The Heart of Rock and Roll

My very first rock concert was Loverboy, with the opener Huey Lewis and the News.  This was in 1982, at the Fort Wayne Memorial Coliseum, the summer before I went to high school.  Now, to be fair, I wanted to go see KISS for my ninth birthday several years before.  I’m not sure how I came to own the Destroyer album, which was probably my first non-Winnie-the-Pooh record, but I loved “Detroit Rock City,” “King of the Night Time World,” and “Shout It Out Loud.”  My parents convinced me that the concert would be smoky and therefore I wouldn’t enjoy it.  I reluctantly conceded, and consoled myself by listening to Gene and the boys through my headphones, singing aloud with a candlestick as my microphone.  

It always makes me laugh that Huey Lewis opened for Loverboy, who seemingly dropped off the map shortly after that.  My friend and neighbor, Kimberly, was obsessed and introduced our small circle to leather-clad, bandanna-wearing lead singer Mike Reno and the rest of the band.  We even formed our own, all-girl band that played pretend instruments, called The Avenues.  My brother inadvertently provided the name when his own band (that played real instruments, so loudly the neighbors complained) rejected the name Avenue in favor of Angstrom.

Kimberly’s older siblings were also into rock and roll, and so we were listening to Peter Frampton and the Doobie Brothers at a tender age.  I was an adult before I understood what a doobie was, and therefore what the picture inside the Minute by Minute album signified (I thought it was some kind of bug).  I moved pretty quickly from pop-oriented WMEE to WXKE, Rock 104, Fort Wayne’s self-reported Home of Rock and Roll (not to be confused with the heart of rock and roll—more on that later).  I remember singing loudly to Pat Benatar’s “Hell Is for Children” in the car, horrifying my mother.  She didn’t buy that the song was about the problems of child abuse, and I can thank Benatar for having to listen to news or classical music in the car forever after.

When I went back to Fort Wayne last week, I found that Rock 104 is still around, and plays many of the same songs from my youth.  Even Doc, their most popular deejay and arguably the city’s most famous local celebrity, is still on the air.  In fact, I heard a radio ad that he needed a female partner in the morning who knew a lot about music and sports.  I fantasized about being Doc’s sidekick, trading one-liners and insulting callers, and how I would break it to Nels that we had to move back so I could take this part-time gig.  I dismissed it after realizing I just don’t know that much about the local Fort Wayne sports scene. 

That nostalgia trip led to another this weekend as Nels and I visited the Melody Tent on Cape Cod to see Huey Lewis and the News, who were celebrating the 30-year anniversary of their biggest-selling album, Sports.  I never bought that one, but didn’t need to, since it seemed like every song was on the radio.  I wasn’t particularly excited to see this show, as I knew Chris Hayes, the lead guitarist, wasn’t touring with the band any more, but the album was one of Nels’ favorites from high school (he said he and his buddies especially liked “I Want a New Drug.”  Hm.).  On the way to the Cape, we listened to a greatest hits compilation, and reacquainted ourselves with their catalog.  When I tried to explain why I was attracted to Chris Hayes, I talked about his hair that was spiky on the top and long in the back.  Nels asked in disbelief, “You mean a mullet?”  And I had to concede that yes, I was once in love with a guy in a mullet.  Not my proudest moment. 

Despite Hayes’ absence, the show was high-energy and fun.  The Melody Tent was sold out and almost everybody there was our age and knew the words to every song—it was like being at a high school reunion without all the angst.  Many of the band members were original, including the drummer who always wore a vest, and Johnny, the sax player that Huey calls to in their biggest song, “The Heart of Rock and Roll.”  There is not a shred of darkness in Huey Lewis songs, which hearkened back to a more naïve time in my life and is probably the source of their current appeal to other 40-somethings. 

My visit home and shows like these remind me of the importance of music in forming my sense of self and the world.  I used to envy peers whose parents introduced them to the Beatles or Stones, but my friends and I found our own way through our older brothers and sisters.  Yes, we were exposed to illicit—and therefore tantalizing—ideas about drugs and sex through rock and roll, but it was also a safe medium for adolescent longing.  So, if a band from your youth comes to town, check ‘em out, not to be cynical and critical, but to remember the discoveries they offered you.

  

Walter White vs. Francis Underwood

You know that old saying, a couple who watches television together stays together?  Well, I hope that television is not the only predictor of marital harmony.  Just last year, I had to break it to Nels that, after watching the first two episodes of Game of Thrones, the violence against women was more than I could stand.  He would have to watch the rest on his own.  To his credit, he wasn’t surprised by my reaction.  I almost quit watching The Sopranos after the scene where Dr. Melfi gets raped in the stairwell of the parking garage, so he knew I probably wouldn’t last with Thrones, where the carelessness regarding human and animal well-being is at an all-time low. 

However, Nels was surprised when I declined to keep watching House of Cards after three episodes.  His parents recommended it and the critics raved about it, so it seemed an obvious series to obtain from Netflix (to his parents’ credit, they loved The Sopranos and even enjoyed seeing Book of Mormon.  Who knew?).  But after the first disc, I was done.  The writing and acting are excellent, and there is very little physical violence, although Kevin Spacey, in his role as Francis Underwood, Congressman from South Carolina, kills a dog in the first episode.  Ostensibly, it is to stop the dog’s suffering from being hit by a car, or so Francis informs us in a voiceover.  An animal as the first victim of a series—and I’m a cat person, not a dog person—is not a good harbinger.  I get that the scene was symbolic, and perhaps we were to be sympathetic to Francis, but I did not buy it.  Turns out, my misgivings were correct.

It is not as if this is a violent show; at least not in physical terms.  This time, the women, including Francis’ wife, Claire, played by Robin Wright, are as bad as the men, and the violence is of the underhanded, conniving sort.  After three episodes, I could find very little humanity or empathy in any of the characters.  It was another cynical view of what happens in our nation’s capital, like Veep, only without the wink-wink humor (so, actually it’s now three shows that Nels has to watch on his own.  I lasted most of a season on that, but the humor was just too mean-spirited). 

Don’t get me wrong.  I am not completely naïve about the wheelings and dealings that take place in DC.  And two of my current favorite shows, Homeland and The Americans, question the ethics and issues of power among the different agencies and the representatives we elect. (We started watching Scandal, another DC insider tale, too, and I'm still not sure I will stick with it).  It is not so much the story content, but the complexity of the characters that attracts me.  In Homeland and The Americans, we get some backstory.  We understand where the characters come from, and how they came to be.  They are imperfect, make huge mistakes that impact not only themselves, but their families and the country.  But they are written as well-rounded human beings.  I just don’t see the same thing in Veep, in which Julia Louis-Dreyfus acts as if she’s Larry David in drag, and in House of Cards, where there is not one sympathetic character. 

My friend Julie K called me on this when I told her I wasn’t going to watch House of Cards any longer because I found it mean-spirited and cynical.  She said, ”But you love Breaking Bad.  Isn’t Walter White cynical too?”  A fair point.  I am no fan of Walter White.  However, we watched how he evolved into Heisenberg.  We saw how he convinced himself this is what he had to do, even as other options were open to him.  I certainly don’t root for Walter White, although a tiny bit of me cringed when his brother-in-law found the Leaves of Grass book with the telltale inscription.  Walter White is more like Tony Soprano than Francis Underwood.  Flawed, certainly, and ruthless.  Yet, the writers exposed us to their vulnerabilities from the very first episode.  I did not see this with Francis.  I don’t give a crap what happens to Francis, his wife, or anyone else in the show.  I am however, riveted to seeing what happens with Walter.

Usually, I am seduced by good writing.  But right now, I’ll take the lousy writing and overacting in Under the Dome (note to Stephen King:  surely you could have proofed the scripts for terrible dialogue!) over the nastiness of House of Cards.  I know I am in the minority, but there are many well-written shows with empathetic characters that call for my attention.  House of Cards and Game of Thrones can survive without me.  

Folk Offerings: the Weird, the Funky, the Sublime

The Newport Folk Festival, with a big crowd for a drenched Friday and sold out for Saturday and Sunday, is now over.  What drew so many people—10,000 each day?  And who was missing?  The aging hippies with gray ponytails and Woody Guthrie t-shirts are all but gone.  In their place are mostly people in their 20’s through their 60’s, with Ray-Bans and shirts that advertise their love for obscure artists like Middle Brother or Andrew Bird or the Felice Brothers.  Bare skin, bracelets, and sandals on men and women.  Sneaked-in bottles of vodka or gin dumped in containers of Del’s Lemonade.  Long but companionable lines at the coffee stand, beer tent, and port-a-potties.  Politeness preventing the taking over of space from someone who stole a valuable piece of real estate with a blanket right outside the Harbor Tent and then disappeared.   

I felt a strong sense of belonging, maybe coming from experience.  As the grizzled veteran of eight years of Folk Festivals, I was asked for advice as we waited for gates to open.  Where should we go?  Who should we see?  All I could say was:  create some space by the main stage and then go explore.  At past Folk Festivals, I have felt too normal, much like I did the first time I attended Earth Day at Dunn Meadow at Indiana University.  It was the late 80’s and there were guys wearing skirts, almost everybody had on tie-dye, and I even marched in a Greenpeace parade.  But I was completely out of my element.  How could people be so happy and uninhibited?  I felt similarly going to Grateful Dead concerts in the 90’s.  Who are these people and wow, shouldn’t they be wearing underwear and taking showers?  At the Folk Fest, although the smell of pot lingered in the air, I bet everyone there had a shower that morning, and the only tie-dye I saw was being sold in a booth.

Beach towels and coolers, plastic tarps and quilts, picnic chairs and bags were side-by-side, eliminating space to tiptoe through.  In years past, people would leave narrow avenues of grass between their land claims.  Why is this Festival so big now?   What draws us?  What does folk music ask of us, and what does it offer us? 

Maybe it has something to do with the whole confessional piece of folk music.  The bringing out of emotional truths, as ugly as they can be.  Sometimes these truths are romanticized, as in glorifying doomed obsessions (John McCauley=everything), or making drinking, getting into fights, and almost dying sound hilarious (Jason Isbell’s “Super Eight Motel”).  The music is intensely personal, and the truth of experience draws us, searingly or painfully or self-deprecatingly.  Perhaps that’s part of the draw of this NEWport Folk Festival vibe.  The mirroring and articulating of emotion without mediation.  These artists (that’s what all the signs call them—not musicians—the artists selling their wares are “vendors”) offer up their secrets—which we can relate to--for public consumption and dialogue. We, the audience, have felt this way.  This despair, this rage, this embarrassment.  And we all continue to survive. 

I think we all want somebody to speak some truths to us, in this world of images and trying to sell us life as a commodity.  Make no mistake, the Folk Fest was full of commodity.  But the songs themselves, the artists who wrote and performed them, offered us insights into who we are.  Taking those scary emotions that we deny in order to feel good about ourselves, and putting them out there, saying here, see how ugly this is, but you can handle it.  You can even enjoy it, because it’s truer than any fake shit you’re throwing out to the world. 

I come to the Folk Fest for the sunshine, ocean breeze, music, and thrill of bringing in vodka in Canada Dry plastic bottles without getting caught.  I come for the Middle Eastern Mediterranean plate that costs $14 and I can only eat half of it.  I come for the free chips from Late July, and to stand in line at the bathrooms and the beer tent and the chance to win a free banjo.  I come for the vendor’s tents, fantasizing what it would be like to wear that chunky necklace or that funky hat, or even that skirt made out of a t-shirt that I can’t bring myself to buy for $55.  I come to walk around in the mud, put on sunscreen, always missing my collarbones and patches across the tops of my thighs, that I only realize when I take a shower that night and shriek in pain as the water sizzles across the burn.  I come to walk through the parking lots filled with cars from Georgia, Utah, Montanam, as well as Rhode Island, Connecticut, and New York.  I come mostly, though, to feel at home, with people who speak my language, who articulate secret longings or appreciate those who do. 

All this being said, I know there are people who are missing from this particular folk scene.  Even as I enjoy it, I wonder where they are and imagine how much they must miss their world.  Folk music can mean a lot of things, and really, this feels more like a celebration of American music (notwithstanding that there are always some international acts there).  You have the weird (Jim James), the funky (Trombone Shorty) and the sublime (Avetts) all there, holding up a mirror, saying you, I see you, I am happy you are here.  Perhaps it is these assurances we come for and respond to, even more than the setting, even more than the midsummer celebration, even more than the sense of belonging.      

The East Bay Bike Path Sheriff

Lord, please make me Sheriff of the East Bay Bike Path.

Clint Eastwood and Timothy Olyphant wish they were as tough as me

A tin star on my chest/where my heart used to be.

Those who cross the center line and take up the whole space in groups

who are rude

don’t keep track of their children

make their dogs run when their tongues are lolling out

will be ticketed

Or run over with my bike.

Whichever. 

Of course, a true Sheriff—to be distinguished from those Hollywood types—

 offers reward as well as punishment.

I would give Good Citizen badges to the people who

 pick up their dog poo

smile at others

and move graciously out of the way of oncoming traffic

whether they need to or not.

I would give badges to all those who are out there

no matter whether they are walking, running, biking, or roller-blading

because they are active and in nature.

Especially those who take the time to marvel

at the osprey, herons, and egrets (my favorites)

point out the turtles, swans, and foxes; and

give the fleeing rabbits and squirrels plenty of room.

 I’m kidding of course. 

You can’t pray to God to take a position that doesn’t exist.

Or at least I’m pretty sure that’s not kosher.  Just like me appropriating a Jewish word

When I’m not even close to Jewish, although

I have Jewish friends. 

You probably shouldn’t even pray to have a position that does exist—

That is totally not being a mensch (whoops, there I go again). 

Maybe I’ve been taking yoga too long

Or read too many meditation books

But I’m reasonably certain that

It’s wrong to ask for anything besides the well-being of others.

Too bad.

I would have made an awesome Sheriff. 

 

NCTQ Report Misleading and Inaccurate

There has been increasing scrutiny of teacher education programs across the country.  My colleagues and I at the Feinstein School of Education and Human Development (FSEHD) at Rhode Island College welcome feedback that leads to improvement of our programs.  Toward that end, we participate in rigorous state (RIDE) and national (NCATE—soon to be CAEP, or Council for the Accreditation of Educator Preparation) accreditation processes.   

Recently, the National Council on Teacher Quality (NCTQ) released a report excoriating schools of education throughout the country. The FSEHD was scored on only two out of 15+ teacher education undergraduate and graduate programs, with the assessments based on erroneous and limited data.  As such, we find the NCTQ Report’s broad generalizations and inaccuracies troubling, particularly when the Providence Journal publishes results and opinion pieces (6/18/13 “RI’s teacher prep programs receive C grade” and 7/11 “Teachers should learn their subjects”) without providing critiques offered by such nationally recognized and respected researchers as Linda Darling-Hammond and Diane Ravitch.  It is important that citizens have an understanding of the troubling aspects of this report, particularly in regard to local institutions.

First, the NCTQ authors base their ratings on limited data, which they admit, writing, “we were unable to apply all relevant standards to all programs…but it should not make our findings any less meaningful or representative”  (p. 13).  These data were based on syllabi only, which do not provide a clear or comprehensive picture of programs.   As researchers ourselves, we believe that making claims based on “limited data” renders all findings questionable, as opposed to “meaningful or representative.”  

In addition to the lack of data, the information they do provide on the FSEHD contains many errors.  For example, the authors claim that admission requirements “do not exploit the potential for...(grade point average and/or standardized tests).”  In actuality, candidates in the FSEHD must fulfill multiple and varied requirements to be admitted and retained:

·         maintaining a specific GPA (2.5 or higher) as determined by the program;

·         completing college-wide math and writing requirements;

·         passing the PRAXIS I and II exams, standardized tests designed by the Educational Testing Service and used by many states.  At Education Commissioner Gist’s behest, the cut scores for these exams have risen over the past several years; 

·         fulfilling the requirements of the Preparing to Teach portfolio, which includes lesson, unit and assessment plans; and

·         practice teaching in real-world classrooms, assessed by cooperating teachers and college supervisors.

Furthermore, candidates in the FSEHD have an average GPA of 3.35.  The rest of the RIC student body averages 3.07.  63% of FSEHD candidates graduate with honors, compared with 39% among the general population.  

The NCTQ authors also argue that teacher education programs do not provide appropriate training in teaching methods.  In the FSEHD, candidates in Elementary Education take five courses in teaching methods, in Reading, Language Arts, Science, Math, and Social Studies.  Candidates in Secondary Education take 3-4 different methods courses, including how to teach effectively with technology, incorporate literacy in the candidate’s discipline, and the capstone content-based methods course(s).   Throughout their educational coursework, candidates learn theories, practices, and specific skills and strategies for teaching students who vary greatly in background, familiarity with the subject, and motivation.  

In these courses, both elementary and secondary candidates spend over 90 hours in public school classrooms.   All of this happens before the student teaching semester, which is a full-time, semester-long internship.  The NCTQ Report does not address time spent in real-world classrooms, something we, along with state and national accreditation agencies, feel is essential to teacher preparation.

Our programs are aligned with state and national curricular, accreditation, and licensure standards, which the NCTQ ignores, having developed their own arbitrary set of standards.  We also continually revise these programs to meet the changing needs of students, employer expectations, and requirements of the field using empirical research and feedback from NCATE, RIDE, cooperating teachers, school districts, local business leaders, and graduates. 

Becoming a teacher is a complex process that involves not only education schools, but state departments, school districts, and communities.  These dynamic and collaborative relationships are essential to quality teacher education.  When organizations such as NCTQ fix the blame for low student achievement on one group, such as teachers or schools of education, they are oversimplifying and misrepresenting the issue.  We welcome valid, comprehensive reviews of our teacher education programs.  The NCTQ Report is neither.        

The Secrets to a Long-Term Relationship

….are, separate bathrooms and the Internet.  Of course, there are the basics that you learn about from your mom and other love gurus, such as the need for positive and thoughtful communication.  That one took us awhile.    Since Nels doesn’t lie very well, and since I used to be (ahem) sensitive about my body image, it was a clear landmine when I asked him, “does this skirt/dress/outfit make me look bovine/matronly/slutty?”  Nels did a terrific job dodging these landmines, but neither of us felt good about these exchanges.  Now, I can ask that same question and he might say something like, “It’s not particularly flattering” and then gives some specific reasons why by focusing on the outfit, not my figure.  Many problems are solved here.  My sensitivities are unruffled.  I don’t go out looking ridiculous.  Nels can feel good that he saved my ego. 

We also have different, often strong, opinions on how certain things should be done.  For example, I load the top rack of the dishwasher so that the cups fit nicely in the rows. Nels puts the cups over the tines.  It turns out this conflict goes back at least one generation, since we are merely following how each of our mothers taught us.  I argue that my way is better because you can fit more cups in.  It has never been clear why he does it the other way.  Now, we basically just put our cups in how we like to, and it all seems to work out. 

Then there is the annual argument about how to use the central air.  When it was installed, the technician told me that once the air was on, you were supposed to keep it on.  Also, you didn’t want to wait until it was too hot and humid in the day to start it.   All of this was supposed to produce less stress on the system.  That made sense to me, so I stuck with it.  This, however, did not fly with Nels.  Why turn the air on before you needed it?  Why can’t we turn it off and on as it is needed, he asked.  Our Indiana friends may think this whole turning off and on thing is crazy, because once it is hot there, it’s just plain hot.  Here in Bristol, however, it can be pleasant and cool in the mornings before the heat and humidity creep up to uncomfortable levels.  Thus, the disagreement usually begins in May and lasts through September.

We were having this discussion just last week.  Awhile after our usual impasse, Nels came to me and said, “I don’t want you to be mad, but…”  But what?  Did you wreck the car?  Did you break something expensive?  No and no.  Instead, he had gone to the Internet and found out that what the technician told me eight years ago was a myth.  The less time the air conditioning is on, the better.  Plain and simple.  Nels thought I would be mad because he was right and I was wrong.  Absolutely not.  It is such a relief to not worry about turning the air on in the heat of the day.  This is just one reason why the Internet is good for relationships.  Instead of clinging to set ways of doing things that feed into longstanding arguments, it is possible to find out the facts. 

Another secret to a happy relationship is to have separate bathrooms, especially when they are so tiny there is barely room for the tub, toilet and sink, much less a person, much less two people.  Some folks like the toilet paper to be put on the holder a certain way, object to toothpaste in the sink, are grossed out by pulling somebody else’s hair out the of the drain, or resent sharing such small space.  By having separate bathrooms, these issues do not arise, nor do I have to look at Nels’ soap ball.  What is a soap ball you ask?  Well, it’s the accumulation of months, possibly years, of bars of soap.  Having a different bathroom ensures that I do not have to find a way to wash my body with something that I can’t even fit in one hand, although I do have to pull my own hair out of the drain.        

While there is much to be said about the romance and excitement of the planning and first years of marriage, I prefer this time, 19 years in.  While we are the same at the core, we are much different people than we were the day after OJ Simpson’s wild ride in the white Bronco.  We even look different—less innocent, perhaps, and less puffy (clothes, bodies, hair).  More mature, more thoughtful toward one another. 

 

  

A Peek Inside the Mind of a Conservative

Discipline for discipline’s sake.

Take care of #1. 

I am sure all Dads have pet sayings, offerings of wisdom to give to their children.  Those are the two I remember hearing most from my dad, whom my brother Joe christened “the Waynus” as in “Waynus the Painus.”  Dad, like his two brothers, had two names growing up.  He was Floyd Wayne.  His oldest brother was John Guy.  His second oldest brother was Harley Joe.  Mom said that when she first met Dad, she thought he had four brothers because he used their first and middle names interchangeably.  Luckily, Dad was only known as Wayne.  Or maybe he didn’t think he was so lucky when my brother came up with a nickname that has stuck for 40 years.  Although Dad doesn’t seem to mind now.  He even signs his emails “The Waynus.” 

Dad will turn 83 the day after Father’s Day.  We always celebrated Father’s Day and his birthday together, and he never seemed to resent the joke gifts, like the Jimmy Carter coffee cup or the George W. Bush talking doll (my sister and I, the liberals of the bunch, like to tweak Dad for his conservative views).  I bought my favorite gift for him from K-Mart when I was in middle school.  It was a red, white, and blue mesh baseball hat, the kind with an over-sized bill, and it said, “I’M PROUD TO BE A FARMER” on the front.  To me, it was a goofy tribute to the hours he spent in his large vegetable garden, including his morning and evening strolls to see what growth might have occurred in the intervening hours.  This irritated Mother, because after work he would go out into the garden before even coming into the house.  She only knew he was home when he plopped the basket of yellow squash on the counter.    Dad wore that hat for years, un-ironically, and I began to see it that way too.  It made me sad when the thing fell apart and it had to be thrown away. 

While Dad may not have been the kind of farmer who planted acres of corn or soybeans or kept cows and hogs, he spent his summers on his grandparents’ farm in rural Jennings County in southern Indiana during the Depression.  He once told me that his ancestors were not very smart because they chose to set up farms in the clay-like soil near Commiskey and Paris Crossing, instead of moving to more fertile ground to the north or west.   To this day, he can barely keep his eyes on the road when driving south down I-69 because he’s checking out the fields.  For Dad, the health of the crops is connected to the health of the economy, and thus the health of communities, families and individuals.  You can take the boy off the farm, but not the farm out of the boy, it seems.

My dad’s favorite sayings reflect this background.  Farming requires hard work, regardless of how weather or markets affect yields or prices.   Living in the inevitably lean periods means that discipline was meted out externally, as in “Discipline for discipline’s sake.”   Dad puts great stock in self-control for all behaviors, emotions, and actions.  For him, this is almost a moral imperative, and it’s tied directly to his other favorite saying, “Take care of #1.”

I used to roll my eyes when Dad would say that.  It seemed selfish at the least, criminal at worst.  It also did not correlate with what I was learning in Sunday School, which I attended at my parents’ behest.  This is probably why Dad argued with Pastor Krueger during his own Sunday School classes, as he found the books and teachings to be far too liberal for his taste.   You’d think Dad would actually practice some of this #1 business since he said it so many times, but he did not, at least not in the literal sense.  He and Mother regularly tithed to the aforementioned church.  Another, much bigger example occurred  after  the company he worked for, Kroger, asked that he move his family from Fort Wayne (they had moved my dad’s job from Chicago to Atlanta to Cincinnati to St. Louis to Fort Wayne during the previous ten years).   Because my sister Julie was about to enter high school, Dad said no.  He took less promising positions with smaller companies to ensure that we had a sense of stability and security in the family-friendly haven of Aboite Township. 

Thus, for the Waynus, taking care of #1 does not mean taking care of oneself at the expense of others, although he is an unrepentant capitalist and the only person I have ever met who didn’t like Franklin Roosevelt.  He believed FDR ushered in an era of individual dependence on the government.   Dad is definitely a “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps” kind of guy.  To a critical researcher and teacher like myself, it is easy to claim that he is insensitive to issues of class, race, gender, etc., and believe me, we have had those arguments.  However, my dad’s stories about this topic always revolve around how much a person appreciates what she earns by working for it instead of being given it.  As an illustration, he tells the story about how his dad once said to him, “I notice you take a lot better care of your own car than you ever did of mine.”  My dad took this admonishment to heart.  His point is that it is easy to take for granted things that are given to you instead of earned. 

While it pains me to know that my parents get their news from Fox and believe that yes, while climate change might now be legitimate, it is not necessarily a result of human behavior, I do think Dad has some wisdom to offer those of us starting from a level playing field.  For him, there is nothing like the satisfaction of earning one’s way.  Taking care of #1 requires the belief and the will to take care of oneself if given the opportunity.  It means independence.  It means responsibility, and perhaps, discipline for discipline’s sake.