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So what about that cliché, “It takes a village to raise a child?”
Too often, “the village” in contemporary American life delegates to “the experts”, rendering authentic, spontaneous feedback for kids and most adults to an almost bygone era.
Too many “experts” lack courage, common sense, street smarts, and a male perspective, which is what triggered me to conjure this all-purpose character, Uncle Sal: the quintessential Italian Uncle with mucho courage, common sense, warmth and humor, street smarts, well-earned wisdom, and a natural affinity for families needing support.
Sal by the way, is the opposite of Tony Soprano.
Picture this guy: he’s in his late 70s…has style and strength and charisma—a shock of grey-white hair, easy smile, big hands, chest hair visible--not a wise guy just a guy with wisdom.
Owned a high end mens’ clothing store in Brooklyn where he resides, still vital and healthy, has the stereotyped large Italian family, but earns his respect through love and wisdom, not intimidation.
Uncle Sal doesn’t take insurance nor charge out of pocket. He’s like the Lone Ranger: he shows up and intervenes effectively and doesn’t wait around for “thank you’s”.
Being a single, divorced father, with almost no family resources left, I find myself profoundly in need of an Uncle Sal, and living in The Pioneer Valley of Western, Massachusetts, which has evolved a culture that I term, The Valley of Pollyanish Thinking, one is hard-pressed to find any Uncle Sal’s within reach.
But recently I took the leap of becoming Uncle Sal myself, channeling his courage and wisdom, when it was absolutely necessary to intervene on a cross-country flight from Boston to San Francisco last July 2013.
Of course like the famous adages, “the cobbler’s child has no shoes” or ”the lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client”, I have not been successful yet in becoming Uncle Sal for my twelve year old daughter.
But I managed to produce an effective intervention for strangers, and the irony is that I’m Jewish, and the father I rescued was actually… Italian American. And his fourteen year old daughter, the “Identified Patient”, the culprit, was half Irish/ half Italian.
Here’s the story, as true as one can recall, told in a first person, semi-dramatic ADHD style:
ACT I: LOGAN AIRPORT, Boston MA
Direct flight Boston-San Francisco. United Airlines, DC 737. Parked on the tarmac major delay and by the time I’ve not settled into the torturous, sardined middle seat, nearly last row, I was already ravenous, famished, on-edge.
Already had a verbal spat with a TSA frontline worker who confiscated my toothpaste and mouthwash, major affronts to national security they are—which provoked me to launch into what turned out to be a clichéd and generic outraged response saying,
ME: The Israelis don’t waste their time on this crap..they do psych profiles, and I know Logan hired the top security guy from Ben Gurion Airport, so when are you guys gonna stop wasting our time?
TSA: {indicating he’d heard this same rap before}
How many airports do they have in Israel? One!
ME: Yeah, but they have way more threats to deal with,”
I retorted, ending our little skirmish.
Upon boarding the aircraft, skirmish number two as I immediately stated my “emergency” condition of desperately needing food or drink RIGHT NOW! And a 30something, male flight attendant in a very righteous and officious tone said, “No, we don’t serve until the plane is airborne.”
“This shouldn’t be happening”, I said to myself, because for the first time ever, I’d arrived at the airport according to the normal time frame by which everyone else operates.
We sat on the tarmac for about an hour after a thirty minute boarding delay, all due to that recent fatal crash at the San Francisco airport by a Korean airliner.
My hypoglycemia, ADHD mood swings, and just plain rebellious nature, were idling at mega high RPMs and about to blast open at full throttle.
ACT II: THE PROVOCATION
Seated directly behind me in Row 36 middle seat, was an adolescent girl, obese, squeezed between her father on the aisle and her younger brother by the window.
When I first heard her sobbing hysterically and hyperventilating, I thought it was a pending panic attack or claustrophobia, but it immediately also seemed exaggerated and drama queenish.
She kept pleading, but in a demanding tone—cries for help beaten right into the ground with repetition, increasing volume, and intensity:
“Daddy take me off this plane..I can’t breathe..I don’t want to go..(sobbing even louder)…you promised me you wouldn’t make me do this again.”
The part that rang most hollow and therefore most manipulative was the line: “you promised me you wouldn’t make me do this again”.
Given that it was a Return Flight for this family back home to the Bay Area, what was she expecting? That Daddy would produce reindeers and a sleigh?
But it was the sheer repetition that finally got to me about an hour into that horrible seat. I finally had to act…to act---perchance to intervene…perchance to make things worse but maybe better instead…risky dealing with kids of parents who are complete strangers…but someone has to shut her up or help her out of her misery.
I turned to the father, sitting on the aisle seat, and asked his daughter’s name and told him I think I can calm her down; I do this as a psychotherapist with kids…her name is Marie he said.
And I handed him my business card which says I do psychotherapy, life coaching, specializing in ADHD and Anxiety Disorders and beside the letters indicating I’m licensed as a Clinical Social Worker, it also has J.D. next to my name—which means law degreed.
He looked at my card and said, “ Ok, give it a try.”
“Marie, you’re making it worse by that hyperventilating. You have to try breathing correctly to calm yourself down…Try to sit still, put your hands on your knees, breathe using your diaphragm, get the breath into your midsection…close your eyes and make the breaths longer and slower.”
Dad jumped in and instructed her likewise and told her to follow my directions. In other words—he validated me, which is one of the keys to Uncle Sal’s success stories.
Uncle Sal validates parents while at the same time showing empathy and a direct whimsical style with kids; he gives them noogies on the head while spouting New Yorkisms like “fuhgeddabouit” or “you don’t wanna be a wacko do you?
All done with whimsy and courage and without hesitation or fear.
Marie, trying to breathe correctly sitting more still, no longer bawling her head off; my breathing interaction extended about ten minutes and I thought she’d be able to keep breathing and stay relaxed for the rest of the flight. But no—life jumped in---she became agitated or needed more attention--depending on how you analyze it.
Back to meltdown time and unceasing on her father until finally she said, “I want my Mommy here”—which set me off--a big trigger for me—yes my daughter says that way too much for comfort.
At this point I didn’t know that her mother was the attractive redhead making positive signals at me—in fact validating me from one aisle over—and I was of course hoping she was just an attractive redhead validating my valiant efforts.
Is one even permitted at this time in American culture to say that a kid who is crying her eyes out and expressing what looks like deep distress, is also annoying and irritating the hell out of us? And that as long as she keeps annoying us and we give her no honest feedback, she’ll keep doing it?
No, of course we’re not allowed! Instead we’re encouraged, in fact mandated, to comfort comfort and give more comfort to the annoying child, adolescent, teenager, until they are ready for college and can channel their energy into annoying their roommates.
And the reason we keep doing this?
Simple—there are not enough Uncle Sals to go around—not enough Italian Uncles giving noogies!!!
{Next blog: Act III: THE INTERVENTION}
Stay tuned.
