Volume 5, Issue 83: The Monk of Mokha
"They brought you here so you could have choices. And you're blowing it."
The book is out. People tend to like it, I think. I hope you have bought your copy. If you have not, there is no time like the present: Buy now. If you have already bought the book, you are encouraged to leave it a review on Goodreads or Amazon, or both. It helps.
A few weeks back, my son William and I went to go get sandwiches at Jersey Mike’s, the sandwich place that’s more sanitary than Subway but is still a considerable downgrade from an actual sandwich place. It was a Sunday, before church let out, so there wasn’t much of a line yet, just two groups ahead of us, led by a mother and a girl I presumed to be her daughter.
The daughter appeared to be about 15, maybe 16; a little older than my 13-year-old son. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt with a photo of Taylor Swift on it and holding her phone like a talisman; her mother was wearing workout clothes and carrying a water bottle roughly the size of a Buick. The mother looked up at the menu. The daughter looked down at the floor. The man behind the counter, an older man doing a job I’d have previously assumed would be done by a teenager, something you can’t help but notice seeing a lot of these days, waited patiently, ready to take their order.
The woman, distractedly, ordered a turkey and provolone on wheat. And then she brushed her hair out of her face and took a deep breath. “OK,” she said, leaning to her daughter, who was taller than she was, and said, as gently as a light spring breeze, “What kind of bread would you like?”
The girl, not looking at the menu or the man behind the counter, slightly turned her head to her mom. In a faint whisper I could barely make out even though we were standing about two feet from them, she responded, “what kind of bread do they have?”
The woman turned her head up to the menu, and then back to her daughter. “Wheat, or white?” The girl whispered back to her: “White.” The woman looked at the man behind the counter. “White bread please.”
She then went back to her daughter and, so softly, a feather on a pillow, said, “So, honey, would you like turkey? They have turkey. They also have ham. Or you can get a hot sandwich.” The girl did not look up at the menu, fixed solely instead on her mom. “Is it the turkey at the store, or is it restaurant turkey?” The mom, speaking a little faster now, said, “it’s just regular turkey, honey. Do you want turkey? You like turkey.” The girl nodded her head. The mom turned back to the older man. “Turkey, please.”
It went on like this for a few more minutes, with each ingredient being translated from teenage girl to Mom to elderly Jersey Mike’s employee—cheese, toppings, chips, drink. Every question the employee had for the order—salt? mayo? do you want it warmed up? —went to the mom, who went back to the daughter, who went back to the mom, who then would give the order to the older man. There was not a single aspect of the order, an extremely simple transaction in which one is merely required to state their sandwich preferences to a low-paid employee of a chain fast food restaurant, that was not taken care of solely by the mother. Once the order was done, the teenage girl sat down by herself at a table and went back to her phone as her mother gathered the sandwiches and paid for them. They then sat and ate in silence.
I looked over at William. This teenage girl was older than him, probably a full foot taller than him, just a couple of years away from going on college visits.
“Tell him what you want, William,” I said. “Please.”
On the drive back, my son already chomping on his sandwich even though I told him to wait until we got home, I told him I was proud he was able to order a sandwich for himself, and how strange it was to be proud of something like that. He kept chewing. I wondered aloud if the girl perhaps had a social anxiety disorder, that maybe I should be careful of being too judgmental, but then he told me he actually knew her younger brother and that as far as he knew that wasn’t the case. Her mother simply did everything for her, to the point that she would translate a sandwich order for her, something that, all told, did not strike either one of us as rare in the context of many of the kids we knew.
“I mean, you could date that girl someday,” I said, and he scrunched up his nose and winced a little. I chuckled. “Imagine you asking her out,” I said. “Her mom would be all, ‘honey, this nice boy likes you. Do you think you would like him? Would you like to go on a date with him? What’s that? OK, I’ll tell him. So, William, she says maybe but she doesn’t know for sure. Is that all right with you? OK, I’ll let her know. Honey, he says that’s all right with him, he’ll just ask again later.’” William found this less amusing than I did. He just went right on destroying that sandwich. And then I felt kind of bad.
As my children get older—and they are both back to school this week, a couple of middle school kids—it is harder and harder not to constantly grab them to hold them closer. They are becoming more autonomous, less in need of me or their mother. And this does make me want to press more, to make them hang out with me more, to give us time together while we still have it. This summer has featured multiple family trips, far more than the usual summer, to lakes in South Carolina to mountains in California to once-proud historic government landmarks in Washington, D.C. You want to take advantage of every second, to spend time with them while they still want to spend time with you. It is a gift, because their friends will soon be more important, the outside world will become so fascinating, there is so much they will want to explore—so much they will want to be a part of, and a part of without you. They will leave you behind like you left your parents behind. It’s how this is supposed to work.
I understand wanting to hold on—to do everything you can for your child, to protect them, to make their lives easier. This is a foundational aspect of being a parent, throughout generations: To make your kids’ world a little better than yours was, to give them opportunities you never had. It’s what my parents wanted for me, and their parents wanted for them, and their parents wanted for them. You want your kids to be safe. You want them to be secure. I can look at the mother at Jersey Mike’s and chuckle, but who am I to tell her how to parent her child? She just wants to keep her daughter close—to keep her safe. Who am I to presume to know the dynamics of her family, or any family? The push-pull is difficult, almost impossible to get correct. Where is the line? What touch is too light? What push is too strong? How do you keep them close? How do you let go?
And perhaps most important: How do you get out of the way? How do you make sure they can order by their damn selves?
I do not know if my wife and I are doing a good job as parents. I think we are. I know we try our best, and I know it’s something we obsess over constantly. We are not perfect. We are both extremely busy, and we have a tendency to lose our patience more quickly than we should. I’m sure our kids have countless complaints about us, just like we had about our parents. They are developing so much outside of us, without us. I remember being William’s age and marveling at how little my parents knew about me, how much of my life I was already living, how much of my personality was developing, entirely outside of their purview. This made me feel annoyed by them at the time—like somehow they were purposely not noticing how much I was changing—but I realize now that was entirely their goal: To let me figure out who I was on my own. That’s what my kids are doing now. I think it’s what they’ll be doing, moving forward, forever.
This week, they will enter the maelstrom of middle school, and it will require all their effort and wits and confidence just to keep their heads above water. Then there will be high school, and college, and the rest of their lives, more and more of it happening without us, but also of course with us—for better or worse. I guess I just hope they’ll be able to speak for themselves, to stand before for the world, or just a sandwich maker, and say loudly what exactly it is they want, with their chest out, all on their own. I hope they take it all in in huge bites.
Here is a numerical breakdown of all the things I wrote this week, in order of what I believe to be their quality.
On the New “Naked Gun” Movie, The Washington Post. I am lower on this than others!
Deadline Day Wrap Up, MLB.com. I can write really fast!
These Five Teams Should Be Aggressive at the Deadline, MLB.com. Not all of them were, fair to say.
This Week’s Power Rankings, MLB.com. Back on my bullshit, as they say.
PODCASTS
Grierson & Leitch, we discussed “The Fantastic Four: First Steps,” “Happy Gilmore 2” and “Tampopo.”
Morning Lineup, I did Friday’s show.
Seeing Red, Bernie Miklasz and I previewed the trade deadline. (Which wasn’t much, all told.)
Also, Waitin’ Since Last Saturday is back to weekly shows starting this week.
LONG STORY YOU SHOULD READ THIS MORNING … OF THE WEEK
“How NASA Engineered Its Own Decline,” Franklin Foer, The Atlantic. As a romantic about space, I found this piece about NASA giving over its soul to Elon Musk very depressing.
Also, this NYT piece about the plane crash at Reagan airport was both very informative and very sad.
Also, in the Wait, Are We Really Going Full Authoritarian? index … man, we had a very bad week.
ONGOING LETTER-WRITING PROJECT!
This is your reminder that if you write me a letter and put it in the mail, I will respond to it with a letter of my own, and send that letter right to you! It really happens! Hundreds of satisfied customers!
Write me at:
Will Leitch
P.O. Box 48
Athens GA 30603
CURRENTLY LISTENING TO
“No Joy,” The Beths. New Beths album next month, if you’re keeping score at home.
Remember to listen to The Official Will Leitch Newsletter Spotify Playlist, featuring every song ever mentioned in this section. Let this drive your listening, not the algorithm!
We had a very big crowd come out to Wonderland Books in Bethesda this week! I even took a picture of them.
Pretty impressive considering it was 4,000 degrees outside. Thanks for all who came out!
Also, this is where I will be tonight. Should be fun. (And loud.)
Have a great weekend, all.
Best,
Will
Will, I’ve worked with young adults as an Army recruiter and a college advisor. I have made it my goal with every interaction to make the student say what they want to do. This generation has been a tough nut to crack but I feel (like you) that they are going to lose that tether to their parents and be lost. Then I have an encounter with a strong, smart independent young person and my faith in them is restored. It sounds like you and your wife are doing a great job in the toughest era for parenting.
I think you and your wife are doing a great job as parents. Being a parent is tough. We’re human and we make mistakes and miss things, but, being involved , that’s the answer. I was not a perfect parent but I always cared and I supported my daughter in every way I could. And lots of what interested her scared me to death. I’m a city person. I do love a hike in the woods but then I want a cozy place to sleep and a good meal. My daughter has hiked both the Pacific Crest Trail and the Appalachian Trail. She worked in Hell’s Canyon Oregon one summer at 17. She lived and worked in Yosemite National Park. I visited her often when she worked there. I never said no to what she wanted to do but did make sure, I thought, that she was in good hands. But once, I made a mistake. She asked me one day if she could go white water canoeing on the Youghiogheny River. She was 16 at the time and a good swimmer. Another thing I made sure she learned to do because I don’t know how to swim. I was not happy about that but was assured it would be fine. It wasn’t. The river was running too high. She got tossed out of the canoe and trapped under water under a rock. It took three men to pull her out. I was sitting on our deck reading a book when she got home. She was black and blue, all cut up and with stitches on her forehead. And she was crying. She does not cry easily. I asked what happened. She told me all the scary details and finished by saying, “you know, Mom, you can say “no” sometimes “. She could have died. I screwed up that time. I’ve never forgotten that but she is the courageous, adventurous person she is because of all the times I said yes.