Editor’s note: This op-ed is by Bob Stannard, a lobbyist and author. This piece first appeared in the Bennington Banner.
There are seven billion of us on this planet. Seven billion of anything is a lot; seven billion people living on this planet together is hard to get your head around unless you focus on the individual. For some reason that makes it seem reasonable.
As I write these words I am in an apartment in Brooklyn that belongs to a total stranger. We came down to see our kids for Easter and found this deal online. Apparently, if you live here and go away for even a few days you can put your place up for rent. I guess it’s like people in the Northshire of Bennington County renting their house out to the folks from the horse show, only this is year-round down here.
It takes a certain kind of individual to allow others to stay in their home while they’re away. I’m not sure I’d want a stranger rummaging through my stuff, but maybe, if the money was real good. Oddly enough, the people who own this apartment aren’t charging any more than a bed-and-breakfast would, and we don’t have to check out at 11 o’clock.
We’re here visiting a few of the seven billion: our son Wes, and his lady friend, our daughter, son-in-law and the world’s important person, our granddaughter, Thyra Grayce. Hanging out with her erases any concern of global overpopulation, because as previously stated, she is the most important person in the world. Yes, that’s why we make the trip down here, just to see her, not all the millions of other people who live here. Sometimes there are fleeting moments when we’re so caught up in looking into the eyes of this now 19-month-old little lady that we forget we even have children. Fortunately, our kids have a way of reminding us that they’re still in the picture.
Close friends of mine have heard me tell stories of our kids when they were teenagers. Just the other day I was sharing a tale of my son with the editor of VTDigger. It was a story about a time when my teenage son decided that utilizing the form of communication that we call speaking was no longer an option when parents were involved. His form of communication was more along the line of primal grunting.
He was not a great student, not because he wasn’t smart enough. He just didn’t have time for school. All he really wanted to do was play guitar, a parent’s worst nightmare, second only, perhaps, to wanting to be an actor (that was our daughter’s life ambition). We knew we were doomed, but as young parents with no experience in dealing with teenagers, we were defenseless (the parental support system abandons all parents immediately after you see the video on natural child-birthing techniques). What we failed to realize at the time was that this young man was in a fierce struggle to be his own person, an individual.
Last night my wife and I witnessed something we would never have guessed could have been possible a decade and a half ago. We took a cab to Greenpoint and went to a bar called Matchless; a punk/heavy metal bar. We went there to see my son’s band, “No Man No Eyes” (it’s a story for another time).
This may not have been the diviest bar in the world but it was a contender. Easy place to go deaf even using earplugs. At 10 p.m. my son and four other very talented men took to the stage for their set, which is how it’s done these days. Wes is the bandleader. He writes the lyrics as well as most of the music. Of course his mates pitch in, but there is no doubt that this is his band. His lyrics are remarkably passionate and the four years he spent at the Berklee College of Music provided a higher level of music comprehension few people have.
His music may not be for everyone but that’s fine by him and fine by the kids that packed the room that was once a garage. Over the years, he and I have played a little bit together. We’ve appeared on each other’s albums. We’ve shared the stage together. He called me up to play last night. It was a little terrifying as an “ol’ man” getting up before a grunge crowd. We made it work.
Standing on the stage I looked over to my right to see what was once a young, difficult teenager, now an accomplished man who towers over his ol’ man in size and talent. At that moment I finally understood the value of the individual.
There are seven billion of us sharing a planet together. Each and every one of us march to his or her own tune even if on occasion it may sound to others as though it’s off key or the rhythm’s not quite right. The job for all of us should be to listen harder to what’s being played and try to find a way to appreciate what we’re hearing. It could make all the difference.
