Midlife Crisis Bingo Recap: Group Dynamics

The whole class of sixth graders at my middle school back in 19XX were bused to a camp for a week-long outdoor educational experience. I look back with dismay that we were organized into Native American tribes*, in which we picked new Native names for ourselves, made jewelry out of natural objects, tromped through the woods, and played the occasional game of Capture the Flag. As you might imagine, one girl horrifyingly got her period for the first time, and others experienced some light hazing (tied up in dental floss while sleeping, sometimes also covered in shaving cream).

 

But my most profound memory from that time is the “solo experience.” Each camper was plopped in the woods somewhere and had to sit there, alone. There was some sort of writing task, as well, but what struck me most was the sound of absolute solitude. The high-pitched squeals of my classmates were gone. So too was their quiet judgement and the creak of shifting adolescent power structures. There was no distracting TV, no music videos, no record players. It was just quiet. And quiet was uncomfortable.

 

Fast forward several decades, and there was no more quiet. Parenthood brought the endless questions of toddlers, cloying children's songs, the forced practice of brass instruments for the school band, the holler and slam of teen angst. And then, Covid! We were all together, all day, endlessly. Remember those first months, where we were all getting used to the sound of too many people on Zoom, separately but simultaneously?

 

I love reading books about the noisy interactions of families, both biological and found. To fill the Group Dynamics bingo square, I chose Deacon King Kong by James McBride. Here’s the square description: You never get the front seat. There are so many secrets. Why didn’t she/he/they love you the way you deserve to be loved? You can’t stand to be apart, and you can’t stand to be together. Read a book about group life that makes you feel less alone, or one that reminds you about why you actually enjoy quarantine.

 

This novel involves a sprawling New York City housing project full of wacky characters of different backgrounds, most of whom live tightly packed together. The development of these characters is masterful, and while there is an active plot, this is really a book about meeting all these interesting people and coming to understand their role in the city's history. The author also wants us to see the humanity in each of them, despite their sometimes-questionable choices. Ultimately, this novel is one about people's deep commitment to a place and to others.

 

I suppose that midlife crisis-ing has involved figuring out my own deep commitments, and it turns out that figuring stuff out involves managing my new “solo time.” The kids are gone, and with them went all their structures and institutions and negotiations. No more carpool schedules. No more Saturday sporting events in the rain. No more curriculum nights. No more arguments about whose turn it is return the milk carton the refrigerator (This was a real thing; after one loud debate about milk carton politics, I equally loudly declared that there would be no more milk drinking in our household Ever! Again!).  In the kids’ absence, it’s quiet. I know that some of you are probably drooling with jealousy, but I am here to tell you that it’s weird.

 

I’ve been on a bit of a reading jag about solitude lately. I read Jenny O’Dell’s How to Do Nothing. It was very intellectual dive into the politics of our technologically connected life. She suggests that we are clicking our way into corporate algorithms and their financial pockets at the expense of our ability to creatively solve common problems. I read Katherine May’s Wintering, which is about the “fallow” spaces that exist between periods of creativity. And I also read The Art of the Wasted Day by Patricia Hampl, which is about the relationship between uninterrupted time and creative work. Together, these books provide a great reminder that solitude is a generative thing, and that I should absolutely, without question, put down my phone.

 

Also, for the record, milk drinking resumed in our home shortly after my decree. And still, no one put the carton away. It turns out that I’m a lousy dictator.

 

Burgermeister Meisterburger. Also a lousy dictator.

*I checked out my school’s website, and the outdoor program continues to this day. However, kids are now organized into “guilds” instead of tribes. Progress? They must be doing that same medieval history unit in social studies, the one where we had to make shields representing ourselves and our interests. I got a C on that project because I couldn’t adequately draw my deep interest in soap operas. At the time, my goal was to be a leading lady. I figured that people might see past the braces and the acne and the shy slouch and notice the glittery starlet within.