No experience necessary

The waiting is over.   Well, not really.  Chester didn’t get a spot in any of the kindergartens we were interested in, so now we’re on waiting lists.  More waiting – my favorite!  For the time being, we have two options, neither of which I’m particularly happy with.  How angry does it make me to feel like I have little to no control over my child’s education?  It makes me very angry.  We are the kind of people who spent hours researching a stroller for Chester.  We’ve purchased entire cars with less time and effort than we put into selecting his first car seat.  I know what that makes me: a freak.  I admit it.  Specifically, I am a control freak.  I like having some semblance of control over what happens in my life.  This kindergarten debacle indicates that control is decidedly absent and it’s very disconcerting.  Not to mention the icky feeling that people are judging my kid.  I don’t like it.  It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.  I want to tell them to take a long walk off a short dock at the very least or, more preferably, give them a good roundhouse kick to the head.

I suppose the good news is, if we end up at our public school, I’ll be paying about $10,000 a year instead of $20,000 – yes, ten grand a year for “pay-for-K” kindergarten and before and after school care at the community recreation center.  The classes are large, the building is crowded, my kid will only get a half hour of art, music or PE a day, rotating every three weeks, but I’ll have a lot more money to spend on my jewelry obsession.   For example, I couldn’t help having an “Everything is going to be just fine,” attitude if I were wearing this lovely multi-colored diamond angel wing pendant by Sally Sohn.  There is something undeniably soothing about it, don’t you think?

Seriously though, I’m having a hard time accepting this school reality.  We make all sorts of difficult decisions and work exceedingly hard to ensure that we have enough money (sort of) to send our child to a good school and then are denied the opportunity to pay someone our $20,000 a year.  Really?  Nobody wants my twenty grand?  And we weren’t the only people scrambling to spend that kind of money.  Most of the schools we applied to had well over 100 applicants for about 10 spots.  I’m no economics expert, but clearly, there is much more demand than there is supply.  Maybe I should start a school!  Honestly, why not?  I don’t have a background in education or any training in child development, but does that really matter?  I don’t think so, and here’s why: I could bring something new and fresh to education, and when you’ve got new and fresh, who needs experience?

I’m being sarcastic.  Of course I want experienced educators as my son’s teachers, but I’ve noticed an alarming trend lately – a disregard, a disdain even, for people with years of experience and the skills that come along with that experience.  I first noticed this attitude in the realm of politics.  How many times have you heard campaign rhetoric blasting incumbents as “career politicians” – uttered like the dirtiest words imaginable.  Now I’m certainly not suggesting that incumbents are always the best candidates, nor am I implying that newcomers can’t bring great value to the political arena.  What I find interesting, and disturbing, is the tendency to use the “career politician” label as a criticism.  When I hear “career politician,” I picture this: years of service, loads of experience, a clear understanding of the system and how to work within it – all positives in my mind, which is unusual for me because, as anyone who knows me at all can attest, I am no Pollyanna.  This trend is so prevalent in politics I notice it in nearly every race these days, from the presidential election down to bids for city council.  I found it particularly egregious in Washington State Senator Patty Murray’s fall 2010 run for reelection.  Whether or not you agree with Senator Murray’s politics, you’ve got to admit, she has been doing it for a long time, and she is a respected Senator who, by all accounts, fights valiantly for her state and her constituents.   If you don’t agree with the fights she’s fighting or the side she’s taking, fine; base your arguments against her on that.  What I don’t understand is putting her down simply because she has dedicated many years to public service and has a deep understanding of how to do it.  What’s so wrong with that?

Another fine example of this anti-experience trend is Seattle’s most recent mayoral election.  Incumbent Mayor Greg Nickels, a generally well-respected and experienced mayor, lost in the primary election.  I don’t think Nickels was perfect, I mean the city got hit by that big snowstorm and he wasn’t able to snap his fingers or wave his mayor wand and melt it all away.  What kind of a mayor is that?  I expect my elected officials to be able to control Mother Nature!  (Yeah, yeah, I know, I live his neighborhood.  The streets of West Seattle were plowed and I simply cannot fathom how awful those TWO DAYS were for the rest of you delicate Seattleites.)  My point is that by the time the general election rolled around, neither of the two candidates we ended up with had any experience whatsoever running a city, much less one the size of Seattle.  It was entertaining to see the slight panic that ensued . . . “Hey!  These guys don’t know what they’re doing.  Now who do we vote for?”  Gee, didn’t anybody besides me think of that during the primary?      

I’ve noticed this trend seeping into other areas besides politics.  The City of Seattle recently hired a new director for its Office of Arts and Cultural Affairs.  This is a cabinet level position within city government.  In the weeks before the job opened, I was dismayed to see The Stranger (self-proclaimed as “Seattle’s Only Newspaper”) run a piece entitled, “Hire One of These People.” 

http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/hire-one-of-these-people/Content?oid=5136650

I don’t know any of the three candidates The Stranger was pushing.  They certainly seem to be bright, successful people.  However, all of them have one thing in common: no experience (at least none that was listed by The Stranger) working within the bureaucracy of a government agency as an arts administrator.  The Stranger doesn’t think that matters.  They seem quite certain, in their typical smug style, that vision and creativity is what it really takes to do the job successfully.  The article described the previous director as “a respected arts administrator” as if that was a bad thing, and noted that a good successor would be “a notable person, not a career bureaucrat with the right resume.”  Yeah, who needs an arts administrator for an arts administration job?  Who in their right mind would want a “career bureaucrat” heading up a bureaucratic agency?  Oh, the horror. 

I am an arts administrator and have been doing my work in a municipal government setting for well over a decade.  I guess that makes me a “career arts administrator” with no ideas and zero creativity.  Vision is great; even necessary to do this job really well, but I can tell you that people seriously underestimate the unique challenges associated with running an arts program within a government bureaucracy.  Call me crazy, but I think having someone who has experience leading a government agency would be a strong candidate for overseeing the arts program in a city as large and bureaucratic as Seattle.  Could someone who doesn’t have specific government experience do the job?  Sure.  Does it make sense to immediately rule out the “career bureaucrats” simply because they have years of experience in a similar setting?  I certainly don’t think so.

The City of Seattle recently filled the Office of Arts and Cultural Affairs Director position.  In the end, they went with . . . (wait for it) . . . a career bureaucrat.    In The Stranger’s words, Vincent Kitch is a “diplomat rather than a visionary” with a record as a “stalwart public servant.”  I have no idea if Mr. Kitch is a creative thinking visionary.  What I do know is that he has worked in arts administration for nearly 20 years, was most recently the Cultural Arts Program Manager for the City of Austin, was a program coordinator for the Michigan Council of Arts and Cultural Affairs prior to that, and also served as the Arts Program Coordinator for the City of El Paso.  Clearly he is a “career arts administrator.”  Appalling, I know.  I guess we can’t hope for anything new or fresh or visionary in Seattle. 

What is going on with this bizarre and pervasive trend?  Does it have something to do with the internet and the fact that it allows anyone and everyone to see themselves as experts, curators, music producers and movie makers?  I think the do-it-yourself capabilities that modern technology has provided are great, but let’s not forget the important contributions of people who have dedicated their lives to learning and perfecting a craft or skill-set.  What’s next?  Going to the shop girl at your corner boutique when a cavity needs filling?  Having a plumber prepare your taxes?  Looking up manicurists in the yellow pages when you need heart surgery?  Think of all the new and fresh ideas a nail technician could bring to your operation!

So, I don’t see any reason why I can’t run the finest school in Seattle.  I have lots of energy and fresh ideas.  You might even call me a visionary.  Give me your $20,000 per year . . . scratch that, I’ll do it for $15,000.  Not having a clue what it takes to operate a school allows me to be innovative.  Isn’t that great?  I’ll give your kid the newest, freshest education you can imagine.  Who needs career educators?  Please.  That’s just old and tired. 

Afternoon with an artist

His name was Luka,

He lived on the second floor,

He lived upstairs from her,

Yes, she got his mail all the time . . .

A bit of a deviation from how the song goes, but that’s how the real story went.  I know because I heard it straight from Suzanne Vega.  She told the story of “Luka,” her celebrated and heartbreaking song about child abuse, to a group of high school students in Kent, Washington. 

I presented a concert by Suzanne Vega as part of the performing arts series I produce.  In addition to her public performance, I arranged for Suzanne to conduct a workshop in a local school.  I try to incorporate these types of educational outreach activities with professional artists as often as possible.  Interacting with an artist in an intimate setting provides depth of experience that a traditional concert performance cannot.  Getting that kind of glimpse into the creative process is unique and powerful.

So, I sat in the library of Kent-Meridian High School, along with about 40 students and a handful of staff, on a chilly January afternoon while Suzanne Vega spoke openly about her art.  Listening to any artist talk about their work is interesting at the very least and usually quite compelling.  This was not just any artist.  Suzanne Vega is widely regarded as one of the most brilliant songwriters of her generation.  She is a masterful storyteller who rewrote the book on what female singer-songwriters can say and do, paving the way for artists such as Sarah McLachlan, Tracy Chapman, Shawn Colvin and the entire Lilith Fair revolution. 

I grew up listening to Suzanne Vega.  I have distinct memories of spending sunny Saturday mornings on my trampoline with Billboard’s “Top 40 Countdown” playing on the radio.  I remember practicing back flips to the relentlessly catchy “Tom’s Diner” . . . I am sitting, in the morning, at the diner, on the corner . . . I am waiting, at the counter, for the man, to pour the coffee . . . and resting to “Luka.” I knew it was a serious and sad song, even though my young mind was not entirely able to fathom the tragedy it described.

It was more than a little thrilling for me to watch Suzanne Vega interact with these students – a Grammy Award winner, an iconic voice in American song standing in a humble high school library speaking to the students with an obvious conviction that they each have the potential to achieve as much as she has achieved.  She spoke about her creative process and gave them tips on finding and honing their individual artistic voices.   She read poetry, told stories and discussed the music business. 

Suzanne Vega speaking to students at Kent-Meridian High School

She told the story of “Luka” in response to a student’s question about how long it takes her to write a song.  She explained that she had been working on the concept for “Luka” in her head for many months before she actually sat down to write it.  She knew she wanted to write a song about child abuse, from the perspective of the abused child.  There was a young boy who lived upstairs in her building named Luka Vega.  Because they had the same last name, she often received his mail by mistake.  She doesn’t think he was actually abused; he just seemed quiet and a little different from the rest of the kids, and the name seemed right for the song. 

Suzanne playing "Luka" for the students

A highlight of the afternoon was when Suzanne performed a spellbinding, a cappella rendition of “Tom’s Diner,” her voice was barely louder than a whisper and the students were transfixed.  It is important to know that this educational activity was completely optional – students chose to sign up and stay for an hour after school to participate.  It was the Friday after semester finals and I was worried no one would show up.  Not only did the students show up, they were thoroughly engaged and asked thought provoking questions.

One student who sat in the front row with his guitar was the first to raise his hand and ask a startlingly insightful question.  After the session, two separate teachers told me that the young man is typically very quiet and rarely speaks in class.  Another student was thrilled to share his original poem with Suzanne.  It happened to be his birthday.  After she autographed the poem, he walked away, beaming and saying, “This is the best birthday ever!”  The group was very diverse, including Somalian, African American, Latino, Asian and Caucasian students. Approximately 70% of the student population at Kent-Meridian participates in the free or reduced lunch program, so it is safe to assume that many of the participants were from lower-income families.  As we talked after the workshop, Suzanne described herself as a "hot-lunch kid.”  She explained that she enjoys reaching out to kids in a similar situation to help them imagine a future full of potential. 

These are the times that I truly love my job.  Unfortunately, it doesn’t always work out so well.  At some point during the process of setting up every educational outreach activity, I swear that I will never attempt it again.  “Why?” you ask; because it is nearly impossible to find someone to host the activities.  “How can that be?” you say, “Who wouldn’t want to bring such a valuable experience to their school?”  Good question.  I’ve had more than a few opportunities go unutilized because I couldn’t find anyone to take them.  I don’t mean to be too critical of teachers and administrators.  I know they have a lot going on.  Between classes and administrative demands and trainings and tests, it’s difficult to make time for extras.  But it’s so worth it when they do.  I’ve seen it time and time again, and when I call and email and knock myself out and get nowhere, I want to yell and scream and shake somebody. 

Part of the problem is the lack of a neat and tidy way to get the word out.  The Kent School District is big – 40 schools and more than 25,000 students.  I keep thinking there should be a central person to contact, or maybe even a standard group of people.  I’ve tried starting with the district arts coordinator.  I’ve tried going to the principals.  I’ve tried approaching the music, art and drama teachers.  None of these strategies work as a rule.  The only effective method is labor intensive and nerve-wracking – making repeated phone calls and emails to varying people until I happen upon the right one.  At some schools it’s a principal; at other schools it’s a teacher. 

Two schools passed on the Suzanne Vega opportunity before I finally connected with an energetic English teacher at Kent-Meridian High School.  He got excited.  He made a promotional video that he played in the cafeteria during lunch periods.  He talked it up and, as a result, nearly 40 kids showed up for an experience they will never forget.  He wrote me a thank you note the next week, saying “The world needs more artists who make themselves accessible like Suzanne Vega.”  I agree.  I also think the world needs more teachers who are willing to go the extra mile.  It required the work of a number of people to make the Suzanne Vega workshop happen – the presenter, the teacher, the artist, her agent and the tour manager.  Some people might look at the effort involved for the number of kids served and question whether it’s worth it, but they would be underestimating the impact on those 40 kids.         

I have another artist – a classical pianist named Alpin Hong – performing a concert this Friday.  He will spend Wednesday and Thursday doing school assemblies.  Alpin is a dynamic personality, not to mention a brilliant pianist.  He has a background in skateboarding, snowboarding and video gaming.  He teaches kids about classical music by showing them how it influences movie, video game and pop music.  As always, I spent a frustrating and disappointing three or four months trying to set up school performances.  I had only one of four potential assemblies scheduled and had given up on finding schools for the others until the Suzanne Vega workshop inspired me to give it one more try.  All four assemblies are now spoken for – three middle schools and one high school will host student performances this week.  Prior to Alpin’s public concert on Friday night, he will work with 1,000 students.

As I made my last-ditch-effort emails and calls, one teacher declined the opportunity, saying, “I don’t want to give up a day of rehearsal.”  I understand the importance of regular rehearsals, I really do.  I grew up dancing and playing music and performing in plays.  I get it.  But there are rehearsals every day.  Students aren’t going to go home at night and excitedly tell their parents about rehearsal.  They aren’t going to remember the rehearsal they had on Thursday, March 17, 2011 ten or twenty years later.  The things they’re going to talk about, and remember, and be inspired by are the Suzanne Vegas and Alpin Hongs, the artists who take the time to share their thoughts, skills and passion.  These unique and powerful experiences are the ones that create a spark; the ones that will be remembered.  I’m willing to keep working to make them happen.  I really wish people would quit passing them up. 

Every year my high school had a career day.  I believe we got a half-day off from our normal class schedule to learn about different professions.  The lawyers set up in the auditorium, while the medical professionals took over the gym.  Accountants, hair stylists and insurance agents filled the classrooms.  I typically found it moderately interesting even though none of the professions motivated me.  Then, one year, somebody different showed up – a screenwriter named Lorraine Williams.  Lorraine and her husband, Oscar-winning editor, director and producer Elmo Williams, had just retired to our small Oregon town.  Lorraine sat, not at the teacher’s desk in the front of the classroom, but at one of the student desks with the small group of us that gathered to hear her speak.  She was mesmerizing and I stayed there listening to her through the whole afternoon.  I’ll never forget how exciting she was, her armful of bangles jingling as she spoke passionately about the movie industry and writing.  She was an artist, talking about art and it inspired me.  I didn’t grow up to be a screenwriter, but I’ve never forgotten that day.  And, more than 20 years later, nothing says artsy sophistication to me quite like an armful of glamorous bangles.   

Lorraine Williams passed away in 2004, and even though she didn’t know me – I was just a kid, at a desk, listening to her talk about her art – I think of her often.  I’m so glad she came to our school that day and I’m so thankful somebody on the staff of my high school thought it was important enough to give her the time and space to share with us.  I have no idea what we were studying at the time or what we would have been practicing that day.  I’m sure it was all very important and that we got right back to it the next day.  I really don’t recall, but what I will always remember is that afternoon with an artist. 

Me with Suzanne after the workshop, loving my job.

The bright side

I’m a bit pessimistic.  When I was very young, I fell in love with Eeyore from the Winnie-the-Pooh books by A.A. Milne.  I longed to visit Eeyore’s continually collapsing stick house in his own little neighborhood of the Hundred Acre Wood – marked on the book’s map as “Eeyore’s Gloomy Place: Rather Boggy and Sad.”  My mom made me a stuffed Eeyore doll that I cherish to this day – he is made of gray corduroy, with a black felt mane, and he even has a tail that buttons on and off because, as every good Eeyore fan knows, he is always losing his tail.  I’m not sure why I fell hook, line and sinker for that gloomy gray donkey, but I really did.  I think part of me felt like I could cheer him up and part of me related to him.

My tendency toward pessimism, coupled with a penchant for exaggeration, often leads me to extrapolate alarming outcomes based on just a little bit of bad news.  For example, after performing somewhat poorly on the math portion of a college entrance exam, I became convinced I would fail out of college.  Friends and family members pointed out that I had performed quite well in math classes throughout my K-12 years.  That fact did not assuage my fear; I really believed a terrible outcome would come to pass.  I envisioned myself failed out of college, unemployable and living in my parents’ basement.  What actually happened is this: I took a remedial math course my first semester of college, just to brush up, and was so bored I thought I would die.  The next semester, I completed the required college level algebra course with no problems.  In fact, I worked so hard, in an effort to prevent near certain disaster, that by the time the final exam rolled around, I could have scored only 18% on the test and still passed the class.  My habit of letting a tiny bit of bad news or a potential setback lead me into temporary despair and far-flung conclusions has continued in my adult life.  Somewhere along the line, my co-workers even nicknamed me (affectionately, I think) Rain Cloud Ronda.

So, you can imagine my reaction when I received a “Sorry, your son is on the wait list” call from a kindergarten this week.  I laid awake for most of the night riding the Mommy Worry Train – the express version that goes straight from here to panic with no stops in between.  My mind raced . . .

Oh no, that’s one less option.  What if he doesn’t get into any other schools?  What if he ends up going to public school?  The classes are huge . . . the system is too rigid . . . it won’t be a fit for him . . . he’ll end up hating school . . . he’ll be bored . . . he won’t try . . . he’ll get negative feedback . . . he’ll develop poor self-esteem.  Oh my god, what if he drops out?!

At some point, my irrational rollercoaster did a hairpin turn from fear to anger . . .

How could they possibly reject Chester?  He’s sweet and smart and adorable!  What is wrong with them?  How could they not see what a wonderful addition he would be to their school? 

I should confess.  I didn’t really want Chester to go to this particular school anyway.  We only applied because many of the neighborhood kids go there, it has a good reputation and we simply wanted to have as many options as possible.  It’s a Catholic school and we are not Catholic, which I’m pretty sure is why Chester didn’t get in.  The school clearly states on their application materials that first priority is given to in-parish children, next they accept out-of-parish Catholic children, and finally, if there are any places left, they will consider heathen children like mine.  When I filled out the application, this policy seemed fairly rational, but now, as far as I’m concerned, it just goes to show that the whole operation is as self-righteous and judgmental as I’ve always suspected.

Hmmm . . . could they have rejected Chester because of me?  That’s it!  I’m sure the administrators, teachers and volunteer parents sensed the unholy nature of poor Chester’s mommy during his visit day.  Maybe I shouldn’t have gone with such a “Bride of Hell’s Angel” look that day?  Perhaps my beloved, battered motorcycle boots and favorite armful of studded bracelets turned them off?  I knew it!  I should have worn something more . . . oh, I don’t know, more . . . religious looking.  What would that have been?  Turtleneck sweater?  Puffed sleeves?  Unflattering mid-calf skirt?     

I’m reminded of a favorite family story, recounting what my father said to his teacher as he was dropped off for kindergarten many years ago.  Then five years old, my born-rebellious dad declared, “I don’t want to go to your goddamn school!”  Well said, Dad; well said.    

What’s the old saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?”  Well, let me tell you, a woman scorned has got NOTHING on a mom who feels like her kid has been slighted.  I’ve never been much of a grudge holder, but I married into a grudge holding family.  The Billerbecks take grudges to a whole new level.  They don’t hold them against each other or about nitpicky matters, but they are an intensely loyal bunch, and if they feel that one of their own has been wronged, they will never get past it.  I’ve admired their loyalty over the years, but have never felt a grudge so deeply in my core . . . until now. 

Upon hearing the news of Chester’s Catholic school rejection, my husband figured out how much money his parents put into the Catholic system over the years – a staggering total of 58 years of tuition, not to mention Sunday donations, gifts for new church windows and athletic programs, contributions to various fund raisers, and money spent on overpriced Notre Dame gear and tickets.  My brother-in-law even set up a scholarship endowment at a Catholic college.  We are currently looking into having that pulled.  Of course I’m being facetious at this point, but I AM holding a grudge.  I won’t be buying trees from the school’s Christmas tree fundraiser again, nor will I buy chocolate or magazines or whatever the neighborhood kids who attend that school are selling in the future – at least not for a couple of weeks.

I know deep down, on a rational, more optimistic level that these terrible things I predict in my dramatically pessimistic moments aren’t likely to happen.  I have a solid track record of being proven dead wrong every time I feel this way, but it doesn’t seem to prevent me from keeping it up.  I worry about passing this tendency, this quirk, this neurotic behavior – call it what you will – along to my son.  For the most part, Chester’s personality seems to be a small, boy version of mine.  In fact, he’s a little carbon copy in most instances.  The good news is he seems to have a natural optimistic streak that I do not.

The other night, as I was seething over the rejection phone call, Chester was watching one of his favorite animated films – “How to Train Your Dragon.”  At the end of the movie, the main character loses one of his feet in a heroic battle with a gigantic and very mean dragon.  Chester watched intently as the character attempted to walk on his new Viking-style prosthetic foot.  He said, “Losing your foot would be really bad, right Mommy?”  “Yes, Chester, it would be bad, but it is something that people overcome.” (See, I’ve got a little optimism in me.)  He thought for a while and then said, “You know what the really fun part would be?”  I responded, “No, what would be fun about losing your foot?”  He smiled and said, very proudly, “You wouldn’t have to trim your toenails anymore!”  Now that’s what I call looking on the bright side!  

Kindergarten isn’t going to get Chester out of having his toenails trimmed, but with optimism like that, I’m sure he’ll find a way to cope.  Now that I’ve had some time to stew and an opportunity to vent, I’m feeling a little more optimistic myself.  I’m taking a cue from Chester and looking on the bright side.  He’s a good kid.  He’s got parents that care.  He’s probably going to be fine wherever he ends up for kindergarten.  And besides, we didn’t want him to go to that goddamn school anyway.   

Money for art for everyone

In my professional life, I direct a suburban arts commission and present performing arts events.  As you might expect, I tend to follow discussions about arts policy, funding and marketing. 

Seattle’s NPR station recently ran a series on the role of public funding in the arts.  In the third report, KUOW’s Marcie Sillman explores both money (or, more accurately, the shortage of it) and where traditional arts fit within a society that has more and more access to arts and entertainment at the click of a mouse or touch of a screen.  The full transcript is at http://kuow.org/program.php?id=22340          

I am very interested in, although not completely sold on, the idea of audience development through curatorial involvement.  I have mixed feelings similar to those expressed by Choreographer and Spectrum Dance Theater Artist Director, Donald Byrd.  I think the vote-for-your-favorite model (à la American Idol) generally nudges the product more toward entertainment than art, especially in the long run.  My hunch is that this strategy might work better for what I would consider “niche” organizations like On The Boards that have a relatively narrow audience.  (The staff at OTB might argue with me about that assumption, but my point is, everyone who goes to OTB has at least a cursory interest in contemporary performance art and that, as anyone who does arts work in the ‘burbs knows, is a highly narrow interest.)  So, inviting audiences to have some curatorial power within that niche might make some sense.  I definitely see the value in getting audiences personally invested.  However, I don’t see how it would work for me, as a municipal arts presenter.  My mandate is to serve a broad range of people.  Allowing my series patrons more curatorial power would likely result in future seasons that are increasingly focused on only the genres for which we already have established audiences.  But can we, as a City agency, feel good about focusing only on folk music, for example?  I don’t think so.

The combination of marketing challenges, decreasing government funding and the uncertainty of the recession has definitely created a precarious environment for arts organizations.  We are all doing a lot of serious thinking about ways to evolve.  What I don’t buy into is a one-size-fits-all approach.  Ideas that work for smaller, younger organizations may not be the same ideas that work for larger organizations or government agencies.  Strategies that are successful in urban areas might fail in suburban and rural settings.  Everybody has to balance their unique combination of environment, resources, political realities, constituents and, ultimately, art. 

Lately, I’ve noticed “arts insiders” (whatever that means) making comments that are, quite frankly, not helpful in this challenging time of dwindling resources, increased competition and uncertainty.  I recently talked to a colleague who does advocacy work in Washington D.C. and a similar dynamic is at work there.  We expected Tea Partiers to attempt drastic cuts, but little did we know President Obama would be the first to suggest a cut to the National Endowment for the Arts.  The situation becomes even more challenging when national scale “arts insiders” add to the problem, like NEA Chairman Rocco Landesman suggesting there are too many arts organizations, and the Kennedy Center’s Michael Kaiser jumping in to say not only are there too many, but they aren’t of good quality.  Is this an intelligentsia of the art world?  Some sort of cool kids club of skeptical, naysayers?   

Why are the larger, more institutionalized arts organizations getting criticism for trying to reach out to younger audiences?  Just because there aren’t legions of young people scrambling to get tickets to the Seattle Symphony doesn’t mean that classical music has lost all value or that there aren’t plenty of young people who would identify with those “same old products” if they only had the opportunity to be exposed to them.  Maybe it isn’t that the large organizations are necessarily doing something “wrong” (i.e. they’re established and big and mainstream and they have to pay the bills), but that, between our education system and modern entertainment options, young people aren’t even getting a chance to experience what they do. 

My friend and colleague Jim Kelly (Director of King County’s arts agency, 4Culture) tells a wonderful story about his son.  For years, he tried to get his son involved in various sports, but nothing clicked.  When Seattle’s Benaroya Hall opened, Jim brought his son along to one of the opening events where the Northwest Boy Choir happened to be singing in the lobby.  His son was transfixed watching the group and immediately wanted to get involved.  Jim says that experience changed his son’s life, “He heard this great choir and said ‘I want to do that.’”  Jim’s son went on to study music and is now preparing to graduate from college and embark on a career in the music industry.  His inspiration didn’t happen because he chose to go to an event that he thought was cool or because he was involved in creating the art or selecting the artist, it was a random exposure to something put on by one of those big, antiquated organizations that created a spark for him.

I’m not sure how effective this idea of thoroughly involving audiences, from making curatorial decisions to determining marketing plans, is anyway.  I mean, it’s a good concept, but who, as an audience member, has time for that?  I don’t buy albums any more either, but I don’t have time to do Lane Czaplinski’s (On The Boards Artistic Director) work for him.  I just want to go out and see a great performance.  Besides, I don’t think he needs me to do it for him – he’s obviously an expert on contemporary performance.

Artists and organizations – even younger, leaner ones – have always needed money to create and disseminate their work.  Suggestions that public funding isn’t necessary or important to the arts are disturbing to me.  Do we want to go back to the days when artists depended on rich, private citizens to make their art?  Who has the curatorial power then? 

It’s true – artists are driven to make art and find each other and connect with audiences who want to experience art, but we WILL lose something if public support for the arts is lost.  We already have lost something in the way of arts education and it is showing.  How many young people will we lose – both as future audience members and as productive members of society – if they never have the chance to be exposed to the arts?  Many kids aren’t going to know how to, or that they even want to, seek out the arts unless they are given chances to experience it in their schools, parks and town squares.  Of course there will be a few who struggle through to find, enjoy and make art, but is a few enough?  I don’t think it is.  It takes public funding to infuse our communities with arts experiences and to reach more than a few. 

I don’t think another round of funding cuts will “destroy” art in America, but it will very likely change art in America and I’m not sure those changes will be good.  Yes, artists will always exist and they will always make art and there will probably always be people that seek it out.  But does that mean we don’t need to worry about funding for arts?  That’s like saying, “There will always be poverty and hunger and disease, but there will also always be kind people who find ways to help, so we don’t need to worry about funding for services or research.”

Perfect

Today I do not feel like a super hero.  Today I do not even feel like a relatively competent human being.  I am weary and worn down by the single parenting gig.  I’m not an actual single parent.  I’m married to the father of my son.  The problem is that my husband is on the opposite side of the earth for his job a good 25% of the time.  I’ve been at it for a week and a half now and I’m tired.  I’m tired of being asked a hundred questions a day and being disagreed with every time I answer.  I’m tired of running interference as my son runs, jumps, twirls and weaves down the sidewalk, annoying and nearly injuring unsuspecting pedestrians as he goes.  I’m tired of hearing myself say “no,” “don’t” and “stop.”  I’m tired of having to ask at least ten times for him to do anything I need him to do, whether it’s getting dressed, sitting down for dinner, brushing his teeth or getting in the car.  And speaking of the car, I’m tired of it smelling like a horrible combination of dirt, stale goldfish crackers and something unidentifiable, but sickly sweet.  I’m tired of getting exasperated and rolling my eyes or giving my son a sideways glance, only to see the saddest look on his face as he says, “Sorry, Mommy.”  I hate myself in those moments for not being better, more patient, more understanding, more . . . perfect.

Yes, I have a perfection problem.  Not only do I believe it exists, I also believe that I should be able to personally attain and maintain it in every facet of my life, at all times.  Rationally, I know it isn’t possible and people who care about my sanity remind me of that all the time.  But still, against the odds and despite all evidence to the contrary, I still believe.  I want to believe.  Just like I held onto the manifestations of a belief in Santa Claus long after the actual belief had evaporated from my young mind.  Or how a part of me is holding out hope that unicorns and dragons (friendly ones, of course) exist somewhere, in a beautiful secret garden where no one will ever find them.  The fact that perfection is so elusive makes it that much more perfect. 

I seem to have passed this futile, but tenacious, search for perfection along to my son.  A couple of weeks ago, I observed him playing with a piece of cardboard and foolishly suggested that he decorate it as a shield to protect himself from the bad guys he was heroically battling.  He lit up and may have even said something along the lines of “Great idea, Mommy” as he ran to get his markers and crayons.  I prided myself on my clever parenting move, thinking “Excellent work, Ronda.  That will keep him busy for at least your whole shower!”  I was sorely mistaken.  Instead of happily drawing and decorating his shield, he became immediately frustrated that he couldn’t draw a “perfect” shield shape.  I encouraged him to keep trying.  His dad tried to help by drawing a sample shield, but that backfired in a big way.  “I can’t do it!” Chester wailed.  “I can’t make it as perfect as Daddy’s . . . WAAAAAAAH!”  Instead of enjoying a peaceful and efficient shower, I spent the next half hour trying to convince Chester that his daddy is a professional “drawer” and, as such, has been practicing diligently for many, many years.  This information did not help, but I persisted. 

“Chester, how old is Daddy?” 

“He’s, he’s, he’s . . . (sniff, sniff) . . . 47.” 

“And how old are you, Chester?” 

“I’m . . . (gasp, choke, sniff) . . . fuh, fuh, fuh, four.” 

“That’s right.  So how much longer has Daddy been drawing?”  (Hey, might as well work in a little math lesson.) 

“I, I, I . . . (sniff, sniff) . . . I don’t know . . .” 

“Forty-three years, Chester.   Daddy has been practicing for 43 years longer than you.” 

“(Sniffle, sniffle) . . . Waaaaaaaaaah . . . but it’s not, per, per, per, PERFECT!” 

At this point, we gave up and watched helplessly as he continued crying.  He sobbed desperately, as though he had just been told he would never eat ice cream or play with his friends again.  It is important to note that the outline of Chester’s shield, the one that was so egregiously “not perfect” in his mind was, in fact, nearly perfect.  One teeny-tiny line crossed over the edge of another line, keeping the shield from achieving the much sought after perfection.  Poor kid – I know from experience that he will still be struggling with this in 30 years.  After he finally calmed down, I held him tight, kissed his soft hair and gently said, “Buddy, there’s no such thing as perfect.”  (At least that’s what they tell me.)  I believe it was after this shield drawing debacle that my husband pronounced it will be my responsibility to teach Chester that perfection does not exist.  I think I heard him mumbling something like, “It will be good for you too.”       

If an effort to prepare for my daunting assignment, I decided to determine the exact, dictionary definition of “perfect.”  My battered Webster “handy college dictionary” defines perfect as follows:  1, complete in every detail.  2, without defect; flawless.  3, of the highest type.  4, exact, precise.  5, thoroughly learned or skilled. 

With that definition in mind, I acquiesce; chasing perfection is indeed a recipe for frustration and disappointment in the most ideal of circumstances.  It’s even worse when things get stretched.  Take for example the solo parenting.  I’m trying to single-handedly be a perfect parent, do a perfect job at work, keep the house in perfect order and keep myself in perfect shape.  This does not end well.  Perfection is not achieved.  I end up feeling like I’m doing everything poorly.  My friend and former colleague Kelly Shuttleworth, a fantastic artist agent, mother of three and all around gracious and likeable person once told me something I’ll never forget.  I was chatting with her at a conference shortly after having had my son.  We were talking about life and work and parenting and I, feeling overwhelmed, said, “How in the world do you do it with three kids, Kelly?” and she said, “Well, I’ll tell you my secret.”  I caught my breath, my heart beat a little faster.  I couldn’t believe somebody was finally going to tell me “the secret!”  This was what I’d been waiting for.  Wide-eyed, I leaned in a bit and listened intently as she said, matter-of-factly, “I don’t do anything well.”  Now, I don’t think this was entirely true in her case, because I had first-hand knowledge of Kelly doing her job really well and, just judging from the kind of person she is, I’m guessing she was doing much better than she thought in the other areas too, but I got her point.  “The secret” made a lot of sense.  So much sense that I was pretty sure I didn’t like it.

OK, OK, I get it, there’s no such thing as perfect.  Every day provides me with plenty of proof.  As if my parenting challenges weren’t enough, I feel like my house is falling apart.  I walk through the door and feel like George Bailey from “It’s a Wonderful Life” in the scene where he comes home to his perpetually ramshackle house and tries to rest his hand on the decorative banister knob on top of the stairs, only to have it fall off for what is probably the thousandth time.  I intensely identify with his urge to throw the damn thing across the room.  I mean, come ON, with everything that poor guy is dealing with, does the knob have to keep falling off?!  And with all the things I’ve got going on, with all the perfection I’m trying to achieve here, does the toilet have to keep leaking no matter what I do?  Do the 25-year-old hardwood floors have to keep giving me slivers every time I dare to walk across them barefoot?  Do my son’s crayons and colored pencils have to keep rolling across the sloped floor and slipping into the crack between the floor and the baseboard?  Apparently the answer is, “Yes.  Yes, they do.”  Perfect this is not.

I’m working on getting more comfortable with this idea of doing a lot of things pretty well; or at least well enough to get by.  I know I need to, for my son’s sake and for my own sanity.  God knows I don’t want to end up like Natalie Portman’s Nina in Black Swan, smiling radiantly, even as she is bleeding to death, uttering her final, satisfied words, “I was perfect . . .”   

I’m trying.  I really am, but it’s hard for me.  (If you read my last blog post, you know that I like to pretend I’m a superhero.)  So I’ve been thinking, perhaps I just need to tweak my expectations ever so slightly.  Maybe I can still believe in perfect . . . in small doses.  Maybe there can be bits of perfection amid imperfection.  Maybe I can have perfection, just not perfection in every area, at all times. 

Take these gorgeous rings by celebrity jewelry designer Cathy Waterman, for example.  I don’t mean she designs jewelry for celebrities, although she certainly does – many Cathy Waterman pieces have been trotted down the red carpet over the years.  I mean she IS a celebrity in the jewelry world.  I’ve been admiring her jewelry for at least a decade.  Her work is very feminine and romantic – featuring intricate geometric designs and natural elements such as leaves, flowers and branches.  These rings seem like a bit of a departure, a little more bold and tough, but with the trademark Cathy Waterman loveliness.  One is 22-carat gold, with platinum and pavé diamond detail.  The other is platinum and pavé with a diamond center stone.  Just the thought of how wonderful they would look stacked together makes me giddy (and giddiness is something I’ve been a little short on over the past week and a half).  I love the pyramid shapes and how, depending on the angle of the light, they cast different shadows – sometimes you see triangles, sometimes squares.   

These rings are at once delicate and strong; they are exquisite, but not too precious; they are . . . perfect.  See, perfection does exist, if only in tiny glimmers.  I’ll take what I can get.

Let's Pretend

To begin, let’s pretend that I’m a superhero with amazing powers and an even more amazing super-suit.  The suit is skin tight (but stretchy, of course, for ease of movement), black and shiny, with a subtly studded belt and a motorcycle jacket.  My fans admire its “sleek punk” vibe.  It definitely does not feature a cape.  No capes. 

I’m currently pursuing a gang of ruthless bad guys.  Let’s call them The Raccoons, because they are, in fact, raccoons.  They are cold-blooded criminals, prowling through neighborhoods in the darkest hours, over-turning the trash cans of innocent citizens and viciously scattering the rancid contents across previously peaceful driveways, yards, decks and patios.  This time they messed with the wrong house – my house, which is not really a house at all, but rather a sophisticated superhero lair.       

I’m stalking them, tracking their every scampering move, staking them out, pausing only for daycare drop-offs, latte stops and maybe a yoga class.  I will find them, and when I do, they will quiver in their little raccoon masks.  They will see my thigh high, stiletto boots standing above them and they will know the gig is up.  They’ll freeze, mid-chew, expired hotdogs and rotten apple cores poking from their mouths, and hold their tiny clawed hands in the air.  My dangerously stylish super-suit and steely glare will be enough to send them scurrying, but only after apologizing profusely and promising never to return.  How does a raccoon apologize, you ask?  I have no idea, but we’re pretending, remember?  Work with me here.

Yes, I just finished cleaning my backyard, in the pouring rain, after a particularly brutal raccoon attack.  In reality, this was an activity not well-suited for the wearing of high heels, silk blouses or even sleek-punk super-suits, but I am very good at pretending and always have been.  As an only child, I did not have opportunities to plot Lego revenge raids or kidnapped-doll rescues.  My friends had siblings who occasionally came in handy for these purposes, but more often than not, I had to pretend. 

Sometimes I seamlessly slip into pretending without letting people around me know.  Occasionally there are enough clues or perhaps the people are very good pretenders themselves and they catch on.  Other times, it seems to confuse people.  (“What?  She’s really a superhero?  I had no idea?  Is that why she’s never around when the raccoons show up?”)  Speaking of confusing people by pretending, I was observing my son’s swimming lesson a couple of weeks ago and the instructor was teaching the kids how to alternately put their faces in the water to blow bubbles and then turn their faces to the side to take a breath.  I thought he was being quite clever, telling them to put their mouths in the water to “talk to the fish” and to then put their ears in the water to “listen to the fish.”  One little girl seemed particularly perplexed.  She peered into the water and asked, “Are there fish in there?”  “Oh yes, they’re swimming around under the water,” the instructor said.  “I don’t see any fish,” she replied.  “They’re down there, really deep,” the instructor persisted, “that’s why we can’t see them from up here.”  She gave him the skeptical, world-weary look of a person ten times her age and asked, “Are we pretending?”  I’m learning that it’s a good idea to offer formal notice upon entering pretend world. 

So, even though the contributions are not yet rolling in to fund my pretend run for the presidency, I’m going to discuss the first issue that I, as pretend president, would like to tackle.  Legions of loyal followers (still pretending), we have some serious problems with our education system.  I’m not even talking about teachers, unions, curriculum or funding, although I realize there are issues around all of those and that each piece of the system comes to play in the discussion of any other piece.  For now, I just want to highlight the overall structure and the fact that it is an abysmal fit for modern families and society.   This is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, as I’m preparing to send my son to kindergarten in the fall. 

I started the process of researching, touring and applying in the fall and am still at it.  Yes, I’m talking about kindergarten.  I’ve already spent more time and effort on my son’s kindergarten decision than I spent on my own college selection process.  I swear I’m not one of those moms scheming to get her child into “the best” kindergarten.  I just want to make the right decision for my son.  He loves school right now and I don’t want that to change.  I love the idea of public school, but there are some concerns; namely enormous classes.   I simply cannot comprehend (not even in a pretend world) how ONE teacher can effectively teach a group of 28 five year olds.  There also seems to be an unnecessary emphasis on test scores, test scores, test scores.  I’m worried about how those two factors are going to work out for a very energetic, talkative little boy.

We’ve looked at public schools, private schools and parochial schools.  They each have unique cultures, benefits and drawbacks, but share the same structure that schools in our country have had for generations – something in the neighborhood of a 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. school day and summers off.  This strikes me as antiquated, anachronistic even.  I doubt very many contemporary families still need extra help during the summer to harvest crops.  And for what modern, dual-job family is 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. a “full day?”  So, in addition to selecting a school, I need to figure out child care for before school, after school and summers.     

The private schools we’re looking at have guaranteed before and after school care, which is one of the reasons they are appealing.  This comes with an extra price tag, of course, and I quickly figured out that tuition numbers are misleading.  Sometimes tuition includes before school care, but not after school care.  Sometimes it doesn’t include either.  Some schools have reasonable tuition, but outlandish before and after care prices.  I needed to compare apples to apples, so I made a spreadsheet.  As expected, public school is the most affordable option, but here’s the kicker – it will cost more than $9,000 per year to send my child to public school.  (That’s above and beyond my tax dollar contribution, which I am in no way bemoaning.)  Yep, between the state of Washington’s “Pay for K” full-day kindergarten program, before and after care (since “full day” isn’t even close to a full day) and a standard summer program, it’s going to cost nearly ten grand!

And there’s more bad news.  Enrollment in the before and after school program associated with our public school is based on a lottery system.  I have to wake up in the wee hours, trudge to my neighborhood community center, draw a number and hope my child gets a spot.  If he doesn’t, we will be forced to go with a private school option, because, like many modern families, we don’t live near extended family.  No grandma’s house as a backup for us.  Here’s the extra-special complication:  Private school tuition deposits to secure a spot are due in late March, assuming Chester gets into one of them.  The public school before/after care lottery doesn’t happen until May.  That means I need to add an additional $1,000 or so onto the cost of public school, just as insurance.

This isn’t working for me, and I’m guessing it isn’t working for a lot of other people either.  I would love to see our schools structured to address the schedules and challenges of the times in which they’re operating.  We should have year-round school, with strategically placed breaks for holidays and to allow for family vacations.  Schools should have built-in full day programs for all families who need them, with the definition of “full day” being based on a standard 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. workday and some commuting time.  I know the budget implications are staggering.  I know there will be union negotiation nightmares.  I admit I don’t have all those details worked out yet, but I’m going to pretend that I will figure it all out as I go along.  (See how great the pretending works?!)  I know I’m suggesting a profound societal change, but I think it’s time. 

So, wish me luck.  With a flash of black leather, I’m off – leaping tall buildings in one stiletto-step, making sweeping education reform and battling raccoon riff raff.

Anyone can be president

My four and half year old son Chester asks a lot of questions.  That’s an understatement.  His questions come in a near constant stream, typically increasing in complexity and leaving whoever he is assailing bewildered and exhausted, their confidence in having a rudimentary base of knowledge about anything gravely wounded. 

Chester’s preschool class recently went on a field trip to a nearby theater to see a live performance of “Jack and the Beanstalk.”  Chester settled into the front seat on the passenger side of the bus, with a perfect view of the dashboard and easy access to the bus driver.  As the teachers herded the other four and five year olds onto the bus and got them buckled into their seats, Chester started in on the poor, unsuspecting driver . . . 

“What makes the bus go?  Is it just like a car, but bigger?  Does the bus need gas to go?  Does the bus drink the gas into its tummy?  Where is its mouth?  Why is the bus yellow?  What if it was blue?  Would it still go if it was blue?  Is the steering wheel hard to turn?  How does the steering wheel make the whole bus turn?  What is that button for?  What if somebody pushed it right now?  How does the door open?  Is there a stop sign on the side of the bus?  How is it attached?  What makes it come out?  Can buses crash?  What if the bus crashed?  Would it dead our bodies if the bus crashed?  Why do people die?” 

You get the idea.  The exasperated bus driver finally exclaimed, “Kid, you ask a lot of questions!”  Overhearing this interaction, teacher Helen stepped in and made formal introductions, “Oh yes, this is Chester.  It isn’t a good day for Chester unless he learns ten new things.”  To which the driver replied, “Ten?  He’s asked me at least 20 questions already.”

I’ve answered (or attempted to answer) questions that started out simple enough but ended up leading me into realms of complex physics, biology, geology, chemistry, anthropology, religion and philosophy.  I’ve tackled “Where do babies come from?” and “Where did the kitty go when he died?”  I’m desperately hoping that young Chester soon moves on from his current fixation on mortality.  I’ve stood with him, gripping his small hand tightly, on the top level of malls, atop bridges and at the edge of overlooks more times than I can count, explaining over and over again, in excruciating detail, what would happen if one were to fall over the edge.

This morning, as we were eating breakfast, Chester launched his first question of the day, “Mommy, who is our president right now?”  I, still bleary eyed, not having consumed any caffeine yet, silently thanked my lucky stars for an easy one.  Before I could even answer, he shouted, “Wait!  Wait!  I know!  It’s Barrack Obama!”  What luck – I didn’t even have to answer!  “There is a God,” I thought.  (Well, I’m not sure about that, but you know what I mean.)  I savored the next two seconds of sweet silence before the questioning resumed . . .

“So, can anyone be the president?”

“Well . . . yeah, hypothetically, anyone can be president.”

“Could Daddy be the president?”

“Yes, I suppose it’s possible that he could be.”

“Could you be the president?”

“There isn’t anything saying I couldn’t be, but there has never been a woman president of our country before.”

“Why?”

“That’s a good question, Chester.”

I saw the next few moments of silence, while his little brain processed, as an educational opportunity.

“You know, our current president is kind of special in a historical sense.”

“He is?”

“Yes, Barrack Obama is the first black person to be president.”

“What’s a black person?”

“Well, you know Mr. Marlon at your school?”
“Yeah . . .”

“You know how his skin is darker than yours?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Barrack Obama is a black man like Mr. Marlon.”

“Mommy!  Mr. Marlon is NOT black, he’s BROWN!”

Hmmmm . . . good point.  I was wondering how to address that one when he asked, “Do you have to be smart to be president?”  I frantically scrolled through the presidents in my mind – I got flashes of brilliance (“Four score and seven years ago . . .”) and not-so-brilliant (“I know how hard it is for you to put food on your family.")  I wasn’t sure what to say.  I answered slowly and carefully, “Well . . . the president doesn’t necessarily have to be smart, but I think he or she should be.”

As it turns out, not just anyone can be president.  There are, of course, some requirements and restrictions.  The Constitution mandates that, to be eligible for the office of president, one must be a natural born citizen of the United States, at least thirty-five years old and have been a permanent resident in the United States for at least fourteen years.  There is nothing about being smart or even mentally sound.  Wow, I CAN be president! 

I suppose the lack of any sort of intelligence standard explains why our presidential history reflects a fair amount of diversity in that particular area.  I don’t see any mention of color or gender as requirements either.  So, by the same line of reasoning, shouldn’t we have had a woman president by now?    

With that in mind, I’m pulling out my old 8^th grade ASB presidential campaign materials and tuning them up.  (One of my carefully crafted campaign buttons is pictured below.  Brilliant, no?) 

Campaign contributions are greatly appreciated and I promise I won’t use them to buy shoes.  Or jewelry.  Or this fantastic Vince cowl neck blouse, even though it would be extremely versatile on the campaign trail, taking me seamlessly from daytime speechifying to nighttime fundraising events.  I promise.  And just like every good politician, I keep my campaign promises.