I Really Wanted Popular Kids

Saturday afternoon, I drive my son to the Century City Mall, where will meet up with some friends. In the car, David, who is in seventh grade, jabbers on his phone with one of the boys he’s about to see.

“Bruh, it’s not that hard. You just walk up to a girl, ask her for her number. I’ll show you, bro. I do it all the time.”

There is evidently some doubt on the other end of the line, so my son offers at least three more “bruhs” that punctuate a string of additional reassurances. Finished with the pep talk, David puts away the phone just as I turn onto Constellation and approach the drop-off point. He gives me a grin.

I offer a paternal sigh. “I suppose it’s good you’re helping your friends,” I say. “Have fun.”

“I got you, bruh,” he declares, and clambers out. “I’m not your bruh,” I say softly, but only after I pull back into traffic.

I have seen my son in crowds. David is an extrovert, and he has what seems to me to be a preternatural confidence. He is rarely the best athlete on any of his teams, but he is often made the captain. He is certainly not the best student in his classes, and he exasperates his teachers, but he somehow manages to talk his way back from the brink before the real consequences descend. He has a lot of friends of both sexes.

(“He’s a Taurus with a Leo moon and Aries rising, what do you expect?” That’s one L.A. friend’s explanation for my son’s whole “hail-fellow-well-met,” future-rush-chair swagger. I don’t know that I give astrology quite that much credence.)

Birth order, perhaps, plays a part. David is close to Heloise, and as I first learned from college roommates, boys who are close to their older sisters often possess a skill and comfort with women that is the envy of their peers. My children fight as all siblings fight, but they are not rivals. They never quarreled over toys or clothes; perhaps the advantage of having a very “girly girl” and a very “boyish boy” is that you eliminate at least some of the potential for jealousy. They are utterly different, and utterly devoted to each other, and as is almost always the case, it is the younger sibling who absorbs the more impactful lessons. Heloise was – and is – a popular child, and her friends arrive and leave at all hours. David has been raised around girls, and it shows in his ease with them.

Here's the truth, and it’s one I’ve seen very few parents admit. I wanted popular kids. I didn’t want bullies or queen bees, mind you. But having grown up a shy, stand-offish, awkward, unathletic and lonely child, I desperately wanted my kids to have a different experience. Beginning when they were very small, I put them in situations where they would need to interact with lots of other people. As they grew older, their mother and I both began to tell them that we valued the development of their social abilities as much --- if not more – than we did their grades. Excellent people skills, both their mother and I have stressed, are at least as valuable as the capacity to think critically, to write well, or to deploy the scientific method.

To be popular isn’t just to be liked, of course. It’s to reassure a great many other people that you like them.

Heloise passed her driving test last week. Once she’d received her score, my jubilant daughter leapt from the car in triumph and ran to hug her very anxious papa. As we rejoiced together, the DMV examiner walked past and gave me a warm smile of the sort I don’t always associate with those who labor in her particular line of work. “She told me I was the politest sixteen-year-old she’d ever met,” Heloise declared; “I don’t know why. All I did was thank her very much for her feedback and I shook her hand.”

Already over the moon at her success behind the wheel, I nearly burst with pride in my first-born. This has always been my dream, and I will tell you, I have no shame in saying so. As the past fortnight has reminded us, the world is changing with dizzying speed. Old assumptions are being shattered left and right; old certainties are vanishing. In this strange and often terrifying world, perhaps the most important skill is the capacity to go just about anywhere and make other people feel comfortable and seen. Charm isn’t a useless affectation for the already privileged – it is a survival skill for those who may someday find themselves with little else.

For those of you who have been long-time readers, you know I make no secret of my shortcomings. I am ruthlessly self-critical. So, if it seems as if I am boasting now, consider it a counterweight to all that has come before. And here is the not-very-humble brag: I have survived a great deal because while I am very anxious and high-strung, when it comes to certain things, I have become utterly fearless. I will walk into a room of strangers -- where no one looks like me – and I will find a way to make a new friend. There is no neighborhood in Los Angeles in which I will not stroll with my children, no cuisine we will not try, no house of worship we won’t check out, no parade or celebration which we will not join.

Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto.

(A good motto to live by.)

What lies at the heart of good social skills? A blend of fearlessness, curiosity, affection, respect, and a deep reluctance to pass judgment. I have had to develop those capacities over decades; from the time they were toddlers, I have done my absolute damndest to nurture in Heloise and David a fierce talent for other human beings.

My children are not perfect. They rank first in the order of my affections, but that does not blind me to the fullness of their humanity. Their manners are hardly perfect. Neither, for that matter, are mine. None of us are perfect diplomats, but we are closer than some. In an increasingly angry and frightened nation where new fissures in the body politic – and even in families — emerge daily, an ability to connect with people is vital. It may be worth far more than learning to code, or to do calculus, or to recite Virgil. One can do all these things, of course, and it would be very nice if my children did develop intellectual or technical passions that could lead to making a good living. Whether they do find those passions or not, the aptitude for making friends will prove indispensable.

“Did you meet some girls?” I asked David as I collected my younger child from the mall.

“Yup. Got two numbers. Also, I think I got Miles a new girlfriend.”

“In just two hours?” Even a boy of not-quite-thirteen could probably discern the mix of pride, bemusement, and skepticism in my voice.

“Bruh. It’s me.” My son is very satisfied with himself.

“I’m your father, not your ‘bruh,’” I say, this time so he can hear it.

It is more wry observation than actual rebuke, and it is received as intended.
David says nothing, pats my leg. We drive home, both smiling.