I Don't Want to be Rescued, I Want to be Recognized: on Memoir and Money.

A few days ago, we told my son that we could not afford the fee for his soccer club next year. The fee is up to $4,000 a year, typical for private travel clubs in Southern California. A few scholarships are available for the top players, but my son – plucky and hardworking as he may be – is not quite in that tier. David will still be able to play on his school team, and for AYSO (American Youth Soccer Organization, which runs a much less expensive program.)

My son took the news as well as one could expect of a thirteen-year-old. He holds out hope that circumstances may magically change, but he is also accepting of reality. (I have irons in many fires and I am trying many things, but nothing much is paying off at the moment.) David is a boisterous, extroverted kid who makes friends wherever he goes. He will miss his club buddies but will find new companions.

I shared all this on Facebook last night. And almost as soon as I shared it, I regretted doing so.

We are a culture very familiar with fundraising appeals. We do GoFundMes or GiveSendGos for everything from burial expenses to cancer surgeries to scholarships to legal defense funds. When someone tells us that they are going through a hard time of one sort or another, we instinctively look for the link to click. We automatically anticipate the plea to donate. After we have considered our own circumstances and the worthiness of the cause in question, we either give or we don’t. This is the way the world works now.

Friends immediately offered to raise the money to pay for my son’s club fees. I turned that offer down instantly. If it were a matter of life and death, I would have no qualms about accepting help. If my son or daughter needed surgery and this was the only way to pay for it, you bet I’d do a fundraiser. (I also have no qualms about putting a link at the bottom of this Substack, asking you to buy me a cup or two of coffee if so moved. That’s a tip for something you may have enjoyed reading, nothing more, and there is never an obligation or expectation.) But a soccer club? That’s a frill. It is a nice frill too, but it falls into the category of things that a community should not be relied upon to provide or pay for.

I shared this on Facebook not because I wanted people to give me money to pay for David’s soccer club, but because I am someone who very much wants witnesses. I am deeply curious about other people’s lives. I am fascinated by the choices they make, the priorities they rank, the ways in which they cope with setbacks and consequences.

I suppose I hope that if I share my own shame at not being able to pay for my son’s soccer club, other people will feel encouraged to share their own struggles. The “ask” isn’t for cash. The “ask” is to be seen and to be understood. The business of living is hard, relationships are hard, parenting is hard. It is sometimes very comforting to read that other people struggle too, not because we enjoy others’ suffering, but because we enjoy realizing that we are not alone.

I tell myself a story. I tell myself that if I had not had my fall from grace in 2013, my children’s lives would be so much easier than they have turned out to be. I somehow imagine that my career as a professor, a writer, and a pundit would have continued a glorious upward trajectory, and I would have become a sort of Jordan Peterson figure, though perhaps somewhat more self-effacing and less prone to conspiracy theories. My children would have had all sorts of opportunities, both financial and emotional. My reckless conduct denied them so much, and presumably will continue to deny them things in perpetuity.

I write of my guilt because I know that other parents have similar thoughts. I do not write for praise or reassurance; I do not write in the hope that someone will remind me (as someone inevitably does) that I cannot know with any certainty what would have happened had I not fallen from grace. I do not write to be told I am doing the best I can, and that Heloise and David know that. I write to be told, “I see you. I hear this is hard for you. Let me tell you a story of something that is hard for me.” I write not for affirmation, but for connection. I write not to be rescued, but to be recognized.

I have no interest in discussing the cost of youth sports in this country. I am not interested in decrying systems, no matter how broken they may be. (Unless, of course, a client is hiring me to decry the system, in which case I will pen a savage polemic.) I am interested in individual failings and individual triumphs. A gentleman, after all, takes responsibility both for what he has done and what he cannot do. He does not contextualize his shortcomings with jeremiads against capitalism. You may feel differently, and you may even be right to see that systems and structures play a considerable role in our suffering. It’s just not what I want to write about, left to my own devices. And here, I am at my own devices.

When I am writing for a client, I remember to include a “call to action.” Everyone expects a call to action. Most writing is designed to inspire some change – perhaps a purchase, or a generous donation; perhaps self-examination, or perhaps a renewed commitment to activism. And hey, I’m available to write that for you or your company. I do it well, frankly! But when I’m writing for me, I’m writing merely to ask you to witness.

Just look. Just nod. Just say, “I see you.” That’s enough.