattern.
     Another thing that helped our family to stay on budget were comprehensive daily itineraries, detailed to quarter hour increments including travel times, destinations, directions, restaurants, bathroom breaks, down-times, meals, relaxation, and play, which we followed and revised as necessary as the vacation progressed. Such scheduling avoided wasted time and frustration looking for fun, suitable, and inexpensive take-out food; play and rest areas; sight-seeing stops; and driving directions.
     We sought free activities and destinations that included something for everyone, seeing and doing things unique to the locale and with perhaps special historical, personal, or cultural significance. Thus, we avoided generic eateries, shopping malls, and activities such as bounce houses, movies, or water parks.
     Internet sites such as Yelp and Tripadvisor (among the internet's finest) generated excellent suggestions. The first-hand accounts of visitors and their photos can get overwhelming to review, however, due to dozens of conflicting opinions written in anywhere from wonderful to awful English, and hundreds of photos burdensome to click through to find just the one with the information you're looking for (menu, shoreline access, parking area, scenery, safety, navigability). But discovering hidden gems that even I, a lifetime Hawaii resident, had never seen or heard of before, got me excited well before the trip.
     On Kauai, there were the swinging bridge, Lindsgate Park, Kokee, Taro Ko Factory, Kalalau Trail, Poipu Beach, Ke'e Beach, and Hanalei Pier.
     On Molokai there were the farmer's market, Halawa, Murphy Beach, The Kite Factory, Three Mile Beach overlook, Dixie Maru beach, and One Alii Fishpond.
     On Maui there were Kanaio, Makawao, Kepaniwai Park, Kapalua Labyrinth and Village and Beach trails, and Spreklesville Beach.
     On Hawaii there were Laupahoehoe park, Kalopa, Kapoho, Honokaa, Kamuela, Keaukaha, and Panaewa.
     All of the above—free of charge—provided among the best these islands had to offer. Of course we also visited the more famous low-cost destinations too, such as superlative Waimea Canyon, Haleakala, and Volcanoes National Park.
     But the best part was seeing the kids excited doing something new—exploring Dry Cave; hiking summit and coastal trails; fishing off the state's longest pier; walking a swaying bridge in high gusting winds; eating live opihi (limpets); catching misty sprays in their mouths at overlooks; chasing kite shadows in the sand; knocking low hanging coconuts off trees with pebbles; drinking the sweet, acrid water from these coconuts; petting wild horses that approached on their own; running through huge wooden playgrounds; lying in ocean-side hammocks; leading us through ancient ohia forest trails; climbing high up ironwood trees; and sleeping overnight in a backyard tent hitched at Grandma and Grandpa's house.
     Notwithstanding their inconvenience and expense, these trips were well worth it. We learned a lot, bonded, made lasting memories, worked as a team, and enjoyed every last minute of them. All islands were beautiful and special, but being averse to crowds and traffic, I probably enjoyed them in reverse order of their population densities: Molokai first, then Hawaii, Kauai, and Maui in that order.
     Thumb nail sketches: Molokai—deserted paradise; friendly, generous people who love to talk. Melt into the surrounding lassitude. Hawaii—pockets of interest among vast, unchanging landscapes. Fun to drive. Laid-back. Primitive feel encourages introspection. Kauai—fun with lots to see and do outdoors. Best beaches. Great, unfolding vistas. Maui—beautiful horses on Haleakala, wild nene geese, and awesome views of neighbor islands Molokai, Lanai, Kahoolawe, and Molokini. Best air for workouts.
     FYI: all inclusive, each trip totaled less than one thousand two hundred dollars, the vast majority of which went to airfares, accommodations, rental car, gas, and airport parking.

NCLB Politics – Part IV (or Common Core Standards – Part I)

     I have nothing against standardized tests.  They're tools like any other tool—a gun, hammer, knife, or saw—and can be used both appropriately and inappropriately.
     That said, I think it's a huge mistake to use standardized test scores to grade primary and secondary schools or teachers based on arbitrary cutoff measures of supposed minimum levels of student proficiency or academic achievement because standardized tests do not measure such things, what they do approximately measure is each student's ability to take standardized tests.  And that's about it.
     I have had numerous friends, relatives, and acquaintances that were ninety-plus percentile whizzes at these tests who did mediocre to horrible in classes and ended up with run-of-the-mill jobs and careers.  Conversely, many academic super-stars and/or those with thriving careers had been very undistinguished standardized test takers.  The problem with these tests are their narrow subject matter focuses and scopes, with over-emphasis on memorization and simple one-way-to-solve problems.  Complexity; human factors; individual creativity, compassion, communicative ability, social skills, motivation, perseverance, confidence, shortcomings, irritations, dysfunctions, morals, appearances, perceptions, social acceptance, family and other connections, frailties, desires, feelings, aptitude, attitudes, upbringing, and personality; the general social, political, and economic environments; local politics and interactions; and all other “soft” factors are virtually excluded from these tests simply because they are too difficult to measure objectively.  Yet these are the very types of real world problems, opportunities, situations, responses, and interactions that most determine probable future success of students in school, work, and life in general.
     In other words, predicting a student's success in school or life is far too complex to reduce to simple, straight-forward fill-in-the-bubbles or scroll-and-click there's-only-one-correct-answer per question standardized multiple-choice tests.
     According to various studies, employers make decisions within the first fifteen seconds of each candidate's employment interview (obviously unconcerned about computer generated test scores plotted on comparative scales).  Further, success at work (one hopes) depends mainly on productivity (including working well with others and learning on-the-job), not standardized test-taking ability.
     In my opinion, the main and perhaps only usefulness of these standardized tests might be in screening outliers—ultra high and ultra low scorers.  The former may be whizzes in other academic pursuits, but then again, maybe not.  Conversely, the latter may indicate extreme problems in comprehension or motivation.  (A bright, wise, and compassionate adult friend of mine with an excellent work ethic and respectable career said that as a child he used to fill in the bubbles of standardized tests to create pretty patterns—zigzags, checkerboards, etc.  I'm sure he could have scored within “normal range”--however that is defined—but just didn't care.  Healthy, normal kids will act out at times, balking at mindless repetitive hypothetical after hypothetical question, or artificial comparison after artificial comparison construct.  “In the long run, who cares?" may be their understandable response.  “It's just a number on a sheet of paper.  It's not who I am or what I'm capable of or what I'm worth.” 
     Indeed, careers are not made or broken based on such test scores as the average person goes through greater than ten job and a few career changes in a lifetime and prospective employers don't ask to see or talk about them.  (The only times I was asked to provide them were on college or scholarship applications.)
     Yet, standardized tests continue relentless for my kids who take from one to four such tests (reading, math, or science) two to four times a year (sometimes taking the same test thrice), totaling two to eight tests per child, a few hours each.  This doesn't even include on-line IXL math and Kidsbiz reading assignments (practice tests) of about two each per week.  So many hours on these that might have been better spent on productive, engaged learning—especially hands-on activities such as science experiments, PE, art, or field trips.
     In an earlier essay titled NCLB Politics – Part I, I said I looked forward to NCLB's repeal.  Yet, though this has in essence happened via a waiver granted to Hawaii and forty-four other states for adopting common core standards—required to obtain access to billions of federal Race-to-the-Top grant dollars, the high-stakes testing continues and will probably be expanded, resulting in possibly even more tests of greater difficulty.  Things for my children—as far as frequency and intensity of these standardized tests go—have not improved.  Neither has their curricula changed from memorized word lists, Kidsbiz, IXL, and other teaching-to-the tests techniques.  Alas, to date, common core standards appears indistinguishable from NCLB and my kids continue to suffer as a result.

Life's Risks

   Risks abound. A car ride. Inadequate sleep and exercise. A poor diet. Or a bad economy. Yet, we get by, confident that we'll be okay, at least for now.
   It's when we step outside life's normal routine that things can begin to feel a bit more dicey. A sky dive. A bungy jump. A trip to a lesser developed country. Or a heart-felt letter presented to an impressionable teen.
     This past Christmas, with some trepidation and tons of trust in her and God, I did the last, the recipient being my thirteen year old niece Janice. I had written the letter when she was but an infant, newly adopted and brought over to Hawaii (from Asia) by my sister Joan and her husband Aldwin. It described their lack of success in conceiving, their medical issues, and a one-time unsuccessful medical procedure. Joan's refusal to seek further medical intervention left them bereft until they pursued adoption (see related essay entitled Adoption Option.)
     The letter also described the couple's trip with my parents (Joan was recovering from a surgery at the time) to and from Korea and the immediate aftermath: The friendly fellow traveler at the airport—a Korean national—who offered to take them around during their three days before the pick-up date but who eventually became a pest due to her “Let's get together again,” persistence until they finally stopped answering their hotel telephone. The emotional meeting with the foster mother, a veteran of several foster children. The first meeting (the foster mother had discretely withdrawn) with the baby when Joan burst into tears of joy, yet the baby held firm, alert and self-composed. The harrowing taxi trip to the airport when Janice, realizing that Mom wasn't coming along and that she was being taken somewhere by a group of strangers, shrieked inconsolable, a crying jag that lasted the duration of the half-hour taxi ride plus most of the hours-long flight to Hawaii, only interrupted by short naps induced by physical and emotional exhaustion, Joan weeping joyfully and pityingly while seated on the floor beside her, comforting her and refusing (unlike the others) to take a sleep break in another section of the largely vacant plane. Janice's quick adjustment to life in Hawaii with her new family where she became happy, hungry, and even-keeled—“just fine”, so said my parents.
     The letter foresaw Janice's inclination and curiosity to one day want to learn more of her birth parents and past and that how far she goes with it is hers alone to decide. I described my father-in-law's awful experiences when tracking down his birth mother and the way he suffered and self-destructed as a result. (His birth father's identity and whereabouts remained vague and untraceable.)
     But the overarching tone of the letter was one of love, and although I envisioned presenting it to Janice upon her reaching adulthood or her late teen years, possibly as she struggled through identity issues virtually all adolescents sooner or later face, I changed my mind because of her family's recent ten-day trip to Korea with other adoptee children from the same adoption agency. No one explained to me the impetus for the trip, but I reasoned that obviously Janice must have expressed interest. (Joan said she'd planned nothing for the trip, which suggested it wasn't her initiative; my brother-in-law is a go-along type. Joan said that they were “playing it by ear” whether or not to visit Janice's foster mom but were counseled against it by an agency worker because it takes lots of preparation for something like that, at which point Joan dropped the idea.)
     Deanne was very concerned that Janice might take the letter the wrong way (as was I, but to a lesser extent), and perhaps that Joan and Aldwin might hold it against me if things went poorly. But I felt that this was between Janice and me—I didn't want to have to or believe it necessary to filter the letter through Joan or Aldwin because as parents, they are personally vested in the outcome whereas I have a certain detached perspective that perhaps allows me to focus better on what's potentially best for Janice. And her parents and I surely agree that we all want what's best for her. And once she reaches eighteen she can and will do what she sets her mind to anyway.
     Christmas Eve I raised with Joan, Miley Cyrus's music video awards show performance. I had read about its raunchy simulated sex acts, the skanky outfit she wore, and the shocked reactions from fans who bemoaned what had become of their once sweet, innocent child. Janice had been a big fan of hers from her Hannah Montana days and had an autographed copy of one of her earlier posters. Joan said her performance was no big deal—no worse than any of the other stars'—and that the backlash was identical to the flack Brittany Spears took the first time she broke out of her sweet, innocent childhood mode.
     Janice interrupted and asked which performance?
     I said, well, I don't know if you saw it.
     She said I saw all of them, which one?
     I looked at Joan who had walked away and said the VMA show.
     Janice smiled and said, “I saw some, but when she started doing some weird stuff, I walked out of the room.”
     I held an arm out to hug her, she came to me, and I said, “Good for you. You know what to do.”
     She said, “My friend watched it over and over again. She tried to get me to watch it but I told her I don't want to.”
     I again praised her for her good judgment.
     Later, she, my kids, and my brother's son had a nice time together outside on the balcony decorating a prefabricated ginger-bread house. When the kids were eating dinner that night on the same balcony table, I took a break from the adult table inside and stood around and talked with Janice and the others and found her to be a fine and engaging girl. However, when she mentioned stressing out over exams and taking awhile to calm down so she could think, I counseled her to concentrate more on having fun—straight A's all the time shouldn't be the top priority at her age.
     With the letter, I enclosed a cover letter saying to discuss with me before reading and if she wants to stop reading, to return it to me for safekeeping until a later date.
     Christmas afternoon she looked at me, letter in hand, in the midst of the present-opening festivities. I had been thinking maybe I should sit in a separate room with her, Joan, and Aldwin while she read it, but instead I asked, “You know the facts of life, right?”
     She said, “Huh?”
     I said, “You know where babies come from?” She nodded. “And how they are made?” She nodded again. “Then go ahead.”
     Joan said, “Sheesh, this letter... I wonder...” but she laughed as she said it.
     Janice sat quiet, hunched over as she read the twelve-plus pages, intent and serious, while I continued to shoot photos, stay engaged, and check on her from a distance from time to time.
     I relived Joan's tearful joys and Janice's childhood ordeal and sorrows as she turned the pages and her eyes began to glisten and redden. Later, she left the room, and when she returned, her mood was somber and her eyes were puffy and red. She reclined into the folds of Joan's arms—a rare display of public affection. I went over and whispered, “If you like, you can share the letter with Mommy.”
     She said, “Thank you for the letter, she knows what's in it already.”
     I thought a moment and said, “She might have forgotten some. I forgot a lot and only remembered after I reread it.”
     It was a big change from a year ago when Janice had danced about the room exuberant over her new acquisitions: fluorescent soccer shoes, a soccer ball, electronic devises, fashionable clothes, dress shoes, and a pair of flip flops. And I felt good for having done the right thing.

(To Joan, Aldwin, or Janice if you are reading this: I love you all dearly.)

Art – Creating and Acquiring

     One thing that separates man from the beasts is art.  Others—morality; spirituality; and rational awareness of self, time, symbols, ideals, and the meaning of life—exist, but to me, appreciation of beauty and art and the desire to create them  seems a huge part of man's unique essence.
     Birds, whales, baboons, and cats sing, but do they find such music beautiful or compelling?  Can it cheer them up, depress them, make them laugh or cry, or put them in just the right mood?  Do they obsessively strive to improve their craft seeking ever greater beauty or perfection?  Or is art intrinsically good to them because it adds beauty to an imperfect world?
     Every culture everywhere has its history with art.  Usually two- or three-dimensional depictions of nature can be found among the world's most ancient works of art.  (No where in the animal kingdom can such artifacts be found.)  Later depictions often contain spiritual representations, birth, death, fertility, or languages—all parts of many cultures' ancient arts:  offerings to deities, warnings to the observer, fanciful handiwork of the bored, or factual depictions of the present.
     So it's in our genes, I believe, to create and appreciate art.
     My tastes are diverse:  rock and roll and classical music (happy or relaxing); black and white photos with dynamic range (humorous or insightful); literature that is more real than real; humble, down-to-earth memoirs; artsy foreign films; and sculptures with visual puns.
     But the real fun comes in creating.
     I love playing guitar and singing (I've led worship in small-group settings), shooting black and white photos, sculpting clay, writing fiction and creative non-fiction, and on rare occasions, fooling with paints and permanent markers.  Some of our best family outings have been to arts festivals—free to the public—at the Contemporary Art Museum, Honolulu Academy of Arts, Hawaii State Art Museum, and Windward Community College.  They all put on good shows and allowed much hands-on participation and souvenir-making.
     What sets activities apart at these are the artists who guide them, whose enthusiasms are palpable.  I love to get them talking about the origination of their art forms, techniques, tools and materials, and their professional or academic statuses.  It's also fun to let my creative side take over and see how my abstract scribbles turn out, or sculpt some mundane silly thing (tooth brush, toilet, a thumb) and see if the kids can guess what it is (they usually can't, even though it looks exactly like the object depicted—my wife can always tell).  One thing that the kids got to do that I always wanted to (but adults weren't allow to) was spin clay.  I later kiln-fired their bowls in town for a small fee, sprayed them with acrylic clear coats, let the kids decorate them with acrylic paints, then sprayed them with acrylic clear coats again—perfect gifts for the holidays.  Another fun activity was carving wet plaster using wood carving tools.  We ran out of time but were told how to finish them at home, which we did using blunt tools and knives, then painted with acrylics.  Jaren, too young to carve, enjoyed gluing scrap wood blocks together, then painting them, instead.
     As an art collector, I love originals.  We can't afford expensive works, so usually it's through happenstance that I discover some affordable artist whose works I love.  The first of these I discovered at my old apartment in Kakaako.  Beautiful paintings were displayed in the lobby front office, propped upright on the floor against a desk front.  I inquired about them and was told that the artists Cece and Fabio were tenants allowed to set up shop in a garage storage room.  I went over and was immediately hooked—everything they produced, I appreciated (including painted flat board cut-out standing sculptures).  I commissioned them to do a painting—anything they wished—for eighty dollars, and they did one on canvass, the wood frame of which was also painted and incorporated into the piece.  I ended up buying four more pieces from their inventory (all sold at steep buyer-appreciation discounts), including one print which I gave to my brother, plus a number of postcard prints of originals.
     The young Brazilian men with heavy Spanish accents were nascent artists striving to attain commercial success without “bastardizing their work.”  One of them—handsome, studly, and full of fire—had paralysis from the waist down and got by with arm crutches.  Their stories and our rapport and goodwill added substantially to my enjoyment of the pieces.
     Another artist I came upon was Robert Kelsey, who displayed his works on Saturdays on the Fence by the Honolulu Zoo.  His fine abstract acrylic paintings were on stretched canvass and extended all the way to the tops, sides, and bottoms—no frames required.  A sign encourage customers, “Please DO touch the paintings.”  I told Braden, then a toddler, “Look what the sign says.”  An elderly gentleman with kind, gentle disposition approached, took a painting off the fence, stroked it, and held it for Braden to feel.  The man joked about his wife from South-East Asia and explained how his mother-in-law, who was such an encouragement to him, gave him Chinese calligraphy brushes that he used in some of his paintings.  She promised him that her daughter would take good care of him in his old age, so when his wife neglected him once when he had sore hands from stretching canvasses, he reminded her of her mom's promise to which she responded, “My mother was wrong!”  Throughout the years, I purchased five pieces from him from twenty-five to thirty-five dollars each, two given away as gifts.
     In acquiring art, I always seek the story—either of the artist or within the work itself.  Yet, the main thing is always the way the work makes me feel.  To paraphrase Duke Ellington, to me, if it feels good, it is good.
     Whereas in creating art, the fun is in the doing.  I don't teach my kids how to play guitar well or shoot compelling photos, instead, I just let them see me have fun doing it, show them the basics, then let them go and have some fun.  If they enjoy it they'll stick with it longer and automatically improve over time.  For a huge part of the fun in doing is improving.

Acquisitions:

 

Creations: 

 

 

 

Adoption Option

     My family has a long history with adoption, so when the time came for my wife and I to explore various options due to medical circumstances, I felt comfortable with this possibility.
     Both my paternal grandparents had had younger siblings adopted due to parental deaths.  Grandma shared how her dad, a sugar plantation worker in Kihei, gave up the family's youngest for adoption to a family in Kula—where she eventually disappeared and was later found dead, drowned in a cistern.  When Grandpa was a child and both his parents died in close succession—his father by drowning when thrown by a huge wave off a commercial fishing sampan off Hilo and his mother from disease—his uncle, a barber in Lahaina decided he could manage to care for but one of the two children.  He therefore sent Grandpa's sister to live with relatives back in Japan.  As an adult, Grandpa, a Kula Sanatorium yard man, sent her money because her family was so poor, World War II ceasing all correspondence for a time.  Many years later, they resumed correspondence, and decades later, reunited in a sorrowful reunion at which Grandpa's sister couldn't stop crying.  Their second reunion, however, went much better as she had found peace amidst all the painful memories.
     My maternal grandmother died when Mom was a child so Grandpa, a farmer with a fifty acre plot in Honokaa and seven daughters to care for, gave the youngest up for adoption.  Though Aunt Mae seldom was included within the close, tight circle of all our other aunties (partly because she lived in Chicago and other faraway places), my mom and aunties corresponded with her and met up with her in recent years for vacations and other gatherings.
     My sister Joan adopted her sole child from Korea.  The two couldn't stop crying on their trip home together to Hawaii—my sister for joy and pity at her daughter's tears; my one year old niece due to fear of the strangers taking her away from her beloved foster mom.
     My sister's husband's twin sister was given up for adoption shortly after birth due to their mom not feeling up to the task of raising them both. I met Samantha at my sister's wedding—a beautiful, confident woman who is included in numerous of my brother-in-law's family gatherings back east where he grew up in New Jersey.
     And my half-Scot, half-Siamese father-in-law was as an infant adopted by a Chinese family in Malaysia.  He grew to six-foot-four and played for his future country's national basketball team as center, but quit when he saw the United States' team in which their shortest player was taller than he was.
     Our personal encounter with adoption came over a year ago when routine ultrasound images showed abnormalities in our eight-weeks-old fetus my wife Deanne was carrying.  Our doctor made us an appointment at a fetal diagnostic center and offered to later test for chromosomal abnormalities such as Down syndrome and spina bifida—early notice apparently to give us time to decide whether or not to terminate the pregnancy.  I told Deanne, who later brooded over the prospect of caring for a special needs child that if we didn't feel up to it, we could consider giving it up for adoption.  But if we did give it up, we'd have to do so at birth, because once we brought it home and cared for it, we'd become so attached, it'd be too painful to give away after that.  She didn't like the adoption idea because when her dad, as an adult, tracked down and talked to his biological mother, she outright rejected him and told him to never bother her again, which devastated him.
     Abortion was something neither of us felt comfortable with, so that left us with planning to keep the baby, possibly skipping the test, and praying everything would be fine.
     Two weeks passed and the next ultrasound showed the baby fine, clear, and healthy, but also an abnormal bulge in the uterine wall that the doctor said the fetal diagnostic center may better be able to identify.  Three days later, the fetal diagnostic center's high-tech ultrasound showed the same size fetus with no heartbeat, and multiple chromosomal abnormalities—possibly Down syndrome.  The fetus had apparently died in the intervening period.  We opted to wait for a natural discharge of the fetus' remains (or a miracle recovery), but ten days passed and Deanne seemed increasingly less pregnant.  At the next doctor's visit, the ultrasound confirmed no growth and no heart beat or blood flow.  The doctor recommended a procedure to remove the fetus, placenta, and other baby-related support systems to prevent infection, which Deanne and I agreed to.
     The miscarriage shocked and disappointed us.  We had been buoyed by the prospect of a fourth child yet stressed at the same time by the logistics of planning a preparing for its arrival and funding its future.  What eased the pain and emptiness was knowing God had decided for us.  It was if He said, “No, not now.  I want this child with me, chromosomal abnormalities and all—it doesn't matter to me, I love it just the same.”
     Deanne had a dream a couple days later of her deceased father (who recently died after a prolonged bout with colon cancer).  She placed a baby in his arms and said, “Here's Jen.”  Dad had never met our youngest child Jaren, who just turned six, and Jen was the name we had preselected from six-and-a-half years ago to name him, had he been a girl.
     A part of me wondered:  If God blesses us with another daughter, will we still feel comfortable naming her Jen?  It took us awhile to come up with that name (not her real name, by the way, we don't share that with anyone until after birth).  But after Deanne again got pregnant, we realized, no, Jen would not do.  So we came up with a different name.  God again called the fetus to Him (after two weeks).  It had been such a short pregnancy, and we had guarded our hearts just in case, so the shock of disappointment was not quite so severe.  God's will be done in all things.  He has been good to us beyond compare.