Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 47

Charlie can shoot

My son — who can see nothing without his glasses — can apparently shoot well.

Better than well. He’s an outstanding shot.

While at Scout camp, Charlie attempted to earn riflery merit badge. One requirement was to put five bullets into the middle of the target over the course of the week.

Having never shot a rifle before, Charlie put five bullets into the center of the target on his first target.

Day one.

He had been shooting for less than five minutes and had already met requirements that most Socuts take a week to achieve.

And it wasn’t beginners luck. He proceeded to shoot lights-out all week long.

I find this slightly annoying. The boy can also listen to a song and then play it on the piano, even before he took any lessons. He just listens to the song and can almost immediately reproduce it on the keyboard.

How annoying. I admire hard work. Not innate talent.

But given Elysha and my position on firearms, this seemingly innate ability to shoot a rifle accurately is quite ironic.

While I support the Second Amendment, I support it in the Founding Founder’s reasonable, rationale sense of the Amendment:

The right to own and use firearms designed for hunting, sport, and personal protection.

This would include:

A ban on assault weapons, semi-automatic weapons, and high-capacity magazinesA ban on bullets designed specifically to obliterate the insides of a human beingUniversal background checks30-day waiting periods before purchaseFirearms licencesRed flag lawsAn end of gun show loopholes

Oddly, every single one of these laws, without exception, is supported by a majority of Americans.

In most cases, a vast majority of Americans support them.

Charlie — who apparently shoots exceptionally well and enjoys shooting — also supports all of these proposals.

My hope is that his generation will solve this problem in a way that previous generations — despite their will and desire — have not. It’s a damn tragedy that the vast majority of Americans live in a country where their common sense desires for gun safety are impossible to implement.

In the words of Charlie:

“Why would anyone sell someone a gun before trying to make sure they aren’t going to hurt someone with it? That would be stupid.”

This is what people of privilege fail to understand. Or don’t want to understand.

I’ve known people of privilege who grew up in upper-middle class or better homes — whose parents sent them to college, launched them into adulthood with financial support, rescued them from occasional stupidity, and gave them jobs in the family business — who then, oddly and incessantly, assert that the only difference between them and those less successful and perhaps struggling through life is their willingness to work hard and their superior intellect.

These people seem to believe that the struggles of poverty, a lack of quality education, institutional racism, childhood trauma, physical or mental disabilities, and much more are simply complaints made by people unwilling to put in the necessary effort.

These privileged monsters reject a reality like the one portrayed in the image here because it’s inconvenient, it threatens their fragile egos, and it robs them of their fictional rags-to-riches story.

They fail to see or refuse to see a basic truth:

Money makes everything easier. Institutional wealth clears the path for the next generation. Quality education — which is often predicated on housing prices and access to tutors and private schools — provides a wealth of opportunities. The lack of college debt allows for an earlier investment in one’s future. Family businesses and large bank accounts provide safety nets for wayward children.

It doesn’t mean you can’t succeed without these advantages, of course, but you’ll need to work exceedingly hard and get lucky along the way. You need to catch a break. Make a life-changing connection. Avoid making big mistakes. Dodge the effects of discrimination, an untimely illness, and trauma.

Conversely, you need to do something really stupid to fail in life with the monetary support that comes through privilege.

The world will always be unfair.
The road for some will always be easier than the road for others.
Some will have much, and others will have little.
The financial output and decision-making of previous generations will have a direct impact on the quality of your life.

But it’s the failure to acknowledge these advantages that is especially egregious.

The willingness to assume that the struggles of others are the result of their failure to work hard and smart when you have benefited enormously through no effort of your own is an insidious means of demonizing those less fortunate.

This kind of thinking leads to beliefs like school lunches should not be free for all children, public assistance is wasted on the undeserving, universal healthcare should not be made available to all Americans, and progressive taxation is inherently unfair.

People’s desperate, craving desire to believe that they have achieved a level of success solely based on who they are and what they’ve done—absent obvious, unearned privilege—hurts those less fortunate by allowing assumptions to be made about work ethic, intellect, and decision-making.

Sometimes, people fail because they do not work hard.

More often, people fail because their path to success is impossibly steep and littered with hideous obstacles that people of privilege can’t begin to imagine.

Customs agent scrutiny

I’m in Ottawa, Canada, today to meet author, blogger, and podcaster Shane Parrish.

Shane will be interviewing me for his podcast later this morning.

When I arrived in Canada, I went through customs, but the answers I offered to the customs agent were apparently not good. I explained that the nature of my visit was to meet someone who I’d gotten to know over the internet to discuss possible future collaboration and be interviewed for his podcast.

“So are you working here in Canada?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “At least I don’t think so. I’m not being paid. Just sitting down for a talk and interview”

The customs agent drew a red X in the corner of my form and asked me to proceed. When I reached the final checkpoint, I handed my paperwork to the guard and turned right in the direction that everyone else was headed but was told, “No, you go left.”

Around the corner, I found myself facing a second customs agent in another, smaller room.

Another line of questioning.

An added layer of security

I’d never faced this situation before. This time, I tried to explain the purpose of my visit more clearly, but the agent again looked doubtful. “Hold on,” he said and began typing.

Were they going to deny me access to Canada? Tell me to catch a flight back to the United States? Turn me over to the Canadian Mounties?

After a minute, he said, “Ah ha. Found you.”

“In your system?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “On Wikipedia. You are an American author, storyteller, and teacher.”

My Wikipedia entry was oddly enough to satisfy the agent. He read through my biography, asked me about the kinds of novels I write, and asked about how long I had been teaching, but at that point, he was asking for curiosity’s sake.

My troubles were over.

The customs agent explained that his job was to ensure that I wasn’t taking a job from a Canadian. The fact that I was “an author and storyteller” told him that I was visiting Canada to do what I had described.

Crazy, right? Years ago, someone made a Wikipedia page for me—which needs to be updated, by the way. Little did that person know that it would one day help me clear Canadian customs.

As I exited customs and made my way to the ride-share platform, a couple walking alongside me said, “I heard you tell the customs agent that you’re from Connecticut. What town?”

“Newington,” I said. You, too?” Having flown out of Boston, I didn’t expect to meet someone from Connecticut.

“We just moved to West Hartford,” they said.

I told them that I’d been teaching in West Hartford for 26 years and had lived there for four years before Elysha and I bought our home.

“Small world,” I said.

Smaller than I thought. Their rising kindergartener will be entering my school in the fall.

First, the serendipitous Wikipedia page, then this.

Clearing customers has never been so interesting.

Also, the customs agent was right to doubt my work while in Canada. Later that evening, after spending the day touring Ottawa, I performed half an hour of standup comedy at an open mic in the hotel next door—unplanned, of course—and was paid $25 for agreeing to go longer than the assigned ten minutes.

I worked in Canada after all.

But since I was paid in Canadian money, I gave it to the woman in the audience who laughed the most.

“I don’t want this weird-looking money with some other country’s old dead queen on it,” I said and handed it over to her, which earned me another laugh.

Money well spent.

The MTV generation was a lucky one

Forty-three years ago this month, on August 1, 1981, MTV went on air for the first time with The Buggles “Video Killed the Radio Star.”

I feel very fortunate to have spent my teenage years in the channel’s heyday when the world was watching, videos were still precious, and everything was new and amazing.

I love a world where I can receive most things on-demand and as often as desired, but there was also something precious and vital about the time when you heard your favorite video on the television and sprinted into the room to watch Men at Work’s “Down Under,” Madonaa’s “Like a Virgin,” Van Halen’s “Jump,” or A-ha’s “Take Me On.”

Having everything at your fingertips is excellent, but waiting, hoping, and wishing is pretty great, too.

When everything is made of sugar, nothing seems nearly as sweet.

Winnie the Pooh was once too much. No more!

Elysha received a Facebook memory that read:

13 years ago

We attempted to take Clara for her first movie, Winnie the Pooh, but the preview scared the hell out of her.

Poor thing is still upset over whether Puss in Boots will be OK.

I remember that moment well. Clara was beside herself. No amount of consoling would calm her down.

A couple of years later, she would need to leave “Frozen” when Elsa sent a snow monster after Anna and her friends. “The Good Dinosaur” caused her to leave the movie theater crying. Soon after, Clara decided that movies of any kind were simply too intense for her, so she refused to watch any of them.

When the pandemic hit and we began watching Marvel movies for the first time, she would retreat to her bedroom to read.

She maintained that position for nearly a decade.

Last weekend, Clara and I went to see “Longlegs,” a horror movie currently playing in theaters. It is a truly terrifying film.

One critic wrote:

“Saturated in a disquieting mood and leveraging Nicolas Cage’s nightmarishly gonzo performance, ‘Longlegs’ is a satanic horror that effectively instills panic.”

Yesterday, she watched the original “Psycho.”

We’ve watched movies like “Poltergeist” and “Scream” together.

Nearly two years ago—almost overnight—Clara decided to start watching movies again. It was like she had flipped a switch and altered her personality entirely. Her first foray into the world of cinema—by choice—was horror movies. Somehow, she went from years of watching absolutely nothing to suddenly watching a long string of horror movies that Elysha, Charlie, and lots of other people couldn’t watch.

It’s unbelievable, inexplicable, utterly unpredictable, and bizarre.

Then again, it also adheres to the advice I often offer parents:

The behavior that your child is doing to annoy or upset or befuddle you will eventually, often quickly, pass, replaced by something new that will equally annoy or upset or befuddle you. Kids pivot on a dime, change without warning, and grow quickly, so don’t get too obsessed with any individual behavior because it will likely be replaced by another soon enough.

Instead, focus on long-term goals like problem-solving, a strong work ethic, empathy, emotional regulation, conflict resolution, kindness, conversational skills, organizational skills, persistence, a love for reading, a love for learning, and self-confidence.

These are the things that will make a difference in your child’s life.

Their inability to bring food from the plate to their mouth without spilling it on their shirt will eventually end.

Their horrible handwriting will become more legible with time.

They will someday learn how to tie their shoes.

And yes, I promise that someday, somehow, they will expand their palates and start eating new foods.

Granted, the shift from “I can’t even watch Disney’s animated movies because they frighten me” to “I want to watch the most terrifying films ever made” was extreme, especially given the instantaneous switch, but children are unpredictable whirlwinds.

Clara especially.

Optimism

A friend sent this to me and wrote:

“This immediately made me think of you, but then I realized that it doesn’t work at all because the pessimists aren’t also angry with you.”

She’s not entirely wrong.

I have been yelled at by people who find me too sunny and happy.

I think it’s hilarious.

A lot to say about a sign

I saw this sign above a urinal in an office where I worked.

It’s a weird sign.

First, I was standing at a urinal, but the sign features a traditional toilet, so not exactly a match.

Second, I don’t think a picture is required. Words alone would make the point and be a lot less graphic.

Third, what is going on with the silhouette’s arms? Is he supposed to be leaning slightly back, hands on hips, admiring his penis? Are his hands on the small of his back, arching slightly forward to stretch while peeing?

Either way, who pees like this?

No one, as far I as know.

Fourth, the red bar running through the circle that typically advises to avoid a behavior is doing some heavy lifting here, serving as a traditional negator but also obscuring the silhouette’s penis because — follow my logic here —  implying the existence of a penis is permitted but actually showing the silhouette of a penis is not, even though you could only be looking at this sign while your own penis is exposed.

Also, if shown, it would’ve been the silhouette penis, so not exactly explicit.

Yet, it remains hidden.

Then there are the brilliant additions to the silhouette, done in both black and red ink, causing me to wonder:

Were these additions made by the same person?Were they added on the same day by someone who happened to have a red and black pen on hand while peeing? Or did this person first use the black pen in their pocket then return later with a red pen?Or best of all, could this be the work of two different people? Community art, done by two men peeing while creating?

I know. It’s a lot for a simple sign advising vulgarians not to pee on the floor, but these are the things I think — and obsess over — while moving through the world.

Charlie passed his swim test. With me.

It was a Monday morning during my first week at Scout camp. I was eleven years old and had just finished eating breakfast when I was told to report to the waterfront for my swim test.

I was annoyed. It was early, and the morning was chilly. My belly was filled with eggs and pancakes. The last thing I wanted to do was jump in the lake and swim 100 yards. I was fully capable of doing so, but I had no desire at that particular moment.

So, a lap or two into my swim test, I quit. “This is stupid,” I thought. “I’ll do this again when it’s warm and pancakes aren’t dragging me down.”

I did not understand the ramifications of this decision. Labeled as a “beginner” swimmer, I would be relegated to a small swimming area between the docks, and the only boat I could use was a rowboat.

Rowboats suck.

“Let me try again,” I asked when my “beginner” limitations were explained to me.

“Sure,” said the waterfront director. “Next test is Wednesday.”

I was so annoyed.

The next day, when it came time to travel across the lake to sleep under the stars, my friends cruised across the water in canoes.

I eventually made it across in a stupid rowboat.

I’m still annoyed about it today.

When Charlie was preparing to head off to his first week of Scout camp, I told him this story. “I don’t know if you can pass the swim test yet, but if you get tired, keep trying as long as possible. Don’t stop. Persist. You’ll be happy you did.”

He nodded. I wondered if he was thinking about what I had said or the myriad of other things that fill his brain.

When Charlie arrived home a week later, I asked him how the swim test went.

“Oh,” he said. “I passed on the first try.”

“Congratulations,” I said. I was so happy for him. “Was it hard?”

“Oh yeah,” Charlie said. “But as I was swimming, I kept reminding myself about what you said. Don’t give up. Persist. So I did.”

It’s a small thing, I know, but to me, this was enormous. Forty years ago, I made a mistake on a Monday morning at Scout camp and suffered for it. Then I told that story to my son more than four decades later, and when it came time to face the identical test, he heard my words in his head, and they kept him going.

That is truly the essence of parenting:

I’ve made mistakes. Learn from them. Let your mistakes be unique and not avoidable repetitions of my own life.

Charlie did just that.

I have rarely felt prouder as a father than in that moment. Knowing I was with him in spirit as he swam his 1o0 yards and that my voice helped to keep him going made my heart soar.

Silly, I know. It’s a small thing—tiny, really—but it’s the biggest of all things to me.

Charlie sold his first joke

Charlie recently noted the silliness of the tee shirt pocket, which I found both astute and amusing.

Onstage last week, I told his joke — failing to assign him any credit —so I only thought it fair that I purchased the joke from him, as comics do sometimes.

When I told him that I’d like to buy it from him the next day, he immediately made me an offer.

“Ten dollars!” he said.

“Deal!” I said.

He laughed. “I can’t believe it. I’ve found an infinite money hack!”

I explained that his “infinite money hack” only worked if his jokes were good and buyers existed for them.

He’s tried to sell me three more since that first purchase.

So far, no sale. The jokes were funny but specific to him and the moment.

But for the first time in his life, he’s made money from something he has written, which is a big deal.

I was 17 when I made my first profit as a writer by writing term papers for my classmates, so he’s got a five-year jump on me.

Egregious behavior on airplanes examined

A recent survey of airline customers indicated the following opinions about egregious behavior on a plane:

86% – Letting kids play in the aisle

82% – Getting drunk

82% – Leaving seat during turbulence

81% – Watching a movie without headphones

79% – Leaving trash in seat back pocket

74% – Using both armrests 

68% – Eating smelly food

66% – Not listening to safety demonstration

I also despise most of these behaviors, with one exception.

I think we all agree that watching a movie in any public space at any time without headphones is atrocious. Despite seemingly unanimous agreement on the subject, I see this barbaric behavior more and more these days, but I have yet to meet a human being who does not find it loathsome and inhumane.

Maybe I just don’t know any loathsome people?

Getting drunk is also not a great way to behave in public, but this is coming from someone who hasn’t really consumed alcohol in nearly 30 years. Perhaps it’s more acceptable in certain circles, but it’s a terrible idea on a plane.

Eating smelly food is far too subjective for me to deem egregious. A vegan might find my cheeseburger offensive, and I can’t stand the smell of Ranch dressing and pickles.

One person’s smelly food is another’s culinary delight.

But it’s the 66% of passengers who think I should be listening to the safety demonstration who make no sense to me.

If you fly as often as I do, there comes a point when you need not listen anymore. Nothing said is new, and I absolutely, positively know the routine.

If you’ve never flown or flown only occasionally, I suspect the safety demonstration is important and necessary, but I’ve flown to Florida, Cleveland, Detroit, Los Angeles, Scottsdale, Washington, DC, San Fransisco, Washington DC again, and Victoria, Canada just this year.

Next week, I’ll fly to Ottowa. I’ll also be back in San Fransisco and Florida at least once more this year.

That’s a dozen round trips on many more planes in a year.

Last year, I flew even more.

I know what to do in an emergency. I know the drill.

Yes, maybe my seatmate doesn’t know this about me, but they must be aware that some people fly infrequently and some people fly a lot more than me.

Do they really expect the business traveler or jet-setter to watch the flight attendant pretend to inflate the life jacket, point out the exits, and demonstrate the proper wearing of the seatbelt every time?

Silly, I say.

Absolutely keep your kids from playing in the aisle. Stay sober while flying (and perhaps in life). Share your armrests (though I would also approve of giving both armrests to the middle seat passenger). And don’t you dare watch or listen to anything without headphones lest we rise up and destroy your technology.

But if someone isn’t paying attention to the flight attendants as they show you how seatbelts work or remind you that the nearest exit may be behind you, you can probably assume they know the drill already.