Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

Ben’s time at Dalton was not without incident. He’s incredibly unique — every teacher said so. But his creativity could sometimes be a burden. If a subject didn’t “grab” him, he would have trouble focusing — and instead create a game of his own design. For example, in fifth grade, a teacher asked him to calculate the area of a four-by-six-foot rectangle. Instead of multiplying four by six, as a typical child might have done, Ben crab walked across the ceiling and blinded the teacher with a fire stare. A custodial worker was able to subdue Ben with a sleeper hold. But the incident was very traumatic for our son. Alan and I decided it was time to reexamine his treatment.

After consulting with our specialist, we chose to switch Ben from Ritalin to Focalin, which is a slightly stronger medicine. We also hired Han Cho, an astrophysics PhD candidate at Columbia, to tutor Ben five days a week after school. When I mentioned the tutor to my friend Carolyn, she said, “It must be nice to be able to afford help.” I had to laugh. Ben didn’t need “help.” His teachers all agreed, in report card after report card, that he was “one of a kind” and “incredible.” What Ben needed was someone to translate his ideas to the page. The sad truth is, our world is just not designed for differently abled children. Many assignments at Dalton require the use of pencils, which Ben cannot hold in his claw. Other projects involve calculators, which Ben considers food, or the use of English, which Ben cannot speak. Enlisting Han allowed Ben to complete his assignments at his own pace and in a way that showcased his distinct gifts. The implication that Han did anything beyond that is offensive and insulting.

Ben’s grades soon improved. We were so grateful to Han for unlocking our son’s potential that we started to hire him for weekends, too. We even took him with us to Greenwich every summer, so Ben could get a “head start” on the school year. Over time, Han became something of a big brother to Ben (although, of course, he was much, much smaller, physically). Once, they were studying vocab by the pool when I heard a loud splashing noise. When I went outside to check on them, Ben was holding Han upside down by the ankles and growling with delight.

“Help!” Han shouted, playing along with Ben’s game. “I’ve lost control! I’ve lost control! ”

One thing I find particularly interesting is that Ben never mentioned the fact that Han was of Asian descent. Many children Ben’s age have problems befriending people from different racial backgrounds. But that’s just not how Ben saw the world. He treated Han exactly the same way he treated everyone else in his life.

When Ben turned thirteen, and the pressures of his bar mitzvah were finally behind him, we knew it was time to start thinking about college. We met with a number of counseling firms before ultimately hiring Sterling Horizons, a small boutique company located near our weekend house in Greenwich. They helped us structure a four-year strategy for Ben that would demonstrate his skill set — and we followed the plan to the letter. By the time Ben was a senior, his résumé was absolutely glittering. He’d received five participation gavels from Model UN, been elected tri-captain of the Dalton golf team, and contributed numerous drawings to the school’s Fine Arts Magazine. His GPA was a respectable 1.4, and even though he’d accidentally eaten several sections of his SAT he still managed to notch a 420.

Despite all of Ben’s achievements, he did not seem excited about college. He’d spend hours in his room, playing violent video games and listening to moody, satanic music (I’ll never understand today’s bands — in my day it was ABBA!). The only time I’d see Ben was late at night, when he’d emerge from his room to raid the fridge for blood Popsicles. I worked to take advantage of these “sightings” as best I could. But when I tried to engage him in conversations about his future, he replied in typical teenage fashion, with a series of shrugs, grunts, and monosyllables.

“Do you want to go to a big school or a small school?”

“Arrgh.”

“Do you want to be in a city or in the country?”

“Arrgh.”

“Would you prefer lecture classes or seminars?”

“Arrgggh!!!!”

It was exasperating. In the end, we were able to persuade Ben to apply early to Bard. Alan and I had taken him there on a college tour and we were so impressed that we donated several tennis courts to their campus. When Ben was accepted, Alan and I were beside ourselves! But Ben wasn’t as thrilled as you’d expect. Here he was, accepted into his dream school, and his smile was so faint I could barely see his fangs. It was obvious what had happened: Ben had burned out.

We met with Ben’s psychiatrist and decided it would be best for him to take a “gap year.” When I was growing up, this concept didn’t exist, but it actually makes a lot of sense. The college process has grown so insanely competitive. By the time it’s over, children need a chance to decompress. The only question was: where would Ben go? It was difficult to decide. He had his heart set on Transylvania, which I found baffling. (Italy would make more sense, since it has such a grand artistic tradition.) In the end, we compromised. Ben would spend two weeks on his own in Transylvania, as a reward for all his hard work. Then he’d spend six months at a wonderful program I found in Costa Rica that builds eco-friendly houses for the poor.

When Ben returned from his time abroad, he was a changed man. He had a swagger to his step and a confidence I’d never seen before. Part of me wondered if he’d maybe met a girlfriend overseas, but I knew better than to ask. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my years as a parent, it’s that the mother is always the last to know!

Unfortunately, though, Ben had trouble adjusting to college. He thrived within his major, creating dozens of “splatter” paintings in the Abstract Expressionist tradition. But he had difficulty with his core curriculum courses. Once, during a Spanish midterm, he escaped into the Hudson Valley woods and lived as a beast for several months, taking residence in a cave and eating neighborhood pets to survive. The local authorities were able to subdue him. And, thankfully, they turned him over to the Bard police, so that his outburst could be handled internally by the school. But the event was traumatic for Ben, and I decided it would be best for him to take a semester off. We also got him a prescription for Adderall, which is a slightly stronger medicine than Focalin.

It took nearly seven years, but Ben eventually earned his BA in painting. I’ll never forget how handsome he looked on the podium, with his cute little horns poking out through his mortarboard. No sooner had he snatched his diploma, though, than my heart began to race. All I could think was, What now?

Ben moved back home and quickly settled into his old teenage routine, sleeping past noon and drinking blood out of the carton. After several long months, Alan and I were beginning to get nervous. One day, though, we read an interesting article in the New York Times Magazine. It was a very long piece, but the gist of it was this: College alone does not prepare children for the modern workforce. Writing papers and taking tests is all well and good. But if a kid is really going to succeed in the rough-and-tumble business world, he needs hands-on experience in his chosen field. Armed with this knowledge, I decided to hire the Apex Consulting Group (a small boutique firm that specializes in career planning). After several enjoyable meetings, they gave me their recommendation: Ben should intern with a working artist. When they told me this idea, I was so excited I could barely breathe. Finally, after decades of work, Ben would have a chance to fulfill his dreams.