When my daughter was a toddler, I started noticing a troubling trend among parents and teachers and just about anyone involved in the collective raising of American children.
Fairness.
Now mind you, I was a young mom. A way-too-young mom. But what I lacked in years, I think I made up for in instincts. And my instincts told me that this fairness thing was going way too far and would probably end up doing our kids a great disservice.
This isn't political, by the way. It's maternal.
If you tell your kids the game ended in a tie when it didn't, that they are talented in an area where they are not, or that all that matters is their feelings, you are being anything but fair. You are lying. And when they find out, they will find out the hard way. They will put themselves in a humiliating, uncomfortable or even unsafe situation and they will fail. Is failure bad? No. But the kids who were raised on fairness will not know what to do with failure. And that is bad.
I know this isn't some big revelation. I know lots of people have hashed out the fairness trend of yore. And there are varying opinions on the topic. I'm not interested in debating it. I just wanted to share an example of how I recently saw it played out.
Oi.
So I am sitting at my youngest son's piano recital. It was held at his music school. A really good music school in a really bad neighborhood, housed in a ramshackle building that would hold AA meetings if it weren't filled with pianos, drum sets, mic stands and amps. (Not the point but I want to paint a picture.) The teachers are mainly classic jazz types. Masters. Afficionados. Purists. If I didn't feel like I had to dart from my car and into the school while ducking and covering my son's head, it would be one of my favorite places to be. Until last Sunday.
The crowd had assembled for the recital and the programs were being handed out. I scanned mine to see where my son was in the lineup. Oh, good. Right in the middle. Not too soon, not at the end. Perfect. The program lists the students by their name, then their instrument, then the song they will perform. I review the list a little more to get a feel for the show, when I see it.
Jan Doe. Vocal. "At Last"
Oh, hell no.
Fairness!
See, Jan Doe is a kid. (Not her actual name, BTW.) A bookish, awkward, scrawny kid. Nothing wrong with that. She seems very responsible and bright. I'd trust her with anything. Like dog walking or babysitting or tutoring. But I would not trust her with a HUUUUUUGE song like "At Last". It's like serving a baby a steak. Too much! Too soon! But no one told poor Jane, "No. You are not ready. You are 14, not 30. You are a sheltered little cracker. Not a bad ass sister. And you are certainly not Etta James. Etta James killed "At Last". Etta James owned "At Last". Etta James lived "At Last". You are not ready and you may never be." But the fairness bug must have crawled into that cool school sometime during the late '80's and gotten ahold of an unsuspecting teacher. And now sweet Jane was about to go sour in front of her friends and family and lots of stangers.
"At Last" should be sung soulfully, semi-tipsy, while draped over a piano, while tingling in your special place, while being Etta James.
14 year old Jane Doe is not Etta James and has no business doing any of the above. And the only soul she possesses at her age is in her pink Sketchers.
I woud have thought that her music teacher would have learned that lesson at the summer recital when poor Jane sang "Can't Help Lovin' That Man of Mine" (poorly) with her arms stiff by her sides, leaning forward, like she was preparing to be shot from a cannon.
It was horrible! Not because she was a complete flop but because everyone in the room but her knew it.
"At Last" isn't just tough for a rookie. It's tough for the pros. Ella Fitzgerald did an over-articulated version. (Ella Fitzgerald!) Celine Dion did a lovely enough version but she's, well, Canadian. Christina Aguilera, who has a powerful voice and actual soul did a version during her Dirty phase and selfishly chewed on the song like a ravenous lion tearing into a wounded gazelle. Beyonce, dear, reverent Beyonce basically apologized in advance for daring to sing the song, then did a beautiful job. But no one even came close to Etta James.
So sure, Jane. You go ahead. Why don't you try "Lady Marmalade" and the "Star Spangled Banner" while you're at it? You can do anything, Jane. It's a tie. You're all tied!
What crap.
So the recital is underway, Jane's number is up. My son had already finished an age-and -experience-appropriate version of "Christmas Time Is Here" on the piano, which I was on edge during but nothing compared to the fear I felt for Jane. Nerdy little Jane about to sing a big, sexy song.
The emcee takes the stage and announces her name. Next Jane Doe will sing "At Last". I panic. I clench my butt cheeks. I try to send her all my good karma and pray she'll do a decent job. Then I hear a whisper from stage-right. The teacher pauses. Turns in the direction of the voice and says, "Oh. Okay." Turns back to the audience and says, "Jane will not be performing today."
My relief was audible.
I made up a story in my head that Jane saw the tear run down my cheek after her last performance and saw it for what it was. I was not moved by her incredible talent but moved by the incredible stupidity of her teacher.
Then Jane had a lightbulb moment and checked into the Reality Hotel for an extended stay. A place where people would be honest with her, help her, teach her, not throw her to the wolves. A place where she could rehearse her music according to her ability so she could actually learn something. She'd try really hard and she'd suck at first. And they'd tell her so, but encourage her to push through.
Then she'd get better, then life would happen and she'd suck again. Then she'd decide she wanted to be a bio-chemist, but she'd sing at church, and maybe she'd suck there too...or not. Maybe she'd be the best singer that church ever had. Maybe she'd be the best singing bio-chemist ever born. Maybe she would end up being an actual singer. A good singer. As good as Etta James. But she'd get there with a lot of hard work and a lot of failure. She wouldn't get there by just assuming the role of Etta James because some numbskull told her to go straight there.
Then the numbskull would get hit by a bus.
Fine. Too mean. The numbskull would get a bad paper cut.
It's only fair.
Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.
I don't really have six arms and I would never part my hair in the middle but this is my life right now.
