Making the Man
by Nancer Ballard
My son Cody’s school ends at eighth grade, so my partner, Terry, and I have been visiting high schools. American independent high school applications are a world unto themselves. To prepare, hundreds of thousands of kids take a simplified version of a college entrance test that includes writing an essay on whether they agree or disagree with some cliché. This strikes me as a peculiarly American way to test scholastic aptitude. I advise Cody to avoid adamant, oversimplified opinions, but he mulishly informs me that his teacher says he’s supposed to pick one point of view and defend it to the death. His first practice essay on, “Appearances are deceiving,” isn’t half-bad, but he’s misspelled “deceive” five or six times in three paragraphs.
“Cody,” I plead; you’ve got to check your work.”
“I did.”
“But ‘deceive’ is spelled right here, in the instructions.”
“Oh.” We aren’t worried yet; it’s only September.
In early October Cody’s teachers hands out a detailed grids, which they refer to as “rubrics,” to use as checklists for content and writing skills. I find Cody’s social studies rubric in the button-down leg pocket of his pants as I’m loading the washer. “Cody, do you think your teachers make these things up for their health?”
He glances at the paper. “I looked at it.”
“I see. And do your teachers expect you to run your eyes lightly over your rubric and then button it into the leg of your pants? These rubrics are the answer to your prayers. All you have to do is make sure you do what’s in each of the boxes and your almost guaranteed to get a good grade. Can’t you see what a gift this is?” He regards me with dead eyes. “Cody what do you think ‘rubric’ stands for?”
He waits. I’m in over my head now.
A flicker of light passes through his eyes. “I dunno, what?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly. Think of it as … Rudiments U Better Remember if Competency is in your future.”
The light gutters. “Yeah, right.”
One night after Cody is in bed, I snip out magazine advertisements with the slogans like – “Will wishful thinking work tonight? Probably not.” This ad features a woman lying in bed with her hands crossed behind her head on a pillow. It’s probably advertising a drug for insomniacs or Viagra, but I leave it in the center of the kitchen counter, hoping the message might inspire Cody to homework. He doesn’t notice it; the next day he is holed up in the bathroom studying important things that could make him a stand-out on his admission test—things like, “Cows produce more milk after listening to Elvis than the metal rock band, Kiss.” I tack up the ad on the refrigerator.
Terry and I recount the virtues of the local public high school, though we’ve been told it probably isn’t the best fit. Cody says he has an open mind but wants to get into the schools his teachers recommended. It goes without saying that he has to keep his grades up, but we say it anyway. When night falls we try to let go of Cody’s future for a while. Terry turns to the bills. I return to a manuscript in which I’m supposed to be exploring the anatomy of wonder and enchantment: Enchantment—from the Latin incantare, as in “chant a magic formula, or incantation upon. En—into+ cantare—to sing. Nothing comes to me.
“Passionate. They all want passionate.” In late October I am leafing through the glossy school catalogue. “Can you think of anything you’re passionate about?” Cody is pecking away at his calculator and singing. “Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone…. I care about getting in,” he says at a stanza break.
In lieu of passion, Cody begins to say, “I love,” a lot. As in—“I love small classes, I love that you want engaged learners; I love that your school requires three years of history.”
“Is this true?” I ask. “Who loves course requirements?”
None of us can recall what’s true anymore. We settle for not telling lies.
We interview at five or six schools. Many of the schools are amazing, but I am cowed by the odds. The interviewers reassure us that we’re lucky – it’s easier for a boy. Girl applicants have higher grades and test scores. However, there’s a reason for this. In the middle of the night I realize the interviewers must mean that it’s easier for boys who think like girls—by which I mean are focused, prepared, and emotionally understand the concept of cause and effect. I know some boys like this. I knew some when I was young. Cody isn’t one of them. Maybe it was done with mirrors. Maybe it was all show, and at home, these boys, too, kept their rubrics in the clothes hamper.
It’s early November and Cody is studying Latin and Greek roots. “I’ve got it,” he exclaims one day, snapping his fingers in delight. “The perfect career.”
This would be astonishing; Terry and I have spent hours trying to get him to identify people-who-have-impacted-his-life, and what-he-wants-to-pursue-in-the future. Computer games and hard rock music head the list; in fact, they are the only things on the list. “Great. What is it?”
He gives a self-possessed nod. “An interesting sinecure.”
“A what?” Terry glances at me.
“A sinecure. A position that pays well and requires little or now work.”
“Perfect, but they may be hard to come by. Also, I’m not sure that will impress secondary school interviewers.”
“They might not know what it is.”
“They might ask.”
Cody reads me a draft essay. “What do you think?” When I tell him, he says, “No, Nancer.” Since he was ten, he has called us by name – reserving “Mom,” for when he wants us to make dinner or bring him something – but now he addresses me with scornful disdain.
“Do you talk to your teachers like this?”
“They’re better teachers than you are.”
“Fine,” I say, “Ask them for help.” He doesn’t want a better teacher; he wants a sinecure that comes with sycophants. I try to recall if I ever use his name to introduce outrage, and wince.
“Okay,” he says, waving another draft. “How’s this?”
“Hmmm. It’s still kind of general. You know how your social studies teacher likes details and examples. I think you should add a few.”
He scowls at me. “It’s not just her; they’re all like that.” He throws up his hands in mock frustration. “I don’t know where they get these teachers.” I don’t either. They must be saints.
The interviewers and teachers at Cody’s school have told us we should be having fun visiting schools and envisioning a half-dozen mutually exclusive future’s but it’s early December, and we’re battle weary. The admissions interviewers must be getting tired also; they start asking Terry and I if we have anything to add to what Cody said without telling us what he said. We have run short of questions. I wonder what kind of person would take their job. I start asking about their lives. We make jokes. I think we’ve lost our edge.
After the last visit, we stumble to the mall to get Cody a jacket; he’s been wearing a thin gray sweatshirt in blow-freezing weather for weeks because we haven’t had time to go to a store. After trying on one jacket he is ready to go. “I think Open Houses and interviewing are more fun for people who like shopping,” I say.
“They’re exactly like shopping,” says Cody.
Terry nods. Except that there are a thousand shoppers for every ninety outfits. And the clothes have to pick you.
The semester is nearly over and our attention is flagging. Cody has a pack of essays to do over winter break, and we have half a dozen parent essays to complete, but it still feels like things are easing up. We go to a concert and think about world peace. Then Cody announces he has to perform a two-part audition for the spring musical, The Wizard of Oz. “Before winter break?” asks Terry. The transition from rock lyrics to T.S. Eliot comes fairly easily, but the singing portion of the audition presents more of a challenge: Cody’s musical forte is crooning identity theft commercials into an invisible microphone. After reviewing and rejecting several hundred songs as too sappy or out of his six-note range, he settles on Mack the Knife. Cody wants to watch the countless of Oz student productions posted on You-Tube, but he still has a social studies test and math homework. He sits at the kitchen table doing his algebra. I sit at my desk, still waiting for a breakthrough on enchantment and wonder. I give up and start dinner. Cody thinks it will help us both if I chant the history of the Marshall Plan to the tune of Mack the Knife while he’s doing his algebra. Terry is in the other room watching Snape (from Harry Potter) lip syncing If I Only Had a Heart on You Tube.
Cody finishes a problem. “Oh the line forms, on the right Baby, Dorothy Gale’s back in town.”
“Cody,” I say sternly. “You’re getting distracted.” He grins and pulls out his invisible microphone.
The invisible microphone falls silent and I hear the stir of the refrigerator and some enchantment’s wings. “Cody…?
“Lord, it’s going to be a haaaaard candy Christmas.”
- Read more within these categories:
- Non-fiction
- | Nancer Ballard
Nancer Ballard is a Resident Scholar at Brandeis University. Her poetry and creative non-fiction have recently appeared in Do Not Give Me Things Unbroken, ed., Ellen Weiner (Writers Club Press) and The Journal for The Association of Research on Mothering (York University). Dead Reckoning, a volume of her poetry, was published by Good Gay Poets in 1978.