I’m not really not one for ceremony or even national tradition. I don’t talk to my kids enough about what goes on in the government and I may regret it someday. But on January 20th around 11:45 am, I yelled to my boys who were upstairs building a fort: “Sam! James! Get down here! You have to see this!”

Kamala Harris was about to be sworn in.

Although the refrain about this historic occasion has been, “This is a huge moment for little girls, especially little black girls,” I was also thinking, “This is a huge moment for little boys, especially little white boys.”

There is no debating the importance of kids seeing people who look like them ascend to the most powerful positions in this country. But it’s also important that we normalize it for those who have seen themselves in those positions for millennia.

When I tried to explain to Sam and James the historic nature of this inauguration, they were confused. “Why were girls or people with brown skin not allowed to be vice president?” For them, this just didn’t seem normal. Sam’s principal is a black man and one of James’ teachers is a black woman. So why couldn’t the vice president be a black woman?

I have a lot to learn about institutional racism. I’m also not a psychologist. And yes, we have a long way to go in terms of equity in this country. But I do know that something different is going on in my boys’ little brains than was mine at age four or five. They are internalizing something that should be normal for all of us. So while Harris certainly is going to make mistakes and will probably be disproportionately criticized for them, I hope, thanks in part to her, my kids never use race or gender as a reason to question someone’s leadership.

80% of our Eagle Scholars are black girls, and they are an impressive bunch. These are girls who will be arguing big cases in court, leading Fortune 500 companies, teaching my children in schools and treating my children in hospitals. They will be, as they are now, leaders in their ever-expanding circles. Thanks in part to Kamala Harris, perhaps one of my boys will work for them some day. And there will be nothing extraordinary about it.

Picking Your Own Trash, The Joy of Coaching Your Kids, and Why Quality Beats Quantity (with Joe Johnson)

Listen here: https://anchor.fm/rory-hughes/episodes/13–Picking-Your-Own-Trash–The-Joy-of-Coaching-Your-Kids–and-Why-Quality-Beats-Quantity-with-Joe-Johnson-eofhr0

For this episode I sat down with Joe Johnson, AKA MC Schlep, one of the two good friends I made in graduate school.  Joe has always been just ahead of me in most life events–getting married, buying a house, having kids, becoming a functioning adult–so I feel lucky to have learned from him.  In this chat we explore, among other topics:  the mindset of an East Sider; how his experience at Warren De La Salle, an all-boys Catholic school, shaped him; trash picking; bargain grocery-shopping; coaching his kids; losing both parents relatively young; and the importance of low post position in a marriage.Enjoy.

There’s a line from my favorite show of 2020, Ted Lasso, in which one of the characters shares a common British idiom, “It’s the hope that kills you.” It’s an extreme version of our “Don’t get your hopes up” and one that certainly fits 2020. During a pivotal scene in the show, Ted, a small-time college football coach turned British Premier League soccer manager (trust me, it works) challenges this claim. He argues that hope is what keeps us going.

So for 2021, in the spirit of Ted Lasso, I’d like to offer 21 hopes that I have for our class of 2021.

1. They hang out together a lot, in person.
2. They continue to spend time outdoors.
3. They make college and career decisions based on what’s best for them, not what society expects.
4. They continue to speak and act out for racial justice.
5. They continue to unleash their creativity (for those of you who attended Ms. Bomphray’s poetry showcase, you know what I’m talking about!)
6. They have mature conversations with people from different backgrounds and with different worldviews.
7. They use credible sources.
8. They cite their sources.
9. They engage in the political process.
10. They read books.
11. They value compassion.
12. They seek out challenges.
13. They don’t wish away their childhood.
14. They thank their friends, families, teachers, and coaches for their help.
15. They do things for the sake of doing them, not to check a box or make themselves look good.
16. They find a career they love.
17. They cherish their experiences as much as (or more than) their possessions.
18. They laugh a lot.
19. They experience a relatively normal graduation ceremony.
20. They don’t suffer any more losses.
21. They remember that what they experienced in 2020, cliche as it may sound, will make them stronger.

Class of 2021 and everyone else, here’s to hoping in 2021, even when it seems foolish.

For Season 2, Episode 1, I sat down with Michigan State Senator Jim Ananich, a friend of nearly three decades. Our relationship had been characterized by tennis and basketball, using my 50% discount at Bennigan’s when we weren’t hungry, and spontaneous explosions of Dayton Family rap sessions in public. Somehow we’ve become responsible adults with children, and Jim is now the highest ranking democrat in the Michigan Senate. Thankfully he has not lost his integrity or his sense of humor.  In this chat we cover a lot: his harrowing adoption journey; losing both parents at a young age; and fatherhood as a catalyst for growth. Sit back, get ready to learn and to laugh.

Also covered in the conversation:

• When your kid doesn’t care that the governor is calling
• Peabo Bryson
• Why dumb people shouldn’t form education policy
• Raising a biracial son
• Dragging days, flying weeks
• The self-destructive macho veneer of most men

Last Sunday, my son Sam went up to his elementary school for a socially-distanced meetup with his Kindergarten classmates, who to that point had only been iPad avatars. While I usually jump at the chance for his little brother to experience the super-combo of socialization and outdoor activity, I suggested Andrea take Sam on his own so I could take James, with whom I’d been having a tough time connecting. Three hours later, I said, incredulously, “Why don’t we do this more often?”

Anyone with children can relate. It’s something that comes up frequently in conversations with other parents: underappreciating the value of exclusive time with their children. We notice the small things in these interactions that are hard to pick up with other kids or partners around – the nervous laughter, the furrowed brows, the long pauses, the seemingly out-of-nowhere questions that reveal something important. It’s as if we can actually hear our kids thinking.

Turns out there is some logic around why one-on-one interactions are so powerful. “Relational Load” is a phenomenon that suggests that the more people involved in an interaction, the more taxing it is. Consider that in a one-on-one, you are only tracking the communication between you and one other person. Once you add a third person, the “load” increases to three, because now you’re tracking your communication with each person, plus their communication with each other. At four the load becomes six, at five it becomes ten, and by the time you get to eight people, the load is 28! No wonder you are so exhausted after a staff meeting or your student is exhausted after a day at school.

The one-on-one loses much less in a virtual setting than the large group interactions. My one-on-one conferences with students have never been more productive, honest, and focused. With no other students present, they have no choice but to engage. This is in stark contrast to my larger online presentations, which are essentially me trying to entertain a giant black hole.

So for your student, if they’ve had enough of you (or even if they haven’t), encourage them to reach out to a teacher or counselor for a one-on-one. They could also connect with an aunt or uncle or anyone else in a mentoring role who can provide that increasingly rare jewel we call “undivided attention.”

TOP: James and his grandma in a one-on-one

“Simplicity, patience, compassion. These three are your greatest treasures. Simple in actions and thoughts, you return to the source of being. Patient* with both friends and enemies, you accord with the way things are. Compassionate toward yourself, you reconcile all beings in the world.”

–Lao Tzu

*Patience: the capacity to accept or tolerate delay, trouble or suffering without getting angry or upset.

I didn’t understand the true meaning of patience until I had kids.

Not only is patience paramount in parenting, but it’s also most critical at precisely the moment you have none left. Take bedtime. By 7:30, I’ve been through a full day of work, cooked a meal my kids won’t eat, run a few frustrating virtual errands, and sunken into a hazy food and stress-induced coma.

Right when the patience-meter is almost zero, James refuses to brush his teeth, Sam asks for a different dinner, and they both pick my least favorite, 30-page book for storytime. At this moment, although I have the “capacity to tolerate (this) trouble,” it’s really hard to do so “without getting upset.”

So by the definition I gave at the beginning, by the end of the day I am not a patient person.

As much as I marvel at the patience of adults in the current school setting–watching my wife breathe deeply as she re-teaches 25 4th-graders how to mute their mics for the 60th time, for example–because I interface mostly with students, they’re the ones who have me in awe right now.

Students are learning Calculus while watching their siblings. They’re rewriting assignments when their wifi dies. They’re teaching their parents how to use Canvas. They’re respectfully emailing teachers when they need extra help. They’re showing up on Fridays at voluntary study groups. All of this with a global pandemic and a historic election in the backdrop. Like our own children, students can certainly be frustrating, they can be absent-minded, they can be obstinant, they can even be ungrateful. But we cannot call them impatient.

With the pandemic and the election dragging on indefinitely, we’ll have to go deep in our reservoir for patience, not only as we wait for the outcomes, but as we relate to our opponents. Let’s turn to our students for inspiration on how to be patient at such a difficult time. In fact, let’s turn to them more often in general.

We may as well get used to the young people leading us. Soon enough, we’ll have no other choice.

This post originally appeared at Nerdy.com: https://www.nerdy.com/blog/2020/looking-beyond-the-lost-senior-year

If your house is home to a recent high school graduate, you’ve probably seen articles like this one, whose author argues that the truncated school years of millions of high school seniors will have a long-lasting, deleterious effect. No prom, no College Decision Day, no in-person graduation—none of the quintessential milestones and traditions that define the American high school experience. 

Many of my own students have used the term “lost” to describe their senior year. It’s sad. It’s unfair. It’s unprecedented and often traumatic. But what if there’s also something of a silver lining?

It is undeniable that many people have been devastated by the coronavirus pandemic. Many individuals have lost jobs, lost family members, and experienced a suffocating pall of anxiety and depression. COVID-19 will go down in history as one of the defining events of our generation. In no way am I suggesting that this is, overall, good for people. Instead, I’m highlighting what might be some hopeful outcomes for high schoolers.

Let’s begin with the fact that American teenagers already experience anxiety and depression at a disproportionate clip. Two of the primary causes are being overscheduled and losing a close connection with their parents. Sleep deprivation among teenagers has reached staggering levels, with less than 9% of teenagers getting enough sleep. Here’s a typical schedule for a high school senior:

• 6:30 a.m. — Wake up.
• 7:30 a.m.-3:00 p.m. — Attend school.
• 3:00-5:00 p.m. — Attend an extracurricular. 
• 5:00-9:00 p.m. — Work.
• 9:00 p.m.-12:00 a.m. — Do homework and chores.
• 12:30 a.m. — Go to sleep.

Somewhere in the day, your student might find the time for two potentially nutritious meals, often while multi-tasking and not always with their families.

Many high schoolers try to “catch up” on sleep on the weekends, but the notion that you can bank enough rest in two days to make up for five days of exhaustion is a fallacy. Even if they could catch up, they’re operating at a suboptimal level for five days, only to crash for two.

The schedule outlined above leaves no room for the spontaneous activities that are critical to mental health—time in nature, time with friends, and perhaps, yes, time with video games. I’m not advocating that your child loafs around all day. 

“But a brain is like any other muscle. Without sufficient rest, it will be pushed to the limit and torn apart.”

Basic neuroscience teaches us that a healthy brain, teenage or not, needs idle time so the subconscious can do its important work of background process learning. If it means they’re happier and healthier, so be it. Maybe daydreaming should be considered a legitimate extracurricular activity.  

Another fallacy in America is that teenagers are hard-wired to be rebels, that they want no part of their parents once they reach puberty. On the contrary, this is exactly the time when your child wants to communicate more. In many other countries and ancient societies, the teenage years are and were a time to engage with elders in order to learn how to navigate adulthood.

In The Self-Driven Child: The Science and Sense of Giving Your Kids More Control Over Their Lives, Ned Johnson and William Stixrud talk about home as a safe base, “[where] they can go to seek a respite from it all, where they feel safe and loved unconditionally, where they can fully relax, so that they can gather the energy to go back out.” For some families, the COVID-19 pandemic may have created a desperately needed extended time for seniors at their safe base. 

I spoke with a mother of one of my students, who, despite acknowledging the challenges of being stuck at home with three children, admitted, “I feel blessed to be able to spend this time with my (senior) daughter before she goes to college. Before, she was going to practice, to work, to all kinds of extracurriculars. And right now she is going through a bit of a personal crisis. So it’s really important to connect.” Pre-quarantine, this mom may have sent her child off to college without addressing things that only mom and daughter can suss out together. Another mother told me pre-pandemic she was lucky to have family dinners a few times a month. Now it’s every night.

Jogging around my neighborhood, I see teenagers and parents talking to each other. At the state park near my house, a normally sleep-deprived, annoyed son was out kayaking with his mom, smiling and enjoying the outdoors together. It’s as if stripping away all of the trivialities of daily life has reminded parents why they love their children—and vice versa. 

Take note: I’m not suggesting that a shelter-in-place order is what students need for the foreseeable future, or that there haven’t been some trying moments for all families. Kids need their friends, they need to get out of the house, they need to engage with teachers and counselors and coaches for a sense of identity and belonging. 

Yes, losing some of the most fun and important parts of senior year is a bummer. But let’s not forget that in March 2020, we already had a crisis on our hands, one that has been brewing for years: the mental, emotional, and physical well-being of our teenagers. 

From here, from this Great Pause, perhaps we can build a new model for the quintessential American teenage experience. 

Last month I signed up my three-year-old son for swimming lessons at the local YMCA. One of my 2019 goals is to make sure both of my boys are semi-proficient swimmers, and I knew if I didn’t pay up front, it was never going to happen. Most of my friends are Goldfish Swim School zealots, but the one time I went there I was freaked by the bizarre, flourescent setup in which parents ogle at their kids through a window while checking Instagram and paying bills.

No, I wanted to be a good citizen and do lessons through the YMCA, a community organization that overcharges me for adequate services.

My wife and I prepped Sam throughout the week with the typical feigned excitement when you want your kid to do something you’re pretty sure he’s not ready to do. “It will be awesome, buddy! You love swimming!” But we knew it wasn’t the swimming part that was going to be a problem. It was the part about handing him to a strange person in a large body of water amidst cacophonous echos with elderly women AquaZumba-ing in the deep end.

It’s a lot to take in for a marginally-adjusted adult like myself, let alone a 3-year-old.

Nevertheless, we loaded the car and headed to the Y, me with high hopes, Sam with other plans.

I’m going to pause the story to share with you the emotions I felt, in order, from the time we left the house to the when we got home.

Excited.

Nervous.

Hopeful.

Frustrated.

Horrified.

Regretful.

Sad.

Proud.

Overcome.

This was in a 45-minute time frame. I defy you to name anything, aside from the second half of a Detroit Lions game, that can evoke this range of emotions.

Here’s what happened.

Excited: As we drove down to the Y, I made up some cheesy song about swimming lessons and noticed Sam crack a smile. “I’m winning him over,” I thought.

Nervous: Upon entering the building, Sam clinged to my leg like an oversized slug and started crying, “I don’t want to do swimming lessons, daddy.”

Hopeful: We got him dressed in the locker room and he started to peel himself away from my leg and giggle a little. “We’ve got this.”

Frustrated: Because it was our first time there, I didn’t know the protocol. There were no clear signs and no one to direct me where to go; I could sense Sam feeling my uncertainty. “Damn it, should’ve gone to Goldfish.”

Horrified: When I finally sorted out where to go, I walked over to the side of the pool with Sam and tried to hand him to the poor teacher, whose other two students were already in the water, frolicking around with no anxiety whatsoever. Then, Sam let out a blood-curdling scream so loud that I’m certain everyone underwater heard. This scream quickly morphed into an all-out hysterical cry, and I could feel the 100+ people in the pool area, the folks in the cardio room on the second floor, as well as the folks in the lobby staring through the giant windows (actually worse than Goldfish, upon reflection), at which point I was overwhelmed with

Regret: For being so selfish, for projecting my 2019 resolution on my kid, who just may not have been ready for this.

Sadness: So Sam and I sat on the ledge watching the other kids enjoy their lesson, while I was careful not to make eye contact with the other parents — there was nothing I was going to say that wouldn’t be somewhat hurtful to my son, even if he didn’t understand it. I was sad for me for thinking I could make this work, sad for Sam that he couldn’t enjoy the lesson. After the silence, Sam looked up and said, “Dad, can I still watch Transformers?”

“No, son. Remember you had to do the lesson. You didn’t even get in the water.”

I could see his little brain humming. I thought he might react with another wave of tears, but he just nudged a little closer.

“Maybe you could show your teacher how you can jump in?”

This negotiation continued for the entire 30-minute lesson, all the while I was holding out hope that he might join the other kids, if only for five minutes.

Pride: He didn’t. He did, however, in a Toddy Gurley-esque burst of speed, make a hard buttonhook cut to the right, sprint to the edge of the pool and launch himself so confidently and violently that you would’ve thought he knew how to swim. The teacher darted over to grab him as I caught the eye of the lifeguard whose omnipresent “I’m bored as hell” look became “That kid’s got balls.” The teacher helped Sam out of the water and handed him to me, at which point I said, “Sorry about that. I bet you’ve seen it all.”

“Not that,” she said.

In the car, I cried. I’m not sure if it was the sadness or the pride, or just the overwhelming love I felt for Sam. I think part of the reason I cried is because I knew this was just the beginning in a long series of experiences in which I’ll have to navigate the space between forcing Sam to do things that are difficult and letting him wait until he’s ready. Perhaps parenting is 90% that sentence and then a bunch of miscellaneous stuff.

Lesson #2 is next Saturday, 10:45 sharp. I’m beginning to think the lesson may not be his.