What possesses a seventeen-year-old boy to spend an entire Sunday afternoon in a catatonic trance on his bed, staring at the ceiling? I know it's not congenital; at my son's age, I was already canvassing for an ultimately successful congressional candidate. Thus it surprised and alarmed me that Derek was not even attempting to grapple with a crucial assignment: to pen a tribute to me for my Harvard 25th reunion class book.
When I initially mentioned this endeavor to Derek, his response was characteristically flip: "Aren't your classmates summing up their own lives for the reunion book?" I conceded that many undoubtedly were, but added that not all of their sons were applying to Harvard. Should Derek's loving and well-written essay find its way to the Admissions Office (or be spotted and flagged by an astute alum), it could only bolster his chances in what has become a relentlessly competitive process.
My son attempted to shirk his task and asked why his mother or sister couldn't do it. "Because," I responded, "Mom and Betsy don't feel the way you do about me." "Damn straight," he said, but gave no sign of moving forward.
"May I suggest a topic sentence?" I asked. He nodded glumly. "Dear Dad, you are admired and respected throughout the business world." For the next three weeks, I noted not the slightest effort on Derek's part to begin his essay. What I did observe was a habit which had lately driven my wife and me to distraction: his strolling about the house humming the tune to a Michael Jackson song while periodically erupting with the phrase "Beat it" in an uncomfortably menacing manner.
After two months, Derek, who is a day student at Milton Academy, had come up with this: "Dear Dad, you are admired and respected throughout ther business world. When I began my research to write this, I realized how many things you have done and how much you are admired."
I asked Derek point-blank, "Are you brain-damaged?" He indicated that he was not. "Because Harvard accepted seven percent of its applicants last year and none of them was brain-damaged."
This unfortunate outburst led to Derek's writing a hostile paragraph comparing me unfavorably with a genocidal maniac. I informed him that the reunion book would never publish such an effort and added that Stalin was spelled with one "l."
"I'm a successful entrepreneur and an avid golfer with a 12 handicap," I reminded Derek. "Can it really be so difficult to find something to say about me?" I believe he replied, "Beat it" (my wife heard "Eat it").
So we reached an impasse, not the first such we've encountered with Derek. In the past, we'd both "helped" him complete assignments, but this time something stuck in my craw. Of course I wanted to see Derek at Harvard, but first I needed to see him out of bed, at his desk, with the overhead light illuminating a clean sheaf of paper and a pencil at the ready.
I noticed he'd had time to affix a sticker ("Nazi-free Zone") to the headboard of his antique Hepplewhite bed, to down multiple cans of soda (but not time to dispose of them in a nearby trash receptacle), to text someone named Lucius non-stop at dinner for four nights running, and to use a stack of overdue library books as a pedestal for what is possibly the crudest clay depiction of an anatomical part I have seen in two decades as a parent.
"If you ever removed the iPod from your ears, you'd be halfway toward finishing your essay." "What?" Derek yelled, as I forcibly removed his iPod. I repeated what I had said. "You mean I'd be halfway toward finishing your essay."
Derek has always been overly preoccupied with what everyone else is doing instead of focusing on his own labors. Raking leaves as a young adolescent, he was forever casting glances at Betsy's pile. "Don't worry about Betsy," I told him, "it's not a race, which is fortunate for you since she's raked twice as many leaves." Our family spent a very tense fall as my wife and I left a series of reminders in Derek's room ("1984: Dad climbed Mt. Rainier";"Began Harvard Business School in 1990") which were less than gratefully received.
Finally, I ushered Derek into my study and pointed out a signed photo of me at the White House with George W. Bush: "Perhaps this will prompt some memories." "Why?" responded Derek, "I wasn't there." "No, but I was. Some are lucky enough to sup with presidents and kings...." "What is 'sup,'" he asked, "a verb?" "Yes," I said, "short for 'supper.'" "Then shouldn't it be to eat sup with presidents and kings?"
Derek's at college in Ohio now. He's not home for Thanksgiving and offered no excuse. But it doesn't take a genius to know what keeps him away: we've got two acres here in Belmont and that makes for an awful lot of leaves.
