The Cheap Seats

 I do a Dog and Pony Show in front of 140 teenagers for nine months out of twelve. Some days students are dazzled, other days dulled. My best audience response usually occurs when I give out  teaser information about myself, specifically age. But first they love to guess. During this annual process I have learned that - besides having gooey, half-formed frontal lobes - teenagers are all over the place when it comes to knowing how old adults really are. Guesses have ranged from 28 (the kid was close to failing the semester and looking for a grade bump - he got it) to 62. "But Mr. Bergman," the 62'er replied to my scowl, "your neck hair is so gray!" Touche.   So I explain aging to them like this: Kids are grapes, adults are raisins. Teens are full of juices and oils and awkwardness. Seasonal temps and air pressure changes have no effect on you. Kids are bursting 24/7/365, liable to combust at a moment's notice. We adults however, go through a shri

My son is on cruise control. His senior year of high school is winding down. Most of the hard work is over. Pomp and Circumstance is still two and a half months away but he has been eyeing his future ever since he toured colleges last summer. While one chapter is winding down, another is ramping up. A child's growing autonomy is a funny thing. It unfolds in fits and starts. My son has been clinging to his independence over the past year, filling his personal schedule, communicating less with his parents (sigh) and  - with a whole new world only six months away - becoming (understandably) a little more self-centered. None of this is terminal of course, and frankly all fairly age-appropriate. But equal parts nerve-wracking and encouraging. As just another adult I can objectively view his behavior through the lens of someone who has been there, walked the same steps, worked through the same growing pains. But as a parent, I have discovered that letting go has its own set of f

I have been accused of being an Eye Roller. Eye rolling communicates a lot of things, none of them good. Among other things, eye-rolling is a substitute for: 1) "Oh brother." 2) "I don't have time for this." 3) "Great. Drunk again." 4) "You're an idiot." 5) "Please. Stop. Talking." And the list continues. However, I have learned the hard way that eye-rolling is terribly dismissive and disrespectful to the recipient. Better to just say what the eye-roll is replacing in the first place, right? Saturating the unfortunate necessity for a good old-fashioned eye roll is fatigue. Fatigue is the universal, momentary feeling of every eye roller ("I am so tired of this"). Again, I'm not implying eye rolling is right, okay or deserved. But it does suggest a Hands thrown up in the air, I'm done quality. And if we are all honest with ourselves, eye rolling occasionally gives off an "Whew, I need a cigarette&quo

Her house was finally torn down. It had to be done eventually. But I'm not sure which is worse. The burned out ruins had been a constant reminder to all who had known her. But somehow the house's absence, however necessary, felt wrong too. As if in some way its removal threatened a delicate memory - a memory of a life that was all too brief. I am a teacher. During this career, I have had thousands of students come and go through my classrooms. Some kids remain fresh in my mind, but most are shadows, forgotten by the enormity of their numbers. And while the yearly flood of teens has greyed my memory, two enduring qualities annually repeat themselves – fragility and resilience. These two seemingly incompatable characteristics –  but representative in many young people – now share eternity with one student in particular. From the moment she entered our middle school five school years ago, to the day she moved on to the high school three years later, Makayla Corbin was regar

I concluded last week's   essay with a promise to continue exploring the challenges and complications women face in this new, post-revolutionary culture. There was only one problem - I'm not a woman. I ignored the most important lesson of writing; Write What You Know . Who the hell am I to presume that I know anything about the Female Experience ? After all:   I have no idea what it's like to have a father who was just a little bit disappointed that I was a girl instead of a boy.   As a teenager, I never had to worry about my "reputation." I never gave a moment's thought to the enduring double standard in which a boy who sleeps around is a Hero , yet a girl who does the same is a Slut .   As an incoming freshman in high school, I never had to worry about upperclassmen preying on me because I was "fresh meat." As a boy I could only wish.   I have never had to watch countless commercials or thumb through thousands of magazine ads tell