His headphones are semi-permanently attached to the sides of
his head. This is funny to me because –
back in my “day” – nobody would be caught dead wearing headphones. Except in the privacy of one’s room or when
forced to do so, like in French lab.
Which may
be why despite three years of high school French I can’t speak a word except the
entire first dialogue from my first year in Mrs. Liskey’s class:
Q: Ou
est Philippe?
A: Phillipe
est a la bibliotheque.
Q: Avec
qui?
A: Avec
Anne.
But I digress. At
breakfast yesterday I asked my darling old-enough-to-have-a-driver's-license teenager to remove his headphones. Here’s how the dialogue went:
Him:
No
Me:
Why?
Him:
Because I don’t want to talk.
Me: It’s just you and me. Please can we talk?
Him: No.
Me:
Why?
Him:
Because I don’t want to talk to you.
I don’t like talking to my parents.
Sometimes I do. But right now I
don’t want to.
Me:
Well, that’s sort of disturbing.
(Note: Here I am wondering – as any responsible
parent would – if this sort of thing constitutes antisocial behavior that could
be a sign of something serious.)
Him:
What do you mean disturbing? (Note: He says this while squinting at me as if to
say “You don’t really think I’m hoarding weapons and planning an assault on
innocent tourists from atop Coit Tower?”)
Me:
Well, that sort of behavior. You
know, disturbing behavior.
Him:
You mean typical teenage behavior?
All teenagers do this. Nobody
wants to talk to their parents.
Really. (Note: He is shrugging, eye
rolling, sighing. He repositions the
headphones so that one earpiece is resting on his hair instead of his ear. A compromise.)
Me:
Point taken.
Back in my
“day” (yes, again, I know) I ignored
my parents entirely during my four years of high school (and, come to think of
it, for my four years of college and the four years after college, but that’s another tale).
And what
was I doing during those four years of high school? I was in my love-bead-and-poster-laden room
in the basement lying in bed with a pair of headphones on. Listening to the Rolling Stones, Parliament
and Frank Zappa. If my parents had heard
the lyrics to the stuff I was hearing they would certainly have been
concerned. As I’m sure I would be
concerned if I could hear the lyrics to the stuff my son is hearing under his
headphones now.
But just
because Mick Jagger was singing about hiding speed in his shoe and getting his nose
blown didn’t mean I was going to smuggle or use drugs. Though I certainly fantasized about it.
And just
because George Clinton advocated getting funked up didn’t mean I was seeking an
interracial love affair. Though I would
have said yes if anyone had asked, despite the fact that it would have caused
quite a stir, given the place and time (the rural South in the early 70s).
And just
because Frank Zappa described a zipless fuck on the floor with a Tarot-throwing rancid-poncho-wearing redhead didn’t mean I was going to dye my
hair. You see, given the place and time,
this would have caused a bigger stir than an interracial love affair.
The things
I heard under the headphones revealed to me multiple alternative universes. Any depraved or wondrous thing I could
imagine (or would never have imagined in a million years without my headphones)
was possible.
After I took
the posters down and put the headphones aside I made many, many poor choices,
but it all worked out. I’m now a
responsible adult with a life full of love and two beautiful nearly-grown
children.
It’ll be
interesting to hear what they have to say if and when they’re ready to talk to
me.
**from “P
Funk (Wants to Get Funked Up)”
