When my cousins and I were little we used to put on plays for our parents. Some of the plays were cleverly adapted and well rehearsed, some were not. After summers of plays we made an interesting discovery: despite obvious discrepancies in the quality of our productions, the audience’s enthusiasm remained unwavering. This led to an experiment: a one hour improvised, deliberately terrible play (basically a game of make-believe that the parents had to watch.) We wanted to see how long they would last. To our utter amusement, they lasted. They looked a little weary by the end, but they still clapped, praised our performances, and saved a copy of the program in their files.
This prompted a series of other tests of their discrimination. We made baking soda flavored cookies (mmm, these are…delicious!) we drew stick figures drawings (You could be an artist when you grow up!) we sung grating renditions of Christmas carols at family dinners. During one performance of “Silent Night,” we made our voices quiver like Whitney Houston, “siy-yi-yi-yi-lent niiiiight!” sending my one year old sister into a spasmic infant cackle. While the baby seemed aware of our joke, the parents did not. No matter what we did, they ate it up.
My parents’ generation believed that children needed not only to be seen and heard, but encouraged, coddled and applauded—every step of the way. Extravagant praise and encouragement was not limited to the home. Our classrooms were plastered with posters that said things like “The Sky’s the Limit,” “You Can Do Anything if You Put Your Mind to It!” And do anything we did. Our generation grew up learning to do all sorts of things like ice skate, play the French horn, tap dance, a few of us even learned to ride the unicycle at circus camp. As we grew older we were taught to identify with what we did, to attach self-worth to activities, to believe we are what we do. And we were told we were great. But were we great because what we did was great, or vice-versa?
While I may have exploited my parents’ generous validation of my work for kicks, I also took it to heart. For years my mother had me convinced I was a truly gifted painter. Freshmen year I took an art class and discovered otherwise. More than crushed, I was furious. How dare someone tell me I was less than brilliant?! Who did this uppity professor think she was?
I believe our parents’ investment and encouragement has left us with a skewed notion of achievement: success is no longer an incentive, it’s an expectation. I’ve spoken to many professors who say it’s not uncommon for students to come into their office in tears over a B+. Once upon a time, a B+ was a good grade. Now it’s not an A.
“Fifteen years ago students never confronted me about B’s,” one of the professors added. Fifteen years ago the self-esteem movement was at its peak in elementary schools across America. Fifteen years ago we were little kids.
When I think of having a career after college I think less what are my skills? then what am I? This does not seem unreasonable to me. After all, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” is one of the first questions grownups ask children. On the brink of graduating from college, here is what my cousins and I want to be: a politician, a minister, an actor and a writer. Our career choices smack of ambition, but also delusions of grandeur. We want a pulpit, a stage, a podium and blank pages on which to present ourselves and opinions to the world. Sometimes I wonder: are we a crop of high-achieving, self-confident individuals ready to take on the world; or a pack of narcissistic brats assuming the public will embrace us? Are we darlings or monsters? And if babies know the difference, when do parents catch on?
The parents who were once indiscriminate fans are now in-debt patrons of our liberal arts educations. As my cousins and I are approaching graduation, there is a question they like to ask: “What are your plans?”
Our answers, “run for office/preach/act/write,” usually prompt another question.
“That’s great, but what are you going to do?”
Before sending this article to Argus, I needed to have it critiqued by someone. When you ask someone to critique something you write, you ask for criticism, but what you really want is praise. I called my mother. She loved it, except for one part…the section where I said I wasn’t artistic.
“I’m not Mom. I wish I were, but I’m just not,” I told her.
“You definitely are Baby… compared to some people.”
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