Drones

Once again, I’m bristling over another newspaper article about a high school senior who is hoping to hear soon from her dream school MIT. What, she thinks she won’t get in? The article says the girl has above a 4.0 GPA, (I didn’t know that was possible,)was one of six kids in the state to get a perfect score on the SAT college entrance exam, she took advanced classes, did volunteer work and extracurricular activities. Yet, she is fretting about whether or not MIT will accept her.

The article goes on to quote the admissions dean from MIT who paints a pretty narrow picture about who gets in. Just because you look good on paper doesn’t guarantee admission, she says, because the competition is so fierce. So maybe the stellar student won’t get in. Oh. My. God.

Why do I bristle? Because for the life of me I can’t figure out where these kinds of kids come from. Where do they get that incredible work ethic, that drive, to live their lives like little professional students, creating incredible college resumes while they are still too young to vote? And I’m not just referring to their grades…they have resumes that include stellar athletic performance, school or faith based leadership roles, community volunteer work, and to top it off they enjoy going to movies with their friends. I have never personally met one of them so I don’t know if they’re likable, or if they have any real personality. God, I hope not.

Because I don’t know any of them personally, I have taken to calling them drones. As in monotonous, dull. I’m quite sure, even hopeful, that’s an egregious label I’ve assigned to some incredible kids. But since I don’t know them, I’m sticking to the label.

I’ve always been very suspicious of drones and live in fear that they will take over the world. My fear is they will become the leaders of the neo-conservatives and will take away funding for the N.E.A. and we’ll have a society void of artistic expression but lots of big business. They are the kids who as pre-schoolers wore the clothes their mothers put out for them; you know, the outfits of tops and bottoms that actually go together.

So with each article about one more super achiever drone who once wore matching cottons, I bristle. The moment goes something like this:

My husband and I are relaxing in the living room reading the newspaper. It is a winter Sunday morning, and we’re drinking French roast coffee topped with heated milk foamed with the Aerolatte. The early morning sun is shining bright into the room, and I couldn’t feel more at peace. And then. I am reading the article on the super student and begin groaning. “It’s another achiever story,” I sigh, “Get this, this kid is a senior and has taken 10 A.P. courses and is president of his student council. He’s applied to Harvard, Northwestern and Stanford.”

Sig looks up, nods his head with acknowledgement, as in, he’ll read it when I’m done, and goes back to his section of the paper.

I sigh again, noticeably irritated, and begin my diatribe on the drones. I say things, like, “How do you even take 10 A.P. courses?” or “Do you think the parents forced this on this kid,” or “I wonder if this kid has any sense of humor.” When I’m finished, with my diatribe and the article, I fling the section of newspaper across the coffee table to Sig where he picks it up and begins to read.

He likes reading about these kids. He says, “Hans should read this. It will inspire him. At least it will make him realize how hard he needs to work.”

“No way,” I counter. “These kids are nothing like our kids.”

“Well I think they could amp it up a little,” Sig argues. He then goes on to suggest for the millionth time that Hans needs to get involved in some school groups, or do some volunteer work somewhere.

In my gut I feel I’m wrong, but I counter, “Hans will get into college based on his true intelligence, his entrance exams, and a killer essay. The match for him will be a school that sees he’s a true student, not an application whore.”

And there our discussion ends. When Hans comes downstairs a few hours later, Sig will tell him about a good article to read. Hans will take a look, and declare the kid in the article irrelevant.
End of subject.

Except it isn’t the end of the subject. In my mind will be the ongoing fight about what we’ve done as parents to raise kids who are seem to be so unlike those super-achievers. I will start with the fact that neither of us are super-achievers. That’s a good place to start. We haven’t modeled super-achiever behavior. Then I’ll wonder about what right we had to bring into the world these very bright children and not provide them with super-achiever modeling. Ah, we’re hacks for parents, and we’ve been busted. We were lazy. We coasted.

When I come to my senses later in the day, I will then go back to quietly bristling about the drones, and thank my lucky stars for the intelligent, creative, playful, and very real human beings who happen to be my children. I never could tell them what to wear when they were pre-schoolers. You want to wear a Batman sweatshirt for eight weeks straight? Go for it my boy.

But I don’t ever really let it go. I don’t because I remember my children from their younger days when they were so precocious. From my paleontologist, my mathematician and artist, to my language lover, all three thrilled us with their interests and innate intelligence. I imagine most of us watch our children in a kind of amazement, and could write pages about the talent and skills that showed up early in our children.

But what about those parents of the super-children? Were their children so incredible from day one that they kept up a kind of drill-sergeant relationship with them to maintain their uber-student status? Is that what we should have done?

I appreciate a smart driven kid as much as anyone. I just fear this crazy college bound culture could be sucking the authenticity out of these kids, turning them into drones.

So I bristle.