Recently, in that shard of time between walking his dinner plate to the kitchen sink, then walking to his bedroom to do his homework (or something) behind closed doors, I tried to catch my teen’s attention:
Me: “Mom’s got four new stories she’s shopping around to editors.”
He: “Did I ask you?”
No, he didn’t. My fifteen-year-old doesn’t ask me much beyond “When’s dinner?” and “Did you do laundry?”
My teen’s most recent conversation-killer got me asking myself What is it, exactly, that I love so much about teenagers?
After all, I have two teens of my own, and still choose to interact with another two thousand, as a teacher’s aide in a public high school. What is it about those seven years when small humans mushroom and loom over their authority figures, when hairy roots sprout from slender stems, and a fungal earthiness permeates the classroom? As the synapses in the frontal lobes of the adolescent brain undergo serious snipping, mouths open unedited, hands jerk forkfuls of gravied rice across the oilcloth, and wet towels ball up on the bathroom floor. These refining young forms on the fringe of adulthood are finding their voices, their peer groups and their lost AirPods. So yes, it’s these tender hearts and distracted brains that melt me, but there are some specific gifts teenagers give me daily that make me appreciate them 24/7.
New Expressions
“I’m Gucci.” (I’m good.) “Facts” (This is true.) ”I’m Dead-Ass” (I’m serious.) “That teacher’s wilding.” (She’s lost it.) “She’s getting me tight.” (She’s making me mad.) It’s not likely I’ll ever use any of them, but I enjoy hearing them, and they’re a lot fresher and more precise than that overused adjective of my generation “AWESOME!” which should be reserved for describing the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls.
!Fashion!
Heads dyed cobalt, cotton candy, and egg yolk bob downstairs to the cafeteria. Razored denim hangs by threads. Moto track suits, Madonna hoodies, and Chuck Taylors with painted hearts. False lashes, like caterpillars in April, hatch on eyelids everywhere, and raspberry berets are making a comeback. So are acid wash jeans and cheap body spray. All good.
Music
Last May, my supervisor reassigned me from a ninth-grader I’d been supporting all year, to a senior at risk for not tossing his tassel to the sky alongside his classmates on graduation day. When you’re the last pitcher on the mound in the game of High School, the commencement “closer” in June, to an eighteen-year-old shipping off to basic training in August, you’re throwing your last three outs to his unfinished final assessments in charcoal drawing, algebra and The Marriage of Figaro. But after a while, you and your kid both get sick of comic opera, and he builds you a playlist of Barrington Levy, Jah Mason, and Tarrus Riley—three legends in Jamaican reggae. Where have these dancehall stars been all my life? That playlist was the soundtrack of my summer.
Exuberance
Have you ever seen sophomores shoot footballs through basketball hoops? Or leap from a gymnasium floor to a top bleecher? How about when they roll down a hallway between classes, like a spilled sack of Spaldeens, bouncing against one another, slapping palms and hugging with post-game pandemonium?
Well if you haven’t yet, I hope you do someday, because when you see any of that, or when you get that come-from-behind embrace from the sixteen-year-old you helped unpack the stages of cellular respiration, then whatever bad day you were having, you aren’t anymore.
Truth
During a lesson in Living Environment on homeostasis this happened:
Teacher: “Pretend it’s cold out, and you’re out in the snow without a jacket. What part of your body stays the warmest?”
Student: “Your penis.”
And the funny thing is he was dead-ass, he didn’t get that his comment was “inappropriate,” that adjective adults love to like to put on free expression that pokes fun at conformity. Watching kids play in the adult world reminds me of how I’ve learned to edit my own authenticity in the name of nicety. Teenage bluntness inspires me to unlearn all those euphemisms and little white lies that block me from having real experiences with people. Teens teach me to be bolder and truer with people. Cause when it comes down to it, I crave that connection that only comes when I tell the whole truth.
Open Minds
Here’s a biggie. Teens are not as hung up on aging as the rest of us. I’m their Grandma’s age and that’s just fine. They love their Nanas who stirs up pots of meatballs or oxtail, play Rummy 500, curse, and give hugs that mean business. When a teenager asks me straight up, “How old are you?” and I answer, straight up, “54,” I’m not insulted. They’re not being rude. They’re just trying to get my looks, words and actions to jibe with what they already know about adulting. There’s no problem with my short skirts, stacked shoes and leg warmers. And if some kids seem surprised to see me drop and do ten in PE, they get over it quickly and drop to catch up.
It’s 6:30. He blows through door, shedding his coat and keys.
He: “Where’s dinner? I’m starved. You never feed me.”
Me: “Wash your hands.”
He: “Did I get a package?”
Yes, he did. The new white Nikes arrived. Good thing, the old pair was really only good for taking out the trash.
—
