An essay on why today’s teens make me optimistic. Despite their brawling.
My son is fourteen. And he drives me mad. He is stuck in his screen. He wants to stay on the sofa. He never takes off his headphones. He wants pijama days, to stay indoors, eat pringles and minstrels, watch youtube shorts, devour insta reels. The hours pass. Many hours. It is all about memes, Brawl Stars, skins and progression counts.
My son is fourteen. And he inspires me. He is absorbed deep inside his world then grabs me and makes sure I won’t be run over by a bus. He looks after me when we cross the road, aware that I do not look out. He knows I expect to be seen, always: I wear bright clothes and smile at people so “they will stop”, I say. He prefers not to leave things to chance and halts the traffic for me — or halts me. He is self-absorbed while wide aware of everything. He notices, and he cares.
“My son is fourteen. And he inspires me. He is absorbed deep inside his world then switches gears, grabs me and makes sure I won’t be run over by a bus”.
My son is fourteen. And he knows how to switch gears. He knows how far he can go pushing his luck. He knows when to stop. He knows when something really matters — and when it does not. He knows to respect his grandmother, who is fierce, unstoppable and in charge at all times; he knows to respect those who are vulnerable or unwell; he knows to pretend not to hear those who can be avoided. He knows when to interrupt, when to protest, when to ignore and when to listen.
He is fourteen and is wise already. He gives me hope. He observes and knows what is going on around him. He understands his English side and his Spanish side. He plays his cards well. He navigates multiple identities and multiple expectations. He is vegan, he is carnivorous. He is sporty, he is lazy; he is studious, he games; he takes us all for a ride, he pays attention.
He knows me inside out. He challenges all my preconceptions. He displaces my perfect cushions; disrupts my precise home arrangements. He looks at me in the eye and makes sure I know he is there, with a right to bring disorder, or a different order, to my extremely well classified world.
He knows his father inside out. He challenges his convictions. He challenges his aunts and his uncles and his cousins. He challenges us all and does it without effort. He has fun and he has patience. He may even challenge his grandmother: the matriarch no one else dares confront. It is beautiful to see how he succeeds, at times, and how we retracts (almost always!). You win, you lose. It’s worth a try.
My son is fourteen and he gives me hope. He makes me see how bright young people are. How much they know. He makes me understand how much they frustrate us, because we are lost; because there is so much they are figuring out that is different from what we had to, when we were the hope and madness inducing cause for our parents.
I have hope. I see amazing futures. I am driven off the wall by the screens, the brawlers, the sofas, the endlessly silly youtube jokes. And I am impressed, fascinated by the ever-expanding intelligence and wit and capacity to adapt and imagine and love and give and grow new ideas and new possibilities as a family, as a community and as people young and old who have no choice but become more trusting of each other.
I am thankful for all these simple, beautiful joys and rages.
I detest youtube shorts. I have hope.