Congratulations Matt!
June 16, 2007

Seventeen years ago I placed a cicada in a vat of epoxy, and scribbled a message to Matthew indicating that when the next tribe emerged, he would be drinking and graduating from college.  He was in kindergarten, and 2007 seemed light years away. Mr. Cicada remains suspended in time, unchanged in his paperweight prison.  I certainly cannot say the same for us.  Matt is a man, tall and strong.  I could call what the seventeen years has done to me a patina, but that would do a disservice to the term euphemism.  I have earned every line and sag, raising my sons to be men I am proud of and hopeful for.  It’s not the job you expect when you cradle a mewing bundle.  It’s the job every parent gets.  The work is punctuated by an occasional moment where we take stock, and swell with pride.  June 17th is such a day.

My tow-headed, gentle boy- more comfortable with his dogs and in his home than the world at large- is commencing his life in that world.  As his mother, I have the same heart full of love and worry as I did when he toddled into the elementary years. Despite his presence on the air, he is my shy son.  He watches the world, but he tiptoes into its fringes.  He is not the sort of son who travels with a posse. I received no covert intelligence from his friends.   I never overheard any indications of what he was thinking or doing.  My parent network was of no use to me as he matured.  I could have used it, because Matt is a dreamer, and a schemer, to borrow a phrase.  At 6 years of age, Steve and I came home one day to find him in a helmet and knee-pads, on roller blades, with our big dog in a harness.  He was about to hurtle down the big hill, where he would certainly lap old Whitney- and, we believe, lost all of his skin or his life.  As we peeled him out of his apparatus, we realized for the first time that we would have to work overtime to keep up with his covert persona, Matt the Daredevil.  It is a natural that he became a Blue Demon. 

Matt’s quiet nature has created abrasion in the Mother-Son dynamic.  I have always had to be the interrogator, the nag and the pushy parent.  I will never forget ordering him to audition for a play in high school.  I confided that the director had assured me he was made for the part, and I absorbed his wrath as he was humiliated by rejection.  If there was a trap door, I found myself squarely upon it. I counseled him: he absorbed the things he needed quietly, and rejected the bulk of my suggestions with hostility.  I logged more hours of support services with Matt than any child, and he pushed off, hard and loud. Without abrasion, an oyster would not build a pearl.  Matt is my pearl.  I guess that makes me Mother-of-Pearl.  I love being that.

I was the parent who shared DePaul’s orientation with Matt. Four years has evaporated, with Matt lurking downtown, and setting his compass without Mom’s interference.  His first year was highlighted by a brilliant photo-shopping of his grade report, to allow him to retain “on-campus” residency without Mom’s required 3.0.  GPA.  Hey- cut me a break- it’s private school tuition, and we are 25 miles away!  His brothers sold him out, and he served a quarter’s detention in residence in the suburbs.  From then on, he did what he had to do- to get out in good standing.  I wish I could praise DePaul’s connectivity with him, but such a relationship was not to be.  I harbor no animosity, because I know how hard it is to draw Matthew out.  He got what he needed- a place to BE as he worked out his dreams of following in his Dad’s path. He has worked hard to get better, and he is his own harshest critic.  He is fortunate by birth and geography to cut his teeth in the radio big league.  I am proud of his work, and his work ethic.  As his Mom, I am also aware of the toll it takes: rabid acid reflux, assorted immune disorders, nervous energy, cyclical mania and sadness.  I guess I recognize all of those symptoms.   I observed every one of them a generation ago, when Steve migrated to Detroit with a car full of California songs and a “non-radio” voice that was demanding to be heard- even on the “music-only” FM bandwidth.  So when critics complain that Matt does not have to pay his “dues”, I say dues are being paid. Dad has set a high bar. 

Matthew has relieved me of my nagging duties. He has set his eye upon a dream- a hard dream- and his fortitude will propel him.  When Matt wants to center himself, he comes home.  I ply him with hugs and food and laundry assistance.  The dogs give him more Dog Love than they have for anyone else.  He is still my gentle boy, with a strand of danger running through him, but I see that my work is simpler now.  He has the tools, and he is doing the heavy lifting.  I get to just love him, and throb with pride.  That is what I will be doing tomorrow, at the Allstate Arena. 

Maybe I will grab a cicada and seal it in epoxy to mark this new cycle.  Who knows how our world will change in the 17 years to come?  I can warn Matt that time flies, and every chance for joy should be absorbed.  I could caution that one cannot really absorb the beauty of the world on a projectile like a motorcycle, a snowboard or a skateboard.  However, I do not want to return to my nagging roots.  So I will say, Congratulations, Matthew.  You are mysterious and special.  Be proud, be happy. Make others happy.   I am always your mother, and my arms and ears are open.  I know you do not need me anymore, and I am glad that I am still “home” for you.  You are ready.  Fly.