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Greek to Me
No Kidding: Confessions
of a Cockeyed Visionary
by Michael Raysses
Life’s funny. You’re born, you grow up. But for all the changes you go through, I pray there are a few sacred things that will be universal and never-ending: the beauty of the sun setting on a crisp autumn day, the majesty of an eagle in flight, the relief you feel when you realize that your fly isn’t really open—you just caught one of those inexplicably weird drafts.
Of all those things I hope everyone gets the chance to experience, though, the most important is childhood. You know, that time when your only responsibility is to be a kid. It’s the phase of life with which I most readily identify. And no wonder. In my own demented way, I was a visionary kid. I was the oracle in my clique who reasoned that we could achieve Icarian greatness by bungee jumping off the top of my family’s garage. And we were going to achieve that milestone by cutting all the elastic bands off of our underwear, tying them end-to-end.
Unfortunately, that lap in the relay race of my life was run, and the Childhood Me passed the baton to the Adolescent Me with nary an acknowledgment.
Today I find myself smack dab in the middle of middle life, an almost cruel redundancy. Negligible novelty (“Hey! How’s it feel to be the Big Five-O?”) gives way to the ultimate back-handed compliment (“You look good for your age!”). This hasn’t dulled my ardor for childhood in the least. In fact, I’ve never more keenly appreciated its value than I do today. That’s why it’s so difficult for me to tell you that the latest addition to the endangered species list isn’t some exotic bird or obscure fish. It’s kids.
My vantage point for making such a doomsday observation is this: I’ve served food for well over 20 years. I’m the guy who hovers above your table, hiding behind an apron and a wine key. And the view from my perch is disturbing.
I wish I had a dollar for every youngster I’ve seen sit down to dinner with their family whose eyes were dull and manner listless; who related more intimately to a hand-held video game than to the people seated there at the table. It’s no surprise that when I engage any such child, any response I get is so flat and indifferent as to redefine communication more by what it isn’t than by what it is.
There is no spontaneity in a lot of these children—no spark. Perhaps that’s no wonder, especially when you hear what makes up their lives: every waking tick of the clock is scheduled with some activity. Every space where they used to have the chance to assert their impulse to live in a moment, they just discovered is preempted, all in an effort to improve their lives.
And this is for the lucky ones.
So where did that kid energy go? What happened to that radioactive pile of light that exemplified what it meant to be a kid?
It’s been co-opted in the worst way by those kids’ parents. For all the innate brilliance that youthful power poses when manifested by its rightful owners—the children—it becomes distorted and toxic when wielded by their parents. It then manifests as the desire to be something that they can’t be by holding onto it long past their time to possess it—that is, to be young.
Every once in a while, though, my hope is renewed. Recently, I was serving an increasingly rare party—a family unit—a mother, a father, and some kids, all of whom related to each other as members of that group, and I felt its redemptive power.
The parents talked to each other, including the children, as easily as breathing. The kids zigged and zagged into the conversation in that way only kids can, leaving me in awe of their effortless dance.
There were three jewels in this family’s crown: Isabella, Lucy, and Bo, and though each daughter shone brightly, there was something about the youngest, seven year-old Bo, that snared my attention beyond reason. Unbeknownst to me at that moment, she embodied what I love about childhood. When I asked her what ‘Bo’ was short for, I expected an answer that at least made some linear sense. Instead she said, “Alice.” There was no logic for her beyond her desire to be called Bo. And that’s the lure of childhood—we all want to touch that place that empowers us to proclaim, “Hey, my real name’s Alice, but from now on call me Bo.”
Bo sealed the deal when, as she was leaving, she reached out to me for a hug. I picked her up and held her tightly. For an instant, her energy filled me in a way that left me feeling like a jigsaw puzzle that didn’t know it was missing a piece.
Maybe that’s what moves a parent to act in ways that don’t benefit their kids. They feel an emptiness that can’t be filled, so they revert in an attempt to find it when they last had it. Sadly enough, they’d have better luck bungee jumping off the top of their garage. Trust me on this one, it isn’t Greek to me.