Anyone who has ever driven through the South has seen kudzu. It is the invasive vine that grows over everything in its path. It’s an aggressive plant that has gotten so out of control that it has achieved cult status. Most people hate it and aren’t afraid to mince words. It’s a nuisance.
Sadly, it is a little like my oldest son.
He was always “that” child in his elementary school class. The one who would cover his ears during sing-alongs, the one looking for bugs in the grass during Little League and the one who was overlooked for birthday parties. We all know the one.
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The pressures of middle school created bigger obstacles for him, and quite simply, he spiraled downward. Other students didn’t quite know what to make of him, and he befuddled his house counselor. After a very rough time, we made the difficult decision to send him to a school in the wilderness. A school in an area covered in kudzu.
On a recent visit, we came across an artist making all kinds of things out of you guessed it…kudzu. She had the vision to turn this hated weed into beautiful art — a lot like the teachers at my son’s boarding school. These folks take patience to a new level and do such a great job of getting the students out of their shells.
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The slower pace of the Southland allowed us to get acquainted with the people involved in my boy’s life. Spending a day canoeing down a river allowed me to really get to know his primary counselor. It made me laugh to compare this with the way his old middle school conducted its parent-teacher review sessions — as interested as a group of unrealistic, overly-choosey 50-year-old single-people speed dating.
As we glided down the river, I thought about how far we have come as a family. I remembered when another parent referred to him as a “freak,” and at this point in time, I guess you could say that he is a freak: a teen boy who is openly accountable for his actions and isn’t too inhibited to talk about his feelings.
In some parts of the country, the freak would be the kid who has their Bar Mitzvah in a sports stadium and later gets a brand new Mercedes for achieving the lofty milestone of turning 16.
The nicest part of the journey is getting to meet parents who have traveled down this river before, as well as the ones who are currently on it. These are folks who don’t wince when you tell your story, as they too have tales that others can’t quite comprehend. No matter where they are from, what they do for a living, or even their political point-of-view, we all now share the common gift of learning to be non-judgmental.
You can’t stun a parent who has taken this journey. Stories of violence, chemical dependency, depression — you name it, and we’ve heard it. The nicest thing about this group is that when you share your heartfelt story, they don’t run away. They do the opposite — they stand and help, even if it’s just lending an ear or giving a much-needed hug.
In essence, we are all in the same canoe gliding down the river of life... even if the shores are lined with kudzu.
