Tactile Reinforcement
http://www.allburghers.com/articles/21/1/Tactile-Reinforcement/Page1.html
Damon Cater
This above all things, to thine own self be true.
By Damon Cater
Published on 04/25/2007
Kids these days and our lack of response.
An "Other Directed Community"
So far in the last two months, 37 middle school children have been suspended from school for a total of 87 days. I think I saw a few of them yesterday morning walking around enjoying the day off, skateboards in tow. They are like little cave men, slumped over, gear jingling and dangling around their knees and ankles. Slovenly and lythe all at the same time.
I have no problem with the skateboards, or even their appearance. At least they are outside I say. Not in their houses behind drawn windows, in front of their TV's or computers with a bag of Cheeto's in their laps.
I can remember when you could not find a stretch of open field in town without a dozen or so urchins chasing a half deflated pigskin around. Smear the Queer we called it. Not very PC today. But really being the queer in that game was pretty fun. You got to cradle a ball and tease your buddies into chasing you around the lawn, until they finally got their sweaty little hands on you and smeared you to the ground under a growing mass of giggling panting bodies. At which point you'd give it up and it was your turn to be on top. Hmm... maybe that was kind of gay. But it did make us tough.
Sometimes it was more organized. Sandlot baseball; pick-up games of football. We were always outside. We were falling down, getting banged up. Running, yelling. Being a hell of lot more rowdy than what we see these days.
Today the streets are void of bicycle ramps, the lots are quiet and haven't seen a pick-up game of neighborhood buddies in decades. It's all organized now. There are leagues, coaches, rules, parent booster groups, matches, tournaments, uniforms, societies, associations and more rules. Which one of us thought of doing it this way?
I like the independent little troglodytes with there rebel attitude. Making there own playgrounds out of our curbs and rails. They remind me of me. I also like yelling at them and telling them to watch their language, or minding their manners. A friend of mine told me once how he had done his duty by informing the minister of a local church of the profanity that he had overheard coming form his vacant parking lot. Skate rats had struck again. Within a week, there was a new sign. NO SKATEBOARDING!
A couple years later, the town built a skate park with a fence around it. "Do it in here and no where else." You little cave dwellers.
I wondered why my friend had not engaged the foe on their own turf. Why not yell at them across the street.
"HEY! Watch your mouths over there!" They would have stopped. If they hadn't, then walk over and yell at them up close. They're just kids. They're small and insecure and don't like being yelled at. They would have stared in disbelief... said nothing and made fun of the old curmudgeon when he was gone. But they would have stopped cussing...loudly at least.
Others tell us that we should disengage. There is a phenomenon called the other directed society, a phrase coined by Sociologist David Wiseman. He says that, beginning with Dr Spock, (the pediatrician not the super cool Vulcan science officer of the USS Enterprise), beginning with Dr Spock the pediatrician, American culture started to think that we didn't know how to raise our children. From then on it has been a publishers wet dream of book after book on "how to" raise your kids. For 25,000 years humans have been living in society's raising their kids without help from others. Somehow in the past fifty years, our species lost that DNA-encoded-innate ability.
The primary message has been disengage. Don't deal with them yourself. Get professional help. I recall having teachers so engaged in my person-hood that they left splintered wood in my rear end. Now that's getting involved. Today... unthinkable, that a teacher might care enough to raise a rash on a second grader who has told his Principal where to shove his principals. Good Lord.
I think my friend was afraid of them. Their chains and hair. Their numbers. Or maybe he didn't really care. About them I mean. Maybe we care less and we show it by not getting dirty with our kids. We don't like dirt anymore. We used to love it.
I have no problem with the skateboards, or even their appearance. At least they are outside I say. Not in their houses behind drawn windows, in front of their TV's or computers with a bag of Cheeto's in their laps.
I can remember when you could not find a stretch of open field in town without a dozen or so urchins chasing a half deflated pigskin around. Smear the Queer we called it. Not very PC today. But really being the queer in that game was pretty fun. You got to cradle a ball and tease your buddies into chasing you around the lawn, until they finally got their sweaty little hands on you and smeared you to the ground under a growing mass of giggling panting bodies. At which point you'd give it up and it was your turn to be on top. Hmm... maybe that was kind of gay. But it did make us tough.
Sometimes it was more organized. Sandlot baseball; pick-up games of football. We were always outside. We were falling down, getting banged up. Running, yelling. Being a hell of lot more rowdy than what we see these days.
Today the streets are void of bicycle ramps, the lots are quiet and haven't seen a pick-up game of neighborhood buddies in decades. It's all organized now. There are leagues, coaches, rules, parent booster groups, matches, tournaments, uniforms, societies, associations and more rules. Which one of us thought of doing it this way?
I like the independent little troglodytes with there rebel attitude. Making there own playgrounds out of our curbs and rails. They remind me of me. I also like yelling at them and telling them to watch their language, or minding their manners. A friend of mine told me once how he had done his duty by informing the minister of a local church of the profanity that he had overheard coming form his vacant parking lot. Skate rats had struck again. Within a week, there was a new sign. NO SKATEBOARDING!
A couple years later, the town built a skate park with a fence around it. "Do it in here and no where else." You little cave dwellers.
I wondered why my friend had not engaged the foe on their own turf. Why not yell at them across the street.
"HEY! Watch your mouths over there!" They would have stopped. If they hadn't, then walk over and yell at them up close. They're just kids. They're small and insecure and don't like being yelled at. They would have stared in disbelief... said nothing and made fun of the old curmudgeon when he was gone. But they would have stopped cussing...loudly at least.
Others tell us that we should disengage. There is a phenomenon called the other directed society, a phrase coined by Sociologist David Wiseman. He says that, beginning with Dr Spock, (the pediatrician not the super cool Vulcan science officer of the USS Enterprise), beginning with Dr Spock the pediatrician, American culture started to think that we didn't know how to raise our children. From then on it has been a publishers wet dream of book after book on "how to" raise your kids. For 25,000 years humans have been living in society's raising their kids without help from others. Somehow in the past fifty years, our species lost that DNA-encoded-innate ability.
The primary message has been disengage. Don't deal with them yourself. Get professional help. I recall having teachers so engaged in my person-hood that they left splintered wood in my rear end. Now that's getting involved. Today... unthinkable, that a teacher might care enough to raise a rash on a second grader who has told his Principal where to shove his principals. Good Lord.
I think my friend was afraid of them. Their chains and hair. Their numbers. Or maybe he didn't really care. About them I mean. Maybe we care less and we show it by not getting dirty with our kids. We don't like dirt anymore. We used to love it.