Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)
Never Too Soon to Choose a Career, Son
There are still a few career paths out there that won't require a paper hat and a name tag.By Bob Wire, 4-27-11
"Pull It Surprise, here I come."
Discover your future! That’s what the pamphlet said. I feared another Herbalife come-on until I realized that it was from the Gifted Education program, and addressed to Rusty, my 14-year-old bag of hormones and high fructose corn syrup.
I snapped him out of his Halo trance and waved him over. “Hey, brainiac, looks like you got some choices for this egghead conference at the U next month. They have this thing called ‘Discovery Showcase’ where you can work on a project at home either independently or with a small group.”
Rusty thumbed the brochure, raised his eyebrows and poked out his lower lip approvingly. “Cool. We could do a…”
I showed him my palms. “Whoa, there, buddy boy. By ‘we,’ do you mean one of the group activities?”
“Yeah, dad.” He poked at the creased sheet of goldenrod bond. “Says right here you can work with a small group at home.” He looked at me expectantly, like I was going to say something like, sure, here are the keys to the Camaro.
I hitched up my pants and crossed my arms over my chest. “Well, I hope your dog knows how to handle a pair of Vise-Grips, boy, because I have paid my debt to society, and that includes getting involved in any esoteric junior high school projects that involves me using my expensive tools to…”
“No, dad,” he laughed. “I’m not building a geyser for the science fair. This is different. There are lots of choices. Look, they have a course where they teach business principles and how to apply them.”
I snatched the paper from his hand. “Hmm. ‘Kid’s Biz. Business ideas you can implement now. Kids will leave with an actionable business plan.’ Well, I’m glad you’re doing well in English, Rusty. These guys will probably teach you more dumb ways to mangle the language. Like saying ‘actionable’ when they could have said ‘viable.’ They probably treat ‘transition’ like a verb, and show you ways to ‘grow your business.’ I hate that. Like your business is a friggin’ root vegetable.”
He looked at me with dismay. “You’re such a word snob. What about this one? Arabic Studies. I can learn how to read and write in Arabic.”
“Hey, that sounds good. Then, a few years down the road, when President Trump runs the country into the ground and the Saudis foreclose on all the money we owe them, you’ll be ready. Is there a companion class for Chinese? You could brush up on your Mandarin dialect, comrade.”
“Real funny, dad. How about this: Personal Expression. Poetry, painting, sculpture, photography, creative writing, stuff like that. Looks pretty cool.”
“Yeah, all that sounds great. You’re a creative guy, you’d probably enjoy it. But don’t expect to ever make any money doing any of that. Being a cartoonist or a musician might attract the chicks at first, but when they find out you’re Tap City, they’ll run off with the first real estate agent who gives her a ride in his Jag.”
“Are you saying I should go into real estate?”
“No, I’d rather see you do something that makes you happy, not just money. What else do they have?”
Rusty read the list. “Well, here’s something called ‘The Curious Writer.’ Using wordsmith skills to explore fiction writing.”
“Fiction. Well, at least that’s something that will come in handy in the real world. Like when you balance your checkbook.”
“Here’s another one that might be cool. ‘The Science of Human Movement.’ Measuring aerobic fitness and oxygen intake during exercise and scientific stuff like that.”
“Hmm, that sounds okay. Probably another reason for the YMCA to jack up our dues again. But if you come home one day and tell me I have to lose twenty pounds, you can enroll in the class where they teach you how to transition into your own apartment.”
“Har de har har, dad. Well, how about photojournalism? Here’s a workshop that teaches the basics.”
“Oh, sure. Every clown who has a ten megapixel point ‘n shoot camera thinks he’s a photographer. Don’t believe me? Take a look at Facebook and tell me how many mawkish pictures of a sunset or a rainbow you see. Jeez, it’s a good thing unicorns are extinct or Facebook would be lousy with them. There’s a lot more to being a photographer than just knowing how to change out a smart card. I’ve seen hundreds of photos taken of my band in action, for instance, and not one has been able to capture a dynamic scene. You know, Henri Cartier-Bresson is a personal idol of mine. You should check out some of his work.”
“Who’s he, Elton John’s husband?”
“No, wise guy. He’s considered the father of modern photojournalism. He used Leica cameras loaded with this stuff called ‘film.’ Introduced what he called ‘the decisive moment.’ Everyone who picks up a camera should study this man’s work. He was a painter first. Knew all about composition and balance and proportion and contrast. Knew how important negative space is. Chinch bugs. Manganese.”
“What was that last part?”
“Sorry, I kind of slipped away there. Listen, I’m no expert, Rusty, but I don’t try to pass off snapshots as art, either. Photojournalism is kind of a dying discipline. Nowadays you can dig into a few seconds of digital video and find the one dynamic frame and pluck out your own decisive moment. But you still need the training and the eye to recognize it. You might like it. Lots of action, lots of travel, and you could even make a decent career out of it if you’re good.”
Rusty made an upside-down smile and nodded, looking at the list of offerings. He’s a creative kid, talented and obsessive. I’d love to see him follow a career path where he makes a living at documenting in some way the human experience. But I’m ready to support him in whatever direction he goes, of course.
His eyes lit up, and he stabbed his finger into the paper. “Here we go! Improvisational Movement. No dance experience necessary. That sounds pretty cool!”
I sighed. When you’re a parent sometimes you have to be a tow truck, and sometimes you have to be a tugboat. “Okay, Baryshnikov. Let’s go out to Target and see if we can find you a man-tard.”
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I cast the bait and my 13 year old grandson bites like a starving shark. My wife admonishes me not to. My latest forays are into the high school graduation rates in my state. Not even two thirds. So we fund K-12, for a 60% success rate?? And then have to address the living needs of the missing 40% for their lifetimes? Wonder where the money goes? So I tell the grandson the moment a kid does not show up at school, or flunks a class, his or her parent should get a deduction in public support of food, rent, and health care. My grandson goes all lefty and ballistic and tells me I am unkind. I tell him to flunk a class, a grade, or not graduate and just see how unkind Grandpa can be. Or, get good grades, graduate, and see how kind Grandpa can be. It's your call, Dude. All actions have consequences.
So he is still pissed at me. And, because I have a degree in History, he is now getting an A in that class so he can dump some esoteric tidbit on me. Hoorah for him!!! Take that bait!! He also became the photographer for the class page in the yearbook. He went from football to wrestling, and dropped from 158 to 124 lbs. Now he is in the weight room under supervision to bulk up for football only 4 months away. And my grand daughters?? All have helicopter moms, hovering and watching and directing. All will be scholars and athletes. And that is why Bob Wire HAS to be so attentive to his son. The education system is wired for females, by females, and girls have moms to lead them to success, and the K-12 system has a female rate of success to show for it. 60% of June 2010 college graduates were female. 50% more girls got degrees than boys. Bob Wire has to do all he can to ensure Rusty has access to success. The odds are two to one against him. Or so the statistics show.