Ten Conversations You Must Have with Your Son: Preparing Your Son for a Happy and Successful Life - Softcover

Introduction

MY MOTIVE FOR WRITING this book was a growing concernthat too many boys seem starved of essential knowledge; the sort of knowledgethat can only come from good conversations about good things with good people.The assurance of love, the teaching of life skills, the sharing of wisdomseemed not to happen in the lives of many of the boys I came across as aneducator. Small wonder. In an age characterized by frantic pace, incessantobligation and multiple diversions, meaningful conversation between sons andparents is now being measured in seconds a day rather than in minutes.

   Making time totalk with a son is one thing; knowing what to talk about is another. In this,parents need not feel discouraged, because each has a compendium of experiencethat should not be underestimated. Having acknowledged this, teaching a son theskills to enable him to cope with life’s many challenges is not always easy.Intergenerational differences and a natural dislike by the younger of advicegiven by the older means that some ingenuity is needed. This book explores howto share with a son as well as what to share.

   Many people aretalking to our sons, but are they the right people and are they giving theright advice? In this book, you will learn what to say to your son aboutspecific matters such as sex, money, health and goals, as well as how to dealwith broader, more difficult issues such as character and death. These matterscannot be left to chance. There is a curriculum of life skills, knowledge andwisdom that needs to be passed from one generation to another, and TenConversations You Must Have With Your Son was written to help with thismission.

   My credentialsin writing this book are not found in the headship of schools or the authoringof books. They come from being a father whose failure has filled these pageswith painful lessons. I have also had the pleasure of witnessing inspirationalparenting by others and have listened to conversations that have stimulated andtransformed a boy. These stories I share, as I do ancient wisdom and modernthinking on what must be said to our sons.

Tim Hawkes

Why?

TO SUGGEST THE SORTS OF CONVERSATIONS a parent shouldhave with their son is not much short of arrogant. Each son, each parent andeach family is unique in what it is they need to talk about, so providing aformulaic list of required conversation is as presumptuous as it is unhelpful.

   Then there isthe matter of the number of conversations. Ten—you must be joking! You shouldbe having thousands, even tens of thousands of conversations with your son,with each discourse delicately nuanced so that it is uniquely relevant to thesituation.

   The only plea Ican enter to both of these charges is: guilty.

   However, Imaintain my direction and purpose. Why? Because of a wearying amount ofevidence that too many of our sons are starting adulthood with insufficientmentoring. An unacceptable number appear to be unable to cope well with theirgrowing independence. Some progress through the decades after childhood in astate of perpetual adolescence, unwilling to commit, unwilling to assumeresponsibility and unwilling to grow up. Addicted to the trivial, preoccupiedwith pleasure and suffering domestic dyslexia, several are making a mess oftheir relationships and a mess of their lives.

   In nearly aquarter of a century as a headmaster, I have seen too many parents frustratedby their inability to connect with their sons, and too many sons hobbled by alack of communication with their parents. The generation gap has long beenrecognized as the culprit in preventing good conversation. Many parents are notalways comfortable communicating with their teenage “twitterati” usingcontemporary means. It is not just because they have no idea what “lol” means.It is because they have limited opportunity to talk and such opportunity theydo have is often rushed and inadequate. Playgroups, preschools and primaryschools steal their children away from them. Then televisions, computer games andsocial-networking sites abduct their offspring. Thereafter, the parent mustline up behind the secondary school teacher, football coach, best friend andgirlfriend to speak to their son.

   The informationblackout between generations is not assisted by the growth of independentliving in the home. Some parents escape the noisy chatter of offspring bybunkering down in a parents’ retreat, shutting themselves in a study or hidingbehind a newspaper. Many sons are no better. They protect themselves from theverbal intrusion of their parents by ensuring their bedroom is equipped withenough electronic self-sufficiency to free them from the obligation to speak toanyone except the cat.

   In addition, anypossible place of conversation in the home is often rendered sterile. Thedining table is used only when guests arrive. Chairs are aimed at the TVinstead of each other. Ensuite bathrooms cater for independence. Backyards areshrunk to a size that frustrates most opportunities for a chat with Dad whileplaying a game of catch.

   The time hascome for parents and sons to recover the value of regular conversation witheach other. Failure to do so will impoverish both, and hinder the transfer ofwisdom and experience from one generation to the next.

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I have three reasons to claim that my credentials inwriting on this topic are strong. They come from my failure as a father, mybetrayal as a headmaster and my inadequacy as a son.

Failure as a father

As a father, I have sought for too much significanceoutside the home and not enough significance within it. I take little comfortfrom the fact that I may not be the only father who has erred in this way. Thetrouble is that many of us dads become so consumed by the task of collectingtwigs for the nest we rarely find time to sit in it. Some of us are not contentwith producing 2.3 children. We must also produce 1.5 cars and 1.3 houses. Theeffort required to do this can lead to us being marginalized in our own home.Just when we realize the error of our ways and seek to increase oursignificance in our son’s life, the chick has grown up. The father then becomesan embarrassment or, even worse, irrelevant.

   I recall a scenewith my son, Peter, some 20 or so years ago when he was ten. In the afternoon,Peter had come into my study wearing a baggy green cricket cap that swamped histousled locks. He was lugging his cricket bag. The impudence of dragging thetrivial into a room made serious by my shelves of learning irritated me.

   Would I like toplay some cricket?

   Stupid question.Did the boy not have eyes in his head?

   “I’m sorry,Pete, I have to finish this work. Perhaps later.”

   His words saidit didn’t matter, but his body language said that it did. He crumpled intoresigned acceptance and turned to leave, but retreat was blocked by his mother.

   “I’m sure thatif we give Dad two minutes to come to a convenient stop, he’ll come out andplay.” It was not a suggestion—it was a command. Her level eyes were a mixtureof accusation and judgment that hinted at the possibility of an unpleasantsentence if compliance was not forthcoming. They were angry eyes; eyes thatasked how I could forego my responsibilities to my family in my quest tofulfill my responsibilities as a head of a school.

   Did they notknow that playing happy games was not an act that was going to give me joyfulrelease from my labors? My work would not go away if I did not do it. It wouldsit there and wait for me to return. When I did get back, it would haveincreased and the time available to complete it would have decreased. Damn.

   “Okay—let’s doit, Pete,” I said with barely concealed ill grace. But the gods were listening.Painful judgment and a guilty redemption were to follow.

   “I hit Dad inthe nuts,” proclaimed Peter triumphantly at dinner that night.

   An inability tounderstand the pain associated with this event left Peter’s two younger sistersunmoved.

   “It hurt,”advised my ten-year-old son, in an effort to explain the significance.

   Too right it hadhurt! When he bowled his first ball at me, it had looped into the air, bit intothe ground and kicked up. I had expected a rubbish delivery but had been givena gem of a ball. As I crumpled to the dirt, my son danced with delight. I hadbeen conquered.

   “Did you have agood time?” asked my elder daughter helpfully.

   Peter looked atAlicia with some confusion before grinning and saying, “Yeah?.?.?.?Dad groaneda lot.”

   Reflecting onthe dinner conversation a little later, I thought of a number of things. Thefirst was that my son was growing up at a pace of which I was not aware. Thesecond was that I should wear a protective cup next time I played cricket withhim. The third was that I had loved playing cricket with my son and, despitevery few words being spoken, we’d had a long conversation in the nets.

   The deliveries Ibowled at my son were questions. “How are you going?” Each ball probed andtested. A short, sharp delivery on his leg stump, always a hard shot to play,rapped him hard on his pads. A wry smile said, “I can take it, Dad.” Aconfident stroke played by Peter to mid-wicket said, “I’m growing up, Dad.” Adream of a ball that snuck its way through my defenses and hit me in the balls said,“You don’t know me as well as you should, Dad.”

   Tucking Peterinto bed that night, I ruffled his hair and said, “Goodnight.” Peter said muchmore. He said, “Dad, thanks for spending time with me today. I know you hadother things to do and I know that you really wanted to get on with your work,but I loved it when you were prepared to put your work on hold and play cricketwith me. I hope you are proud of me. I hope you like me. I hope you think I amgrowing up.” Of course, Peter did not actually say these words. He put thingsfar more concisely. He said, “Thanks, Dad.”

   Why had I notdone this sort of thing more often?

Betrayal as a headmaster

My betrayal as a headmaster was realized several yearsago after reading an observation made by a philosopher who operated some 400years BC. When Aristippus of Cyrene was asked what sons should be taught, hereplied, “Those things which they will use when men.”

   What, then, werethe things I needed to teach the boys in my school? What were the certaintiesin life that they would face as men and how well was I, as an educator,preparing them for these certainties?

   Of course, thecertainties in life are well known. They are death and taxes!

   I reflected onthe recent death of my parents and concluded that my boys, when confronted withthe death of a loved one, would, like me, probably end up in an emotionallyfragile state and not be able to contribute meaningfully to the logistics ofthe funeral or any associated tasks. Like me, they would probably not know whatprobate was and whom they had to notify about the death. Like me, they wereunlikely to know the duties of an executor and may not be able to cope wellwith their own grief.

   Then there wasthe issue of taxes—a topic that can be expanded to financial literacy. I lookedat my students and saw that far too many of them were becoming financialvictims. In their use of credit cards, in their management of debt, in decidingwhich phone plan to use, too many were making poor choices. Even though moneyis supposed to make the world go round, I wasn’t teaching the majority of myboys anything about it. I was not teaching them to budget, to save or to escapefrom a perpetual fiscal reliance on their parents.

   How was Iactually preparing my boys for the real world? They were leaving school blessedwith a command of quadratic equations, knowledge of the split infinitive and acapacity to list the major exports of Botswana. As worthy as these things are,it appeared to me that I was at risk of losing sight of those things that a boywould need as an adult. Aristippus would not have been pleased with me.

   I sought solacein the fact that I was hamstrung in what I taught by a state examination systemthat was generally designed to assist with selection into tertiary education.Warming to the task of self-defense, I also noted that there had been a surgein accountability reporting—school league tables, and so on—which required meto concentrate on the examinable curriculum. In short, I had to play the game.

   But, in myheart, I knew I was betraying my students.

   This led me tothink of those things that a boy might need to know when he grew up.Conclusions to this question varied, but the following ten topics tended tostay on my list longer than most:

1.   The ability togive and receive love.

2.   The ability toknow yourself and what you believe.

3.   The ability tochoose an appropriate moral code.

4.   The ability toaccept responsibility.

5.   The ability tolive in a community.

6.   The ability toachieve a worthwhile goal.

7.   The ability tohandle intimacy and sex.

8.   The ability tomanage financial matters.

9.   The ability tostay well.

10.   The ability tobe resilient.

Other topics came and went on this list. A whole swag oflife skills could be added, such as how to cook, clean, iron, mend, garden andmaintain a car. I also thought that teaching the art of communication wasimportant. But even my ten-point list began to illustrate something of thechasm between what a boy at my school needed to know and what he was usuallybeing taught. In my educational offering, I was failing my students.

   With this inmind, I began to look at ways and means to drip-feed more life skills into theschool curriculum. This needed to be done carefully. Things could be taken toofar. I did not want my boys to become like Byron’s Don Juan:

He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery,

And how to scale a fortress—or a nunnery.

There was limited virtue in training boys to scalenunnery walls. However, there were other, more important life skills that couldbe taught. As a headmaster, I had the power to craft a curriculum that prepareda boy not just for an exam but also for life?.?.?.?and, perhaps, even death.