Performance and nose-piercing

My daughter has been sick, and she's been watching a lot of teen drama. Of course we all roll our eyes at teen drama. But there was a moment in this story that was useful to me.

This teenage girl was going to a poetry slam to try to impress a boy. Her poem was a piece of fluff, and she didn't advance. Afterwards she asked the judge why, and he said, "We were looking for something a little more raw." So she pierces her nose and seeks some angst to make her poetry better.

This story resonated with me because in my twenties, I wrote and sought to publish my poetry. I'm now in my forties, and I can clearly see why I was so frustrated in those days. The people who were judging my poetry held to values that were completely different than mine. We both respected the craft of language, but I was looking for meaning, and the crowd who judged what was and wasn't publishable wanted an expression of the twentieth-century crisis of meaning in our post-modern chaos. It is very hard to seek the approval of people whose standard is not something I respect.

(The audience at the All Asia Cafe reacts to scores presented for a poem in the preliminary rounds of the 2011 National Poetry Slam. Photo © 2011 Richard Beaubien. I still love poetry.)

Yet I was somehow seeking their approval, like the nose-pierced girl in the story. If they said my poetry was good, then I had a meaningful life. But in order to remain true to myself, I had to convince them that my words were powerful and my old-fashioned sense of God and truth were real, themes they largely rejected. It was like going to a beauty contest and expecting praise for my lovely flute playing but not bothering with the swimsuit and evening gown.

Then I realized that somehow, I have even been struggling with the values of American television. In another strain of the tv drama, the mother gave a morning-after pill to her son's girlfriend, whose parents would have freaked for religious reasons over her having sex. She bemoaned why he didn't use a condom, when they kept them in the bathroom and always talked with him openly about "wise" sexual choices.

In this story, I'm the wacko religious parents, who appear in every tv drama and are always belittled. However, I am not seeking to please this crowd. Even though my God is invisible, some day I will stand before Him and answer to how I have raised my children. The world may cast me as stupid, an irresponsible, head-in-the-sand parent, but someday I really believe reality will shift, and "their" opinion is not the one that matters.

This small epiphany expanded yesterday: I'm also not seeking the approval of my church friends, or family. Voices of approval or disapproval slip into my head very easily, but there is one voice I am listening for. It takes work to constantly tune in to Him. I can miss His conviction, and I can miss His direction if I do not consciously bring my parenting to His altar and listen. I have to be still, and I have to be intentional.

In this blog article, let me be one small voice encouraging you to listen to Dad. I may need to come back and reread it myself, on those days I feel like piercing my nose and performing for the poetry judges.