Creativity's Fate

                Earlier this month, Laura Pappano wrote a story for The New York Times about the increase in creative studies programs at colleges and universities. With the workforce demanding more ingenuity from workers, colleges are teaching students how to think more creatively and seek out resourceful solutions to the problems of an ever-changing world.

            It’s rather stunning, as an educator, to see an article like this. For most of my teaching career, the focus of our national education dialogue has been on standardized testing – on ensuring that no child is left behind in mastering the essential skills. I’ve seen many teachers work very hard at ensuring that those skills are met. I’ve also watched teachers find wonderful ways to teach those skills while also incorporating creativity into their lesson plans. But still, it’s confounding to hear so much talk for so long about mastering the skills, and then hear calls for a shift of sorts.

            Of course, our strongest thinkers offer a balance of critical and creative thinking. They plan ahead, then figure out how to improvise. They analyze the reading or solve the equation, while also imagining new ways to see the text or the equation. To use a baseball analogy, they strive to be the Derek Jeters of the world. The New York Yankees shortstop, who prepares for his final season in 2014, has always worked hard to master the fundamentals. But, at the same time, Jeter has always known when to create – his flip toss in the 2001 Division Series against the Oakland A’s standing as perhaps the best improvisational play in the history of baseball.

            Most educators would suggest that we strive for that balance. But they might also warn us to be careful that we don’t push the concrete so hard that the creativity seems undervalued. It’s a lesson demonstrated beautifully in The LEGO Movie, the latest children’s film to feature a powerful message for kids and adults alike. Without spoiling the plot, let’s just say that the film’s final half-hour makes a very strong case against stifling the creativity of our children. As the film winds to an end, we are reminded of those moments in our early years when we sat with LEGOs or Star Wars figures or Barbie dolls or erector sets, and the world was ours to shape.

Times have changed, and we can talk all we want about the needs of our high-tech world. But we also have a long history in our country of honoring and valuing the innovators. In my classroom, I keep some old Apple publicity posters featuring famous artists and leaders, with that simple slogan “Think Different” next to the photos of Jim Henson, Pablo Picasso, Amelia Earhart, and others. Whether we’re parents, educators, filmmakers, or shortstops, we all share the responsibility to nurture the creativity in our kids. It’s a no-brainer.

February 1989: The New Girl

                She was in the back seat and I was in the passenger’s seat. We were sitting in a sedan, driving from the Staten Island Ferry terminal to my church in the Willowbrook section of Staten Island. I hadn’t really known this girl before the day began, but I knew her now. She was, in fact, all I could think about as our chaperone’s car cruised along Crystal Avenue and the radio station played Debbie Gibson’s latest song.

                It’s funny how the smallest of decisions can change a life or two. My church’s youth group was taking a February field trip to the Statue of Liberty and South Street Seaport. My brother and I, along with several other teens, were among those taking the trip on this Sunday. One of my fellow 12^th-graders, a girl named Erica, had asked a school friend of hers if she wanted to go along. The friend had said yes, and she joined us in the crowd of teens traveling by cars and ferryboats to our destination.

This new girl chatted with me during the Circle Line ferry ride to Liberty Island, where our conversation was interrupted by a then-immature younger brother of mine, who was playing a game of “punch your brother in the crotch.” Somehow, the girl and I were able to ignore this painful distraction, and before long our voices and eyes became more flirtatious. By the time we were walking up the stairs of Lady Liberty, the new girl was massaging my shoulder. On the ferry back to Manhattan, she was snuggling up against me for warmth amid the chill of New York Harbor. At South Street Seaport, we ate pizza together, and I realized that my 18-year-old hormones were fully engaged.

So, on the walk back to South Ferry, we drifted to the back of the line and, when the moment was right, we stopped and let the others walk ahead. I knew little more than her name, the sing-song melody of her voice, her strawberry blonde hair and the high cheekbones that framed her face. But after turning toward the new girl, I now knew the taste of her lips. It was clear that this might lead somewhere.

In that car ride back, Debbie Gibson was singing her monster hit of the moment, “Lost in Your Eyes.” The new girl told me later that as she listened to that song, she thought about my brown eyes and the song felt right, in a mix-tape kind of way. When the girl told me later that she had a boyfriend, I said I wasn’t going to get in the middle of that, but to keep me posted. Two days later – on Valentine’s Day, no less – the girl broke up with her boyfriend. The next day, I asked her out. She said yes.

It’s a sweet and corny little high school romance story, and many of us have something like it. The difference here, I guess, is where this went afterward. While most of my peers waited to find their life partners much later, this girl and I couldn’t shake each other. In fact, we’ve been together ever since. Her name is Amy, and we’ve been married for 18 years. Tomorrow, it will be 25 years since I first asked her out.

Growing up together was not always easy, and I wouldn’t suggest this path for my daughters. But I guess we’re living proof that when it feels right, and the girl you see beneath the glitter of the Brooklyn Bridge looks like everything you’ve ever wanted, you might want to kiss her then and there. You never know where it might take you. The Debbie Gibson song is nostalgia now, but the girl is still new to me in all the right ways, every day.

Cinematic Soul

                Last night, my wife and I sat with our daughters to watch the Super Bowl together. We savored Amy’s chicken chili, laughed at Stephen Colbert’s pistachio commercials, and admired the Seahawks’ championship defense. But to be honest, Amy and I were thinking about something else on Sunday; we were mourning the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman.

            For more than 20 years, we’ve been astounded, time and time again, by Hoffman’s acting. Whenever you thought you’d seen the depths of human emotion plumbed as far as possible, another Hoffman film would surface, and you’d find him exploring the human soul even further. His obituaries do a fine job of listing the films, but picking your favorite Hoffman movie moment is about as difficult as choosing your favorite novel or dessert. Even my 12-year-old daughter, who recently saw Hoffman in Catching Fire, had become a fan.

            In my 12^th-grade English classes, we recently watched Hoffman in his Oscar-winning portrayal of Truman Capote, after we’d finished reading In Cold Blood. We used the film Capote to close out a unit on how true nonfiction really is, and whatever students thought of the movie or Capote’s book, they had nothing but praise for this actor who had managed to re-create the mannerisms and moods of a man who had died more than 20 years before the film’s release.

            The thing I found most fascinating about Hoffman as an actor was his ability to bring dignity and accuracy to his roles, whatever they were: a music critic, a political hack, a spiritual leader, a boarding-school student, even a shy, gay boom operator. I’m no film critic, so I’ll be careful not to try and act like one here. But when I think of all the Hoffman movies I’ve seen, perhaps no role impressed me as much as his portrayal of a home-care nurse in Magnolia. In that film, Hoffman’s character, Phil, does little more than listen to the stories of a dying man, his trophy wife and estranged son. But as these characters share their pain with Phil, he feels their struggles deeply, even to the point of weeping. Hoffman’s character shows us that being present and compassionate is in many ways the essence of life.

            My brother, who is a film critic, saw Hoffman at the Sundance Film Festival last month. He, like many others who live in New York City, had also seen Hoffman many times in Greenwich Village with his family, just living an ordinary life. Of course, addiction often does not announce itself on the ski slopes of Utah or the streets of Manhattan. It’s often a solitary and dismal experience, one to which Hoffman succumbed yesterday. There’s no way to gauge the loss to this 46-year-old man’s family and friends, let alone to movie fans like Amy and me – it’s just deeply sad in every way.

            As a parent, Hoffman brought his family down to Cape May Point, just a few miles from my parents’ home. When I’d go out for jogs in that area, I’d keep an eye out for a blond-haired, bespectacled man, likely wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and shorts. If I had seen Hoffman taking out the garbage or helping his kids ride their bikes, I know I would have just nodded the same way I did for anyone else I passed on the roads there. That, I figured, was the ultimate respect I could have given to an actor who had achieved much fame and fortune, but who had never tried to present himself as anything more than the rest of us.

            I never saw Hoffman in Cape May. I’ll be back down there in a few months, and I’ll go out for more jogs. This time, I won’t be looking for my favorite actor. But when I’m passing through Cape May Point, I’ll think of Phil the nurse, or Scotty the boom operator, or Capote. The greatest gift an artist or craftsman gives us is a body of work that lives longer than he does. Hoffman has done this with astounding success, and his films serve to remind us of all that he offered in his brief time here, while also connecting us with the complex emotions we feel, hide, express and share.

When the Innocent Are Guilty

When we watch our children dance through the early years of their lives, we often view them as tiny pieces of perfection. It’s tempting to see them as harmless blank slates, kids who love their parents and want nothing more than a hug and some ice cream.

But what happens when they take a step beyond the naïve innocence, and make a real mistake? What happens when they do some real damage? To be more specific, what happens when your nine-year-old plays too rough with her guinea pig and seriously injures her own pet?

So far, our younger daughter has wanted little more from life than a good book, some music, a family to love and a blanket to hold. She’s been “an easy kid,” as they sometimes say. But she’s just nine, so we know we’ve got unseen challenges ahead. On a recent day, one such challenge revealed itself. With a new friend over for a playdate, Chelsea was showing off her beloved guinea pig, a mostly white-furred animal named Marshmallow. For some reason, Chelsea decided to drop Marshmallow on her bed, letting the animal bounce off the mattress. On the second or third drop, the guinea pig didn’t bounce up, but instead crumpled down and rolled over.

Chelsea saw this, and immediately put her guinea pig back in the cage. She told us that her pet had been hurt, but it took some time before she gave us the full story. Her fear of getting into trouble superseded the need to give her parents vital information. Once we figured it all out, we saw a guinea pig that was dragging both back legs behind her, unable to walk normally. My wife cleaned the animal up, and made sure she ate some hay and drank some water. Chelsea, now fully realizing what she had done, cried herself to sleep.

The first thing my wife and I decided was that there was no need for additional punishment on our part; the girl’s pet was suffering, and that provided more than enough consequences for Chelsea. But we did see a need for some real conversation, about how and why this had happened, how Chelsea could prevent it in the future, and why we need to tell the truth when we’ve made a mistake, even if it does bring with it some feelings of guilt. As we talked this through, my wife and I shared with Chelsea some mistakes we had made at her age, to make sure she knew that her parents were not speaking from on high. She listened, nodded, and talked with us, aware of how much we respected her decision to tell us the truth.

It’s been a few days now, and Marshmallow is slowly using those back legs more and more. They don’t appear to be broken, and we’re hoping she is on the mend. It’s going to be tough if the guinea pig doesn’t recover, as that will haunt Chelsea for some time. The knots are there in our daughter’s stomach, and we can’t make them all go away right now. What’s done is done.

Our daughter feels a little less innocent today than she did a week ago. But when that happens, perhaps the best way to grow from this is to communicate about it. Chelsea has decided to write a story, about a girl who is learning how to tell the truth more. She’s mapping out her story web and her characters, and she’s been sharing the outline with her parents. We’ve praised her every step, telling her it sounds like a great story.

 I can only hope that when she finishes this story, Chelsea will have the chance to read it to a sprightly white guinea pig, who will be motoring around her cage in a state of healing. 

Frozen in Time

              Considering the fact that I have watched, played and written about sports throughout my life, you’d think I might feel more regret over the reality that I have no sons. But for the past 12 years, I’ve honestly found it fascinating to be a father to daughters. My two girls have brought me on an eye-opening cultural journey that has covered Elmo and Dora, Disney princess dresses, American Girl dolls, pretend-school lessons, pet guinea pigs, and performances of Wicked both on Broadway and in our living room. Katie and Chelsea are not really interested in sitting down to watch a ballgame with me, but they have brought a world of new experiences to my life.

                Lately, their activity has focused on some songs from a movie soundtrack. It is, of course, the soundtrack to Disney’s Frozen – the album that stands behind only Bruce Springsteen’s new record among the best-selling LPs in the nation. For the past month, children and their parents have waltzed out of movie theaters singing the songs from Disney’s latest animated feature, then quickly downloaded the album from iTunes upon their return home. The songs, which sound more Broadway-ready than the typical multiplex fare, are bolstered by the voice of Idina Menzel, the actress who originated the role of Elphaba in Wicked and Maureen in Rent. Menzel’s rendition of the song Let it Go from Frozen is one of the Oscar nominees for Best Original Song.

                In our home, the girls have been blasting the Frozen songs from our little Bose speakers and lip-synching their way through the whole show. In the car, even with no music on, they’ll practice certain lines together. They’ve seen the movie twice, and are clamoring for thirds. When our youngest turned nine three weeks ago, she asked for a cake in the shape of the film’s snowman character.

                Now I’m no cheerleader of Disney’s traditional portrayal of young female characters. The funny thing about this movie, though, is that even though all of the typical princess set pieces are there – the castle, the gowns, the big eyelashes, the handsome love interest – this film is ultimately about none of those things. It’s about two sisters, and their overriding love for each other. It’s about how far you’ll go to protect and save the best friend you have in the world. In our house, that’s a story worth some attention.

                As my girls sing along to the film’s song Do You Want to Build a Snowman?, we hear the story of a younger sister who is being pushed away by her older sister, and can’t understand the reason for it: “We used to be best buddies / And now we're not / I wish you would tell me why.” The younger sister asks once more for some play time, but after being told to go away, she hangs her head and sings, “Okay, bye.” As I hear my girls singing this together, I recognize that we’re getting close to the time when this exact scenario will play out in our home. Katie is 12, and she’s spending more and more time in her room trying on makeup, watching YouTube videos and, yes, texting. At nine, Chelsea is more interested in playing with her older sister than in spending time alone in her room. More often than not, Katie still plays with Chelsea. But those moments of rejection are nearing, like the gathering of dusk before night falls.

                When it comes to music, I find it incredibly annoying to hear the same song over and over. But as my girls sing the Frozen tunes together countless times – and, to be honest, they’ve got a third singer in their group in the form of my wife – I can’t help but feel some relief amid the repetition. Because it seems that Katie and Chelsea have found something that transcends age differences and hormonal swings. They share a love for music and performance, and that love may connect them when other things do not. My brother and I are three years apart, just like my girls are. As kids, we had our stretch of time when I needed my space from him. But we always had our sports, be it a Yankees game on the TV or a 1-on-1 basketball game in the backyard. Even when we shared few words, there was still plenty of communication in the form of a last-second jumper on the patio, or a Dave Winfield home run on the basement TV.

                My brother turns 40 in two weeks; I just turned 43. We talk about a lot of things now, as adult siblings do. But we still have a soft spot for the sports stuff. Years from now, I can see Katie and Chelsea spending an afternoon together, perhaps at one of their apartments, or maybe out shopping. There comes a point when they turn on some music. For fun, they click on the Frozen album. They smile, and start singing. Together. 

               We only have each other / It's just you and me / What are we gonna do? / Do you wanna build a snowman?

Looking Back, Stepping Forward

           

                As 2013 comes to an end, I find myself thinking of my friends Peter and David, both of whom died far too young during this past year. Their families are spending these holidays with a hole in their hearts, one that will not be closed anytime soon.

                I cannot bring Peter or David back, nor can I heal their families’ wounds. But I can enter 2014 with a desire to live each moment fully; it’s the least I can do to honor these dear men. As I near age 43, it’s time, I think, to focus less on what’s next and more on what’s now. As I enter my mid-40s, it’s time to think less about checking off the to-do list and more about checking off the bucket list. Life, ultimately, is less about getting the errands done than it is about doing the things that fulfill us. It’s more about discovering what we could do than it is about tallying up what we should do.

                So here’s to a new year of resolutions, best intentions and fresh starts. Here’s also to those who leave us with legacies and memories. They may not be with us in the flesh anymore, but they offer us an inspiration that we can carry with us every day, no matter what the year.

26.2

                I’m no rock star, but I now know what it feels like to crowd-surf. I have run the New York City Marathon.

                In our mid-20s, my wife and I attended the marathon for the first time, and we were amazed that such a spirit of community could be found in a city of eight million people. I vowed to run that race someday, and experience it on the other side of the barricades. It took me about 15 years, but yesterday I finally got there.

                Running 26.2 miles is a bit preposterous, and runners hit their own “wall” at different points in this race. But the spectators who line those 26 miles make it impossible for you to give up on the race. You write your name on your shirt, and they call it out – “Come on, Warren – you’re doing great!” You need some human touch, and they’ve got their hands out for some high-fives. You need hydration, and the volunteers are there every mile, handing you your Poland Spring or Gatorade. You need a reason to think you’re a hero, and there are firefighters standing along the route clapping for you.

You need some inspiring music, and there they are, 130 musical acts across the whole route. There’s plenty of rock, R&B and rap to get you moving, but check out the gospel music in Fort Greene and Harlem! And how about the students and alumni at Bishop Loughlin High in Brooklyn, playing “Gonna Fly Now” from Rocky, as they have for years? No need for headphones on this run.

You need signs to motivate you? Look no further. Here’s one that reads “You Run Better Than the Government.” Here’s another that says “You Are All Amazing!” And still another that reads “Run Faster – I Just Farted.” Eventually, you find a sign that looks more familiar – it’s got your name on it, and your children are holding it. You give your family members a hug, and tell them you’ll see them soon. The hugs seem to numb those aches, and get you moving up First Avenue.

Now you’re in the Bronx, and you’re starting to feel the burn. But here are three people on the sidewalk beside you chanting, at the top of their voices: “You can! And you will! You can! And you will!” The hop returns to your step.

As you enter Central Park after a grueling incline up Fifth Avenue, the spectators take it to another level. They call you out by name on a regular basis now, well aware of the pain you’re feeling. There is no way you can keep this up without their voices rising in volume, to overcome the doubts you might have. Do it, they say – you’re almost there. You turn onto Central Park South, just a mile more to go, so focused that you miss both your family and Tony Bennett standing behind the barricades.

It’s just too close. Dig deep, you tell yourself. And as the wall of sound echoes along the street, you are propelled there, surfing that crowd for just a few more meters. You cross the finish line, walk a few paces, and there they are – the volunteers handing you your medal. You’ve got it around your neck now, and the emotion is so strong you can’t breathe for a moment.

You walk slowly through the park, a heat sheet wrapped around your shoulders. It’s quiet now, just a bunch of exhausted runners trudging through the gloaming. But you don’t need the cheering now – it’s gotten you to where you stand.

Outside the park, on Central Park West, you near the family reunion area, where more hugs await. But before you get there, another volunteer drapes an orange marathon poncho around your shoulders. With this final, silent gesture, the most incredible day of civic engagement, community fellowship and pure love you have ever experienced is over.

And every time you think about it, your eyes well up with tears. Greatest city in the world. Greatest feeling ever.