Midnight Special

Summer’s end- September 2009

A month has passed since my son left for college. I took over his room and did minor decorating changes. I installed a floor lamp and drafting table and placed my laptop on it, moved some of my books on top of his dresser, turning the room into my Face Book and “blogging room.” His dad was stunned. “You cannot do this! This is still his room!” he exclaimed. I argued that my things are portable; when our son comes home, I will move them out of the room.

Being in my son’s room makes me feel close to him. I go over the books in his bookcase; a collection of Beatles books, Rolling Stone’s Encyclopedia of Rock & Roll, The Gig Bag Book of Guitar, Six By Seuss, The Football Book, Graffiti World, Pedro and Me, among others. I open his closet and I see the bag of stuffed toys he decided to keep. He is on a crossroad, caught between adulthood and childhood. While I would give anything to hug my son good-night, as we always did before he left, I understood that my job (and his Dad's) has been done raising him from being a baby to being a young adult and now he needs a whole different community to help prepare him for his future.

However, despite my best efforts not to show it, I miss my son greatly. It was clear that he wanted to wean himself from the structure at home and “annoying parental control” we exercised over him before he left. But before we let him go, we made him sign a contract between himself and us, that in exchange for eight (8) semesters of excellent performance in college, his parents would pay for tuition, room and board, clothes, information technology gadgets and access, books, allowance, providing among other things that he does not get in trouble with neither the university nor the government , and providing further that he would communicate with his parents his grade status in school. We also added a provision, for good measure, requiring him to engage in a meaningful and friendly conversation with us over dinner, at least once a week when he is home from college. While he agreed, at first reluctantly, to most of the clauses of the Contract, he asked to strike the paragraph requiring him to engage in a joyful conversation with his parents when he is visiting from college. He asserted that we could not contractually bind him to his emotions. I wonder if he figured out why we put it in there in the first place. We agreed, and we concurred, and we struck it from the contract.

At some point after he was born, I stopped crying. Everyone told me that I needed to be strong. He should not see me cry. I had to relearn how to cry. The therapist told me that it was okay for a child to see a parent cry. It shows a child that crying is normal. She told me that that it is normal to have appropriate reactions to each situation. In other words, I should not always be the calm and in control supermom.

After that meeting, I went home and parked my car behind a grocery store and did a quick reflection of my life and I cried like I have never before. All through those years of making decisions that affected my little son and myself, I had built a wall between me and my emotions. As a consequence, I started feeling a stranger inside myself. I was not real anymore.

I wanted the old me with a strong mind and sensitivity to other people’s feelings. I wanted to cry at sad movies and I wanted to laugh at the absurdities of life. I heeded the advice of my therapist. Shortly thereafter, when I cried in front of my pre-schooler, he handed me a Band-aid saying, “Mommy, put this on your eyes so they would not hurt anymore.” When I looked in his eyes, his innocence and concern for me reduced me to an indescribable feeling of gratitude for being his mother.

Now, he is a young man who is not intimidated by big words and not impressed by material things. He celebrates his being “culturally androgynous,” and takes pride in being a child of a multiracial background. When we let go of him, we did not expect that he would take to being in college like fish taking to water. We were concerned that he would opt to disappear into the crowd, happy just to go with the current flow. On the one hand, that maybe a good thing but on the other hand, we were hoping that he would take advantage of his very unique self; the boy who is gutsy enough to pick purple as his favorite color and does not care what others think of him and is confident about his fashion choices, the one who formed a cult-movie club or used his camera to film crazy plots with his friends. We were impressed by his sense of individuality and we hope that he would take advantage of his self confidence. We should not have been too worried.

Two weeks ago, I was in front of huge bins of pears at the supermarket. I cried. My son loves pears. I could not bring myself to buy Gala apples. The very sight of them bring knots into my throat. When he was young, he would kiss a Gala apple before eating one, exclaiming, “Mom, these apples are so pretty, I just want to kiss each of them!” I heard Queen’s Freddie Mercury singing and I thought of Kris imitating Freddie and regaling me about his life story. Mama mia, mama mia! I thought of the time we went to London where his dad and he went to a West Side show of a group who relived a Queen concert. I think of him often but he is exploring his newly found freedom and his thoughts are not with what he left behind.

I think of all the times he would try to entertain or shock me with a YouTube clip. Our home is quiet since he left. He is not here to make me laugh. I seldom hear from him. Now that he is in college, it is as though he has forgotten about those whom he left behind.

I was running out of tricks in my bag for him to call or text message me. I sent him a check. Nothing. I wrote him an email signing off with my first name vs. ‘Mom.’ Nothing. I sent some fruits. Nothing. Desperate situation merits desperate action. So I sent him a text message.

“KrS, what is ur problem w/ me? Tell me what I hv done 2 u that u won’t respond 2 me. Tell me NOW!!”

He texted back, “Mom, what? Calm down please. Im js terribly busy. I texted you.”

I responded, “Texted my a$$! I hv not recd a text fm u! U r Busy? We r busy 2 but when u need us, we stop evrythng n giv u all our tym! Leche! U behave lk u hv no PARENTS!!!

My Bb was hot. It kept telling me the "field was full" but I was fired up. So I edited, “Wht txt? Txt my a$$! Nothing! We r b c 2 bt when u need us we giv u all our time. LECHE! U act lk u hv no PARENTS!”

Then I scrolled my Blackberry and found his text to me half an hour earlier that I did not see. “Mom, hi, been busy, I got a 97.5 out of 100 on my exam and I now have a radio show. College is great. Will email you later. Much love, K”

I texted him back, full of regret for my schizo text a minute ago. “Wow! Awesome grade! Radio show? Proud of you! Love, Mom”

He must know his Mom is a good egg; cracked but a good egg. I felt like the biggest bleeping fool. I felt like a total jerk acting out. I went home late and an hour later, I received an email from him. I was so happy I wanted his Dad to hear what he had to say so I read aloud:

“Hey Mom sorry, I was really busy….I am really liking the mind bending lectures of Dr.Prof ….I like college, I am enjoying so you should enjoy yourself too. With regard to the TV in my room, fret not, it is not an issue.
“Check this out, I now have a radio show on Saturdays. The administrators like that I am not playing regular college radio stuff. I have friends in MD who listen on the stream. You might not like it and it is also very late so just go to sleep.
Please do not cry. Your crying makes my Dad stressed out and I end up having to deal with it.

I love both of you guys very much but I just do not have the time to talk to you all the time. I will call Sunday. Much love…”

How did he know I was crying? I looked at my husband. I said, “How did he know I was crying when I did not speak to him? I only texted him.” He sheepishly murmured, “Busted.” Apparently, someone emailed this college kid and said, “However busy you are, your mom is missing you a lot, she has been crying. Get on your butt right now and send your mother, a short email to tell her that you are fine.”

All the guilt I felt went down the drain. He deserved to be textYELLED!

Friday night eased into Saturday past midnight. A very special midnight for us. We could not wait to hear him on the air. His Dad checked the university website and thought of how he could archive his son’s show on the PC. What do you mean sleep? This was big. This was a milestone.

He told us while he was in high-school that he wanted to become a radio personality. His Dad advised him to get started in college. Our friend told him that he himself had a radio show while in college. Kris had only been in college for a month! He stepped out of his comfort zone and chased his dream of being on the radio.

We waited patiently for 1:00am DC time, midnight Kansas time. I was online and my husband was online downstairs as well. We listened to the music playing before our son’s show came on. To call it different was an understatement. It was weird. The music sounded like new wave meets heavy metal meets tribal and back- to- the- future, stoner’s music. It was psychedelic. My husband came upstairs and when we looked at each other, we both said, in unison, “WEIRD!” But still we listened, then it was 1:00am. Silence. I stared at the screen.

Then I heard my son’s voice “on the air.” “This is KristofferG here, just woke up from a nap. It is 76 degrees, this is KJHK University of Kansas in Lawrence so we are locked and loaded, so let's fire it up... then he eased into music. ‘We must be in Love…” His dad and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows and exclaimed, “WOW!”

He likes Prince, High Society, Kanye West, Michael Jackson, Sam Cooke, D’Angelo, Beatles, Queen, Led Zep, even Bob Marley among countless others. He had guitar lessons for over seven years and has had exposure to classical music. I remember the day he told us he did not like to see the National Philharmonic anymore. “Mom and Dad, I have had enough exposure to classical music. I do not want to go with you to the symphony anymore. It is depressing. It smells of old people there. The symphony is for grandparents.”

At KJHK meanwhile, he was spinning discs and then suddenly, there was silence. Then we heard a needle scratch vinyl. The boy was born in the age of CDs and DVDs. How would he know how to cue an LP album? Then we could hear the scratchy sound of needle over vinyl. He named the artists he picked, an ecclectic playlist and we were nodding our heads in agreement. That is the boy we know! Temptations to Prince to Beatles to J.Dilla. His choices, so far, are good, but generally not for anyone over forty. They are not, by any stretch "easy listening" music. However, I am used to them. I have had previous exposure to them. Many afternoons after he is done studying, he would call me downstairs. “Mom, I want you to listen to this artist.” “Kris! OMG, I am not sure about this. Okay, I think I like it. I mean it is not oppressive. ” Or at times, “What is this? No, thank you!” “Kris, enough, I don’t like it. It is boring.” I would raise my hands up, roll my eyes and walk away while he would laugh at my reaction.

When he was younger, he heard me playing the melody of “In My Life” on the piano. He said he could not believe I knew the song. He would smile when I react to a Beatles song or Michael Jackson’s songs. I loved “I Will” as I also loved “Got To be There.” So I texted him, “K! I am listening to your program. I like the songs you are playing. U r doing great. Mr. DJ, pls play In my Life by d Beatles?

He responded, “I will play a different Beatles song.” and I thought, he really is his own person now. He just told me, didn’t he? What would he play, Lucy in the Skies with Diamonds, perhaps?

Feeling stymied by his response, I texted, “That is fine. Goodnight n pls b careful getting bk to your dorm. Love. Peace. Mom” He smiles when I use his words “peace, hating, chill, cool, shamona” with him. I try to communicate in his ‘language’ but I often times get lost in translation.

Ecactly three minutes later, the Beatles came on. As I stared and listened in disbelief, the song came on:

“Who knows how long I’ve loved you, you know I love you still, Will I wait a lonely lifetime, If you want me to, I will.

Love your forever and forever , love you with all my heart, Love you whenever we’re together, love you when we’re apart…”

"… For the things you do, endear you to me, oh you know I will. I will."

My tears started on the first note. I longed to see the face of the boy I love of “all the boys in the whole wide world.” Hearing him over the stream brought him physically close to me. I was hanging on to the sound of my son’s voice. I wanted to embrace him but it was just his voice over the stream, “on the air.”

My son is the pulse of my heart and the life behind my soul. I do declare that loving him is the most selfless kind of love I feel. The unconditional love of parents makes children feel safe in taking that love for granted. They know that it will always be there no matter what. But at this particular moment, when my son gifted me with a song that he knew has always moved me, I felt "much loved," by him, as he always tells me when he wants to assure us of his love. (Or get out of a difficult situation with his parents.)

I texted him, “Anak, u r playing my song. U r making me cry. Goodnight my dear son! U make me so proud. “

His response was classic ‘Kris.’ He played “In My Life”, as his penultimate spin, but not by the Beatles. The vocalist sounded like he had just a lobotomy, or too much scotch. Kris knew I would be laughing my head off. And I was. I was sleepy but I had to TextAsk, "Who is this guy butchering my favorite song?"

No response. What did I expect? I went to sleep at the sound of his voice, signing off and handing over the helm to the next DJ.

This morning, there was a text message from him: “Haha, that was Johnny Cash!”