On Mentoring: “A Very Special Episode”

My own mentor, my brother. Proper background checks were put in place after this mentor dumped an ant farm in my bed, forced me to drink vanilla extract and renamed me Nicotine.

January is National Mentoring Month. 

Did you know that?  Oh, you didn’t.  Well, perhaps that’s because you were off celebrating National Bath Safety Month.  Or National Blood Donor Month.  Or National Oatmeal Month.  All causes worth celebrating, all worthy of a promotional month.  Especially the oatmeal one.  I like it in cookies.  But, alas, National Cookie Month is not until October.

So rather than nosh on a bowl of oatmeal, I got to thinking.  Could I help promote National Mentoring Month on my blog?  Could I help urge people to mentor?  People who do not include drug dealers and van-driving “modeling agents”?

I know!  What if I were to have a “Very Special Episode” on my blog, much in the way of the sitcoms of yore?

[Editor’s Note:  Very Special Episodes were a public service announcement gimmick on the Must See TV of the 80s.  Typically, this involved your favorite sitcom characters suddenly breaking from their normally upbeat, amusing selves to play out a very serious (termed “special”) issue for the viewing audience.  I.e. Mike who most weeks tells fart jokes is this week telling how he was offered drugs.  It made parents squirm.  It made children sick.  It was brilliant.]

Let’s give it a try.

***

January is National Mentoring Month.  You might gather by my blog that childhood is near and dear to my heart.  I like to think I remember a lot about being a kid.  More than the average Jane.

I remember a lot of stuff that was great.  And I remember a lot of stuff that sucked.  And I remember a lot of stuff that I try not to remember because that’s how much it sucked.  (Three words:  Ski Slope Nose)

Five years ago I decided to become a mentor.

A few months prior to that decision, I had lost a baby.  It was late into my first pregnancy.  I was in a dark place.  But after many months of grief, I was tired of thinking of just me and my pain.  I knew my life would go on, things would improve, my future was still bright.

Fortunately, the worst of my adolescent problems was being horribly awkward with epic bad hair. I could've used a mentor to help with my Ogilvie home perm.

But I knew there were loads of other people, like kids, who didn’t feel the same.  For kids, pain feels permanent.  They can’t imagine ten weeks from now, let alone ten years.  They can’t imagine themselves in college, let alone living outside of their banged-up neighborhoods.

So I filled out a personality and interest survey and was paired with Megan.  Megan was 13.

I specified to the mentoring agency I’d prefer to be matched with a teenager.  I was surprised to learn that most applicants requested to mentor younger kids.  Why is that, I wondered.  And then — oh wait, yes, that’s right — I remembered.

Teenagers are scary.

They’re temperamental, they spontaneously self-combust, they don’t think you’re funny, and they notice the stitching on your jeans.  (Mine isn’t white.  I hear that’s bad.)

But they’re also weird and awkward and hilarious.

Megan was not exactly what I expected.

I expected to walk in and see a teenager flip me off. 

When I picked her up, she immediately divulged how excited she was, how she’d been thinking of it all day.  She was beaming.

I expected a teenager who spoke in code, grunts and only on the subject of hairspray.

We went to a coffee shop and she talked so fast my ears bled.  At one point, she interrupted herself to tell me how nervous she was.  Then she laid out all her “issues” for me like an open book.

I expected a teenager who looked like Marilyn Manson.

She wore a Beatles shirt I wanted to borrow.

I expected a teenager who would try to steal my purse.

I wanted to steal her Beatles shirt.

But a few things were just like I’d expected, just like I remembered.  The clunky social behavior.  Painful.  Like watching a grainy old VHS tape of yourself performing in the school rendition of CATS.  But worse because, in addition to that horror, you’re also left with the sudden realization that you once appeared just like this to someone else.

Now Megan is older — 18.  I talk to her now and I’m struck by her maturity.  Was I like this?  I don’t think so.  When I was 18, I couldn’t even call in a pizza order.

I almost miss the clumsiness of her younger self.

If I had thought of it at the time, I would’ve saved her old voicemail messages.  They always went the same way.  The same tone.  The same cadence.  In the way of a bad 80s pop song.

Hey Angie.  This is Megan.  Give me a call.  Bye.

Hey Angie.  This is Megan.  Give me a call.  Bye.

Hey Angie.  This is Megan.  Give me a call.  Bye.

And then one time,

Hey Angie.  This is Megan.  I got your card.  Bye.

And then one other time,

Hey Angie.  This is Megan.  I have a cold.  Bye.

But for two years then it was right back to,

Hey Angie.  This is Megan.  Give me a call.  Bye.    

What I’ve discovered these past five years?  Being a kid today can really suck.  There’s everything crappy we went through, and then throw in a bunch more.

I’ll be the first to admit it.  It isn’t easy to be reminded of the wounds you once licked during those angst-filled formative years.

When Megan’s best friends said she was weird, when they stopped talking to her, my stomach balled-up in a familiar way and I clenched my jaw so tightly it ached.

When she lamented it was Hit a Girl in the Boobs Week in her class, I bit down on my lip and protectively folded my arms across my chest.

When she asked to hear another round of Hannah Montana, I left the room and attempted to shoot myself with my finger.  And then I did it again out of spite for my Debbie Gibson craze.

When she told me a bully had texted her, that he’d asked to meet her alone at his house, I dug my fingernails deep into a table.  And then I gestured wildly.  Like a Westside Story Jet.

They’re just like all kids.  They can annoy you and get under your skin.

My other mentor, my old friend Michelle. Proper background checks were put in place after this mentor told me that all the cool kids rode merry-go-rounds and wore jelly shoes with socks.

They can take a lot and then forget to say thanks.  They can call too often and then don’t call when they should.  And much like your own annoying kids and siblings, you still love them despite all this.  You laugh at their quirks and you smirk at their hairdo and you hope they don’t notice your decade-old cell phone.  And you pretty much want to beat the crap out of every kid who hurts them.

Two weeks ago Megan left a message on my phone.  I could tell by her tone she was excited.   I know what that usually means.  I crossed my fingers that this guy wasn’t a creep, a creep I’d just want to beat up in a few weeks if he stopped calling and dumped her.

I was relieved to learn it was something else.

She had found out she was getting the scholarship she’d hoped for.  She couldn’t wait to share the news.  She called me as soon as she’d heard.

In a year she’ll be going to college.  Ah, college.  I remember those days, too.  And when that happens, I’ll actually look forward to reliving those memories.

Although, wait a second, not all of them.  I’ll be damn sure not to let her have as much fun as I did.  (Three words:  Purple-Colored Vomit)

***

Now this is the part in the “Very Special Episode” where I should talk directly into the camera in a somber manner as my fellow cast members look over my shoulder sympathetically.

And I’m also supposed to give you a place where you can find out more information.

http://www.mentoring.org/get_involved/become_a_mentor