a life of prose.
The other night I called up my dad to ask him for some advice on this little electronic tinkering project I was undertaking. The details are banal and unimportant (especially since he validated the direction I was planning to take with it), but it led into a more general conversation in which I mentioned that I had been looking into Creative Writing MFA's...again.
I was on speaker phone, and I could hear the awkward reluctance in both my parents' expressions of "support."
"You two aren't very thrilled about me going to art school, are you?" I asked.
What my dad said next was almost perfectly fatherly. I don't think Mike Brady could have done any better than Mike Evans.
"It doesn't matter what I think, Matt. The great thing about being the parent of adult children is that my job is done! I raised you, made sure you got an education, and now the decisions are all yours. I just get to sit back, support you when I can, and enjoy."
I feel pretty good about that. My decisions, my life, all with the bonus of supportive parents. My childhood was hardly without blemish (or trauma, for that matter), but fortune led me to a fine place.
But a fine place is still far from perfect. As rock solid as all this seems, I could topple Everest with just the right application of anxiety and doubt. Now I wonder, if the guy who changed my diapers and wiped the drool from my mouth for years thinks I'm now capable of handling the world, why don't I feel capable? If my own dad sees me as an adult, why don't I?
Whatever my position on the subject on my own life, it's nice to know they've got my back - especially since I plan on studying fiction primarily, rather than poetry. My dad was relieved at that. He "just never could get into that stuff."
I was on speaker phone, and I could hear the awkward reluctance in both my parents' expressions of "support."
"You two aren't very thrilled about me going to art school, are you?" I asked.
What my dad said next was almost perfectly fatherly. I don't think Mike Brady could have done any better than Mike Evans.
"It doesn't matter what I think, Matt. The great thing about being the parent of adult children is that my job is done! I raised you, made sure you got an education, and now the decisions are all yours. I just get to sit back, support you when I can, and enjoy."
I feel pretty good about that. My decisions, my life, all with the bonus of supportive parents. My childhood was hardly without blemish (or trauma, for that matter), but fortune led me to a fine place.
But a fine place is still far from perfect. As rock solid as all this seems, I could topple Everest with just the right application of anxiety and doubt. Now I wonder, if the guy who changed my diapers and wiped the drool from my mouth for years thinks I'm now capable of handling the world, why don't I feel capable? If my own dad sees me as an adult, why don't I?
Whatever my position on the subject on my own life, it's nice to know they've got my back - especially since I plan on studying fiction primarily, rather than poetry. My dad was relieved at that. He "just never could get into that stuff."