Soon after I completed my doctoral dissertation, we followed the advice of family and friends who suggested that my husband, Steve, and I needed a vacation for just the two of us - leaving our two young children behind. My parents drove to our home in New Jersey and assured us that everything would be fine; we should "not think about anything at home - just relax, recuperate, and enjoy each others company."
During the five days away, we soaked up the warmth of Eleuthera - a tiny Bahamian slice of heaven, with white, powdery sand and little else. Steve and I read, slept, completed New York Times crossword puzzles, watched the families on the beach, and missed our own toddlers terribly.
Each evening, after washing off the sand and combing our sunburned scalps, Steve and I enjoyed the Catch of the Day at one of the four or five tables in the panoramic, beach side restaurant. The other sunburned vacationers who dined with us were those with whom we had also shared the beach earlier in the day. The tiny, octagonal restaurant was not much bigger than our dining room at home, making it hard not to overhear conversations at the nearby tables.
At a table not more than four feet from ours sat a mother, father, and two teenagers. Each night, the parents and daughter came dressed in colorful summer attire, appearing to have stepped out of a Talbot's or a J. Crew catalog. Their son, who looked to be about 16 years old, was dressed entirely in black and around his neck he sported a leather strap with shiny protruding silver spikes (not unlike those dogs wear in cartoons). His only concession to color was seen in the neon yellow tips of his sculpted, pointy "Mohawk" hairstyle. From our perspective, this lad seemed to be from another family altogether (maybe even another planet?)! We were mesmerized.
Steve and I found ourselves watching and discussing this family throughout our stay. The "Mohawks" (we didn't know their real names) in many ways looked like a typical family; they laughed, played games, talked in seemingly cheerful tones, and stuck together on the beach and after dinner. They seemed genuinely to enjoy each others company. As Steve and I were (relatively new) parents of children who were both under five, we compared notes on how we might react if one of our own came downstairs one morning dressed like this boy with the "Goth" getup. "What had the parents done to make this child feel the need to be so rebellious?" we asked each other. He seemed like such a "good kid" - so why did he feel the need for the spooky spikes?
On the night before we left, while strolling along the beach after dinner, we struck up a conversation with Mr. and Ms. Mohawk. After some requisite small talk about where we each were from and how we chose Eleuthera, I spoke up. "We couldn't help noticing your family this week." (The mother looked interested and Steve looked a tad concerned.) "On the beach, on the tennis courts, and at dinner, we have been impressed by how the four of you seem truly to enjoy each others company." Steve now looked at me with an expression I read as, "Okay. Good place to stop, Marth." But I continued, "When we have teenage children, I hope that we enjoy time together as much as the four of you clearly do." Steve's face relaxed.
The mother of the mohawked son smiled. "We don't always get along so well, of course," she began, "Sometimes I can't stand the bickering between our kids! It has gotten better in the past couple years." And then, she made a comment that stuck with me for a long time: "The real trick of parenting teenagers is to respect your children for who they are. You have to keep everything in perspective." She paused, "It's just hair." I felt my face flush - She was on to me! "It's all about communication," she continued. "We try to just keep talking and listening; sometimes it is really important to pick your battles, and before you know it, your kids are going to be making their own decisions."
We were speechless that evening next to the Eleurtheran surf. Steve and I had initially made judgments about the teenage boy (and, by association, his parents), based only on his spiked hair and human dog collar. What an awesome parenting lesson his mother had now shared - a simple message about acceptance and unconditional love. Steve and I were (relatively naive) parents of two toddlers who seemed to need parental limitations and guidance almost every waking hour of every day! At this stage in our lives, it was hard to imagine a time when our children would be in school, let alone teenagers making controversial, complicated choices. As is life, the time passed more quickly than we could have imagined.
Fourteen years later, our own son, Scott, was almost fifteen and about to enter the ninth grade. It was on the eve of his first day at a new high school, when he came into our bedroom and announced that he was going to dye his beautiful, blond hair a deep blue...and he wondered if I would like to help. As they had been many times before, our spontaneous parenting techniques were being put to the test.
On the night of the deep blue hair debate, the three of us stayed up much later than any of us intended. We talked about all of Scott's choices. Neither Steve nor I ever said that Scott could not dye his hair blue. We did ask him questions about his rationale and intended reactions. Scott articulated that his aim was to see if the other students would still accept him or decide that he was a "loser" if his hair were blue. His assumption clearly was that they would not, since they would all be "conforming, snobby, kids of the Massachusetts aristocracy." In the most neutral tones we could muster, we reflected on how new teachers and classmates might perceive his choice, and we discussed the possible consequences (positive and negative) of arriving at a new school with deep blue hair (which he had pointed out was the school color).
Despite aching eyes and exhausted brains, the three of us continued to talk in surprisingly calm voices, sitting on the edge of Scott's bed; it must have been there for about three hours. We challenged our son to think about whether his assumption that his peers would reject him was fair, and he challenged us to examine our feelings about conformity. Scott had been a philosopher since he could talk, so the discussion was intense, theoretical, and surprisingly sophisticated for a debate about blue hair dye. When it seemed that there was nothing more to say (or no more energy to say it), Steve and I assured Scott that we would accept whatever decision he made, and that we would be willing to help him to dye his hair, as long as he decided to do so in the next half hour. We all needed to get to sleep. Taking deep breaths, we went back to preparing for bed. Lying awake in bed, waiting for the half hour to pass, I whispered to Steve, "It's just hair."
The next morning, Scott's hair was still blond. We never asked why he chose not to dye it, as it felt akin to "I told you so" even to ask. Maybe he just couldn't handle any more talking. Maybe he, too, couldn't stay awake. It was even possible that our late-night conversation had played a role in his decision. Of course, none of us knows how his life might have been different (if at all), had Scott stayed up to dye his hair blue that night. I believe that the final choice was less important than the honest, civilized give-and-take we had managed that night. It felt good.
Before meeting the "Mohawks" on Eleuthera, I had assumed that a teen looking like their son did had to be rebelling against his parents. Like many others, I had also imagined that the kids in our town park dressed in "Goth" were experiencing a tortured angst about not having enough attention at home or being an outcast at school. My lens changed on that beach in Eleuthera, and I believe that I became a different - a more tolerant and accepting - parent.
When we want our children to look and act like the other children, in order to "fit in," often it is largely because we are worried about how their clothing, music, or behavior reflects on us and our parenting skills. Steve and I took home an unexpected lesson from the little island of Eleuthera: When the "Mohawk" boy's parents accepted their child's right to express himself in a relatively benign (albeit showy) fashion, it was an expression of trust, respect, and love, that wasn't always easy. I'm willing to bet that the same (now-41-year-old) son no longer dons a Mohawk. I imagine that he may even be a loving, respectful father to his own teenagers, grateful that his parents taught him how to see beyond the spikes, knowing what was truly important as he was growing up.
Several years later, when Scott was a boarding student at a ski academy in Vermont, we arranged to meet at his grandparents' (my parents') house for a fall weekend. My parents could not be there until Saturday, but Steve and I arrived on Friday afternoon, eagerly looking forward to having time with our son, whom we hadn't seen in several weeks.
We heard Scott's VW pull into the driveway, and Steve rushed to the door to greet him. When I heard Steve laugh out loud, I went to the window and saw Scott emerging from his car. Scott's hair was a deep, shocking blue! While he looked a bit sheepish at first, Scott visibly relaxed when he heard our giggles. It was quite a sight - a color definitely not found in nature! While the decision had seemed complicated three years earlier, we were now enjoying the fact that Scott had taken the deep blue plunge (and that he had done it without parental involvement). At fourteen, Scott was a more vulnerable, freshly decreed teen; Steve and I were more fragile, less-seasoned parents. Now, at the age of almost 18, Scott was a surprisingly independent, self-assured young man who thought it would "just be fun" to have blue hair.
Steve grabbed Scott's duffel, and I hung up his jacket. As we headed toward the living room sofa, anxious to hear about his life at the ski academy, Scott plopped himself down in front of the fire, looking up at us with a grin, "Hey, it's just hair!"
