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Yahoo
23-04-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Tim Walz Looks Into the Void
Photographs by Brian Kaiser Tim Walz and I were sitting down for breakfast earlier this month at a Courtyard by Marriott in Independence, Ohio, just outside Cleveland. Walz, who was Kamala Harris's running mate last year, is still the governor of a state that happens not to be Ohio—or West Virginia, Iowa, Wisconsin, Nebraska, or Texas, all of which he had visited recently. This was a bit curious, especially because it is not a presidential-election year. His three-day tour of northeastern Ohio included labor roundtables, impromptu roadside stops, and two town-hall meetings. What was he up to exactly? Like Democrats in general, the two-term Minnesota governor is still trying to process the insanity of last summer and fall, the earthquake of Election Night 2024, and the horrors that have spiraled out since then. Also, like Democrats in general, he isn't sure how best to counter the daily onslaught of the second Donald Trump administration. Walz seems to be figuring things out as he goes, but at the very least feels itchy to help jump-start the second Donald Trump resistance. Walz is a big breakfast guy. It gets him jump-started. He ordered his standard morning bowl of oatmeal with a sliced banana. Walz is also a big metaphor guy. For instance, he refers to his delirious vice-presidential campaign as his '90-day Eras Tour.' It is a good line, but an imperfect metaphor. Taylor Swift's Era's Tour reinforced her rolling dominance; Walz's ended abruptly—and badly. 'I own it,' Walz told me, referring to the inevitable critiques that have followed his and Harris's defeat. He swigged from a bottle of Diet Mountain Dew, the first of four he consumes on an average day. [Mark Leibovich: Tim Walz is too good at this] I had a vague memory of Walz's affinity for the phosphorescent soda. It was part of the populist persona that he debuted on the national stage after Joe Biden's candidacy imploded in July, and that helped endear Walz to Harris. Walz, as her running mate, was that plainspoken lover of hunting, coacher of football, changer of air filters, wearer of camo. He was briefly the prototype hero for all of those 'White Dudes for Kamala' (they had T-shirts!). I also had a vague memory of Walz briefly becoming a Democratic sensation last summer, even though that now feels like last century. But despite his star turn in July and August—the viral cable interviews, the killer convention speech—Walz virtually disappeared after Labor Day, except for a not-great debate performance against J. D. Vance. To a certain degree, Walz's recent travels represent a return to the national political scene. I was curious to see how he would be received. It's not as if anyone senses a great public clamor for Tim Walz less than six months since Election Night. He seems a less than likely—and less than ideal—candidate to lead Democrats through their desperate straits. He often acknowledges this himself, as he did at a town hall in Youngstown. 'Probably the last guy' who should be telling the party what to do, he said, 'is the guy who got his ass kicked in the last election.' Audiences laugh at this, always. Political self-depreciation is a winner, especially in this period of abundant gallows humor. But here is the notable part: A lot of people are showing up to see Tim Walz. The crowd at Youngstown's DeYor Performing Arts Center was loud and boisterous—about 2,800 people, including a packed overflow room. They lined up on a snowy Monday, the same night as the NCAA men's basketball title game. Walz drew another 2,000 people (with overflow room) to a large high-school auditorium in Lorain, Ohio, the next night. 'Something is definitely happening,' Walz told me a few hours before the Youngstown town hall, during a stop for lunch across the border in Wheeling, West Virginia. By 'something,' he meant a great and building frustration among people who are horrified not just by what Trump is doing but also by the lack of response from the putative leaders of the Democratic Party. No one at these events seemed to view Walz per se as the Democrats' savior, though I sensed nothing but goodwill for him. More than anything, he was a vehicle for them, someone to give voice to their anger. He had heard a 'primal scream from America,' Walz said in Youngstown, the line that drew probably the loudest cheers of the night. 'When people on the streets were saying, 'My God, elected Democrats, do something!'' [Read: Can you really fight populism with populism?] There have been stirrings of late. 'Cory Booker stood there for 25 hours,' Walz said in Youngstown, referring to the senator from New Jersey's record-long floor speech the previous week. Senator Bernie Sanders of Vermont and Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez of New York have embarked on a nationwide 'Fighting Oligarchy' tour that is drawing crowds sometimes in the tens of thousands to places such as Missoula, Montana, and Nampa, Idaho. Senator Elizabeth Warren of Massachusetts attracted a few thousand people at a recent rally in Austin and about 1,500 in Nashville. And Governor Gavin Newsom of California started a podcast last month; two of his first guests were staunch MAGA luminaries, Charlie Kirk and Steve Bannon. Another was Walz. 'I'm kind of wondering where I fall on the list of guests,' Walz told Newsom after he was introduced. Walz praised his fellow governor for 'doing something to try and fill a void that's out there, and hopefully trying to use it as a platform to articulate our values to a broader audience.' He added, 'We've not figured this out yet.' Walz talks a lot about this void. About a month ago, he set out to be part of the Democratic effort to fill it. He said he was appalled by the unwillingness of many Republican House members to hold town-hall meetings after agitated constituents started showing up to them. In March, Walz became one of a handful of Democrats who decided to host their own events in districts where Republicans had been refusing to. This would also be a chance for Walz to figure out a few things of his own, a version of the 'where I fall on the list of guests' question. He wanted to see if there was any audience for someone like himself. Walz's town halls are cathartic and fascinating spectacles—equal parts group therapy, strategy brainstorm, and gripe session. Walz is constantly spitting out fun facts and skips from topic to topic. He sometimes appears to be processing aloud as he speaks. One hobbyhorse is how Democrats need to communicate their message in simpler, real-life language. Walz affects a serious, highfalutin voice. 'You hear Democrats say this, 'We really need to address food insecurity,'' he said in Youngstown. 'What we really need to do is make sure people aren't hungry. And just talk about that.' (Oligarch is another bad term, Walz says, as opposed to greedy billionaires.) Walz is a good storyteller, and nails his applause lines. But he couches the current state of things as scary and getting more so. 'The road to totalitarianism is people telling other people they're overreacting,' Walz said in Youngstown. He throws around phrases such as 'constitutional crisis' and 'the world melting down around us.' He mentions that the White House is not far from jailing its political enemies. [Adam Serwer: The constitutional crisis is here] Walz offers the power of citizen engagement as the Democrats' ultimate weapon. 'One man should not be able to destroy the global economy,' he said in the crescendo of his speech in Youngstown. He said that Congress isn't doing its job to check Trump, and now Trump is defying the courts. 'So, I got to tell you,' he said, 'this is what you call a constitutional crisis.' The crowd went nuts—presumably because they agree, not because they like constitutional crises. 'But there is one final fail-safe. That's the people,' Walz said. 'The people,' he said again, over the building applause. 'The people are going to solve this.' About that 'running for something' question: Everything about Walz's three days in Ohio resembled a well-advanced campaign trip. He had an entourage of about a dozen people, including security, traveling staff, local officials, and press; he does not have a political PAC, according to his staff, and he worked with local Democratic organizations to set up the events. He held big ones, smaller forums and meetings, media scrums, and meandering retail stops. 'We're going to eat fish sandwiches!' Walz announced upon his arrival at Coleman's Fish Market, in downtown Wheeling. He greeted employees, visited a few tables, and posed for photos. Someone recommended that he try a cup of the alligator soup. It is one of the fish shop's most popular items, even though alligators are not common in West Virginia—nor, for that matter, are they fish. Walz ordered some and immediately raved, in the way that politicians always rave about restaurant cuisine when cameras are present. 'It's like minestrone,' he said. 'You gotta try it.' (I did, and found it bland and watery.) I sat at a wooden table across from Walz, who was joined by former Ohio Governor Ted Strickland. Walz started telling me about how a day earlier, while stopping at a convenience store, he'd met a woman who raises emus. I heard him tell this story several more times over the next day and a half. These goofy and serendipitous encounters are part of what Walz loves about campaigning, or whatever it is that he's doing. He projects an obvious sense of missing being out on the trail, as if maybe he has his own void to fill. 'So, are you going to run for president?' I asked Walz over breakfast the next morning at the Courtyard in Independence. 'No, no,' he said. He told me he will decide in a few months whether to seek a third term as governor; he is up for reelection next year. He briefly thought about running for an open Minnesota Senate seat in 2026 but decided not to. I tried the 'running for president' question a few more times. He gave me more 'no's, but at a certain point they started coming with equivocations—or I heard them as such. 'So, you're not running for president?' I asked. 'Nope.' 'Ever? Possibly? Maybe? Rule it out? All that?' 'My line always is: Don't ever turn down a job you haven't been offered,' Walz said, cryptically. Walz has obvious regrets and second-guesses about the last campaign. He agrees with those who wish that he and Harris had been less cautious. 'I'm a big believer in flooding the zone,' he told me. The candidates should have gone on Joe Rogan's podcast and talked with other Trump-friendly media outlets, he said. 'I'm like, fuck it,' Walz said. 'Just go.' If there is one lesson that Democrats can take from Trump, he said, it is to 'continually be present.' As far as his own role, Walz clearly felt restrained and, to some degree, reduced to a one-dimensional prototype for those coveted 'White Dudes for Kamala' guys. [Mark Leibovich: Trump says he is serious about staying in office past 2028] He is careful not to criticize the campaign directly, but not subtle in parroting the critiques of others. Walz volunteered that Bill Clinton had called him in early October. 'He said, 'Don't allow them to make you a caricature.'' (The 'them' here refers to Walz's own campaign higher-ups, not the Trump-Vance campaign.) 'You are a consequential governor,' Clinton told him, according to Walz. 'And that's what you should be running on.' I asked Walz if he'd ever pushed back against the campaign's decisions. He said that he offered suggestions, but did not want to create problems. Yet he wishes he could have done more interviews, showed a less canned version of himself, and been more freewheeling. 'Why didn't they have me do this shit, like we did yesterday?' Walz wondered aloud, a bit wistfully, referring to his encounter with the emu lady, which he'd just excitedly finished talking about (again). 'Solid, for 100 days, just that?' Near the end of our breakfast, Walz veered into another campaign story. He was doing a photo line at an event in California, and who should come roaring through but Katy Perry. 'And for five minutes, she just chastised me about Diet Mountain Dew,' Walz said. 'I was like, 'You're scaring me, Katy.'' Perry's persistence didn't work—Walz still guzzles the stuff with gusto—but at least this was another cherished vignette from the campaign trail that he seems to crave more of. After Walz finished his speech in Youngstown, he thanked everyone, waved, pointed, and lingered onstage. He had a big, almost euphoric smile on his face that went beyond the usual politician's perma-grin. It felt at odds with the darkness of the Democrats' predicament. He was relishing the moment. So was the crowd. They lingered on their feet, cheering for the guy who got his ass kicked in the last election. Article originally published at The Atlantic
Atlantic
23-04-2025
- Politics
- Atlantic
Tim Walz Looks Into the Void
Tim Walz and I were sitting down for breakfast earlier this month at a Courtyard by Marriott in Independence, Ohio, just outside Cleveland. Walz, who was Kamala Harris's running mate last year, is still the governor of a state that happens not to be Ohio—or West Virginia, Iowa, Wisconsin, Nebraska, or Texas, all of which he had visited recently. This was a bit curious, especially because it is not a presidential-election year. His three-day tour of northeastern Ohio included labor roundtables, impromptu roadside stops, and two town-hall meetings. What was he up to exactly? Like Democrats in general, the two-term Minnesota governor is still trying to process the insanity of last summer and fall, the earthquake of Election Night 2024, and the horrors that have spiraled out since then. Also, like Democrats in general, he isn't sure how best to counter the daily onslaught of the second Donald Trump administration. Walz seems to be figuring things out as he goes, but at the very least feels itchy to help jump-start the second Donald Trump resistance. Walz is a big breakfast guy. It gets him jump-started. He ordered his standard morning bowl of oatmeal with a sliced banana. Walz is also a big metaphor guy. For instance, he refers to his delirious vice-presidential campaign as his '90-day Eras Tour.' It is a good line, but an imperfect metaphor. Taylor Swift's Era's Tour reinforced her rolling dominance; Walz's ended abruptly—and badly. 'I own it,' Walz told me, referring to the inevitable critiques that have followed his and Harris's defeat. He swigged from a bottle of Diet Mountain Dew, the first of four he consumes on an average day. Mark Leibovich: Tim Walz is too good at this I had a vague memory of Walz's affinity for the phosphorescent soda. It was part of the populist persona that he debuted on the national stage after Joe Biden's candidacy imploded in July, and that helped endear Walz to Harris. Walz, as her running mate, was that plainspoken lover of hunting, coacher of football, changer of air filters, wearer of camo. He was briefly the prototype hero for all of those 'White Dudes for Kamala' (they had T-shirts!). I also had a vague memory of Walz briefly becoming a Democratic sensation last summer, even though that now feels like last century. But despite his star turn in July and August—the viral cable interviews, the killer convention speech—Walz virtually disappeared after Labor Day, except for a not-great debate performance against J. D. Vance. To a certain degree, Walz's recent travels represent a return to the national political scene. I was curious to see how he would be received. It's not as if anyone senses a great public clamor for Tim Walz less than six months since Election Night. He seems a less than likely—and less than ideal—candidate to lead Democrats through their desperate straits. He often acknowledges this himself, as he did at a town hall in Youngstown. 'Probably the last guy' who should be telling the party what to do, he said, 'is the guy who got his ass kicked in the last election.' Audiences laugh at this, always. Political self-depreciation is a winner, especially in this period of abundant gallows humor. But here is the notable part: A lot of people are showing up to see Tim Walz. The crowd at Youngstown's DeYor Performing Arts Center was loud and boisterous—about 2,800 people, including a packed overflow room. They lined up on a snowy Monday, the same night as the NCAA men's basketball title game. Walz drew another 2,000 people (with overflow room) to a large high-school auditorium in Lorain, Ohio, the next night. 'Something is definitely happening,' Walz told me a few hours before the Youngstown town hall, during a stop for lunch across the border in Wheeling, West Virginia. By 'something,' he meant a great and building frustration among people who are horrified not just by what Trump is doing but also by the lack of response from the putative leaders of the Democratic Party. No one at these events seemed to view Walz per se as the Democrats' savior, though I sensed nothing but goodwill for him. More than anything, he was a vehicle for them, someone to give voice to their anger. He had heard a 'primal scream from America,' Walz said in Youngstown, the line that drew probably the loudest cheers of the night. 'When people on the streets were saying, 'My God, elected Democrats, do something!'' There have been stirrings of late. 'Cory Booker stood there for 25 hours,' Walz said in Youngstown, referring to the senator from New Jersey's record-long floor speech the previous week. Senator Bernie Sanders of Vermont and Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez of New York have embarked on a nationwide 'Fighting Oligarchy' tour that is drawing crowds sometimes in the tens of thousands to places such as Missoula, Montana, and Nampa, Idaho. Senator Elizabeth Warren of Massachusetts attracted a few thousand people at a recent rally in Austin and about 1,500 in Nashville. And Governor Gavin Newsom of California started a podcast last month; two of his first guests were staunch MAGA luminaries, Charlie Kirk and Steve Bannon. Another was Walz. 'I'm kind of wondering where I fall on the list of guests,' Walz told Newsom after he was introduced. Walz praised his fellow governor for 'doing something to try and fill a void that's out there, and hopefully trying to use it as a platform to articulate our values to a broader audience.' He added, 'We've not figured this out yet.' Walz talks a lot about this void. About a month ago, he set out to be part of the Democratic effort to fill it. He said he was appalled by the unwillingness of many Republican House members to hold town-hall meetings after agitated constituents started showing up to them. In March, Walz became one of a handful of Democrats who decided to host their own events in districts where Republicans had been refusing to. This would also be a chance for Walz to figure out a few things of his own, a version of the 'where I fall on the list of guests' question. He wanted to see if there was any audience for someone like himself. Walz's town halls are cathartic and fascinating spectacles—equal parts group therapy, strategy brainstorm, and gripe session. Walz is constantly spitting out fun facts and skips from topic to topic. He sometimes appears to be processing aloud as he speaks. One hobbyhorse is how Democrats need to communicate their message in simpler, real-life language. Walz affects a serious, highfalutin voice. 'You hear Democrats say this, 'We really need to address food insecurity,'' he said in Youngstown. 'What we really need to do is make sure people aren't hungry. And just talk about that.' (Oligarch is another bad term, Walz says, as opposed to greedy billionaires.) Walz is a good storyteller, and nails his applause lines. But he couches the current state of things as scary and getting more so. 'The road to totalitarianism is people telling other people they're overreacting,' Walz said in Youngstown. He throws around phrases such as 'constitutional crisis' and 'the world melting down around us.' He mentions that the White House is not far from jailing its political enemies. Adam Serwer: The constitutional crisis is here Walz offers the power of citizen engagement as the Democrats' ultimate weapon. 'One man should not be able to destroy the global economy,' he said in the crescendo of his speech in Youngstown. He said that Congress isn't doing its job to check Trump, and now Trump is defying the courts. 'So, I got to tell you,' he said, 'this is what you call a constitutional crisis.' The crowd went nuts—presumably because they agree, not because they like constitutional crises. 'But there is one final fail-safe. That's the people,' Walz said. 'The people,' he said again, over the building applause. 'The people are going to solve this.' About that 'running for something' question: Everything about Walz's three days in Ohio resembled a well-advanced campaign trip. He had an entourage of about a dozen people, including security, traveling staff, local officials, and press; he does not have a political PAC, according to his staff, and he worked with local Democratic organizations to set up the events. He held big ones, smaller forums and meetings, media scrums, and meandering retail stops. 'We're going to eat fish sandwiches!' Walz announced upon his arrival at Coleman's Fish Market, in downtown Wheeling. He greeted employees, visited a few tables, and posed for photos. Someone recommended that he try a cup of the alligator soup. It is one of the fish shop's most popular items, even though alligators are not common in West Virginia—nor, for that matter, are they fish. Walz ordered some and immediately raved, in the way that politicians always rave about restaurant cuisine when cameras are present. 'It's like minestrone,' he said. 'You gotta try it.' (I did, and found it bland and watery.) I sat at a wooden table across from Walz, who was joined by former Ohio Governor Ted Strickland. Walz started telling me about how a day earlier, while stopping at a convenience store, he'd met a woman who raises emus. I heard him tell this story several more times over the next day and a half. These goofy and serendipitous encounters are part of what Walz loves about campaigning, or whatever it is that he's doing. He projects an obvious sense of missing being out on the trail, as if maybe he has his own void to fill. 'So, are you going to run for president?' I asked Walz over breakfast the next morning at the Courtyard in Independence. 'No, no,' he said. He told me he will decide in a few months whether to seek a third term as governor; he is up for reelection next year. He briefly thought about running for an open Minnesota Senate seat in 2026 but decided not to. I tried the 'running for president' question a few more times. He gave me more 'no's, but at a certain point they started coming with equivocations—or I heard them as such. 'So, you're not running for president?' I asked. 'Nope.' 'Ever? Possibly? Maybe? Rule it out? All that?' 'My line always is: Don't ever turn down a job you haven't been offered,' Walz said, cryptically. Mark Leibovich: Trump says he is serious about staying in office past 2028 Walz has obvious regrets and second-guesses about the last campaign. He agrees with those who wish that he and Harris had been less cautious. 'I'm a big believer in flooding the zone,' he told me. The candidates should have gone on Joe Rogan's podcast and talked with other Trump-friendly media outlets, he said. 'I'm like, fuck it,' Walz said. 'Just go.' If there is one lesson that Democrats can take from Trump, he said, it is to 'continually be present.' As far as his own role, Walz clearly felt restrained and, to some degree, reduced to a one-dimensional prototype for those coveted 'White Dudes for Kamala' guys. He is careful not to criticize the campaign directly, but not subtle in parroting the critiques of others. Walz volunteered that Bill Clinton had called him in early October. 'He said, 'Don't allow them to make you a caricature.'' (The 'them' here refers to Walz's own campaign higher-ups, not the Trump-Vance campaign.) 'You are a consequential governor,' Clinton told him, according to Walz. 'And that's what you should be running on.' I asked Walz if he'd ever pushed back against the campaign's decisions. He said that he offered suggestions, but did not want to create problems. Yet he wishes he could have done more interviews, showed a less canned version of himself, and been more freewheeling. 'Why didn't they have me do this shit, like we did yesterday?' Walz wondered aloud, a bit wistfully, referring to his encounter with the emu lady, which he'd just excitedly finished talking about (again). 'Solid, for 100 days, just that?' Near the end of our breakfast, Walz veered into another campaign story. He was doing a photo line at an event in California, and who should come roaring through but Katy Perry. 'And for five minutes, she just chastised me about Diet Mountain Dew,' Walz said. 'I was like, 'You're scaring me, Katy.'' Perry's persistence didn't work—Walz still guzzles the stuff with gusto—but at least this was another cherished vignette from the campaign trail that he seems to crave more of. After Walz finished his speech in Youngstown, he thanked everyone, waved, pointed, and lingered onstage. He had a big, almost euphoric smile on his face that went beyond the usual politician's perma-grin. It felt at odds with the darkness of the Democrats' predicament. He was relishing the moment.
Yahoo
03-04-2025
- General
- Yahoo
Quaker Parents Were Ahead of Their Time
One morning in 1991, I prayed with the fervor that only a tween can muster for one thing above all others: cold Diet Mountain Dew. But all of the cans in my mom's stash were warm. So I tossed one in the freezer, forgot about it, and hours later retrieved the frozen-solid mass. Then I decided to pop it in the microwave. You can imagine what ensued. After extinguishing the flames, my mom asked us kids what we thought had happened. I stepped forward as if approaching the gallows—and she lavished me with praise. For telling the truth. For taking responsibility. Her response might seem surprising, but we're Quakers, and avoiding judgment is pretty on-brand. From where I stand now, I can see that her decision to use positive reinforcement aligns with research on motivating kids, something I've become quite familiar with as a journalist covering parenting and education. Still, for years, I didn't recognize the connection between my faith and the child-development studies I frequently combed through at work. Then, when the coronavirus pandemic temporarily left our public school without enough adults to meet my son's needs, we switched him to a Quaker school. The school is organized around an acronym I'd never heard before—SPICES—that stands for principles I know well: simplicity, peace, integrity, community, equality, and stewardship. Those aren't the only pillars of Quakerism, but they're big ones, and seeing them all together got me thinking. Sitting in the meetinghouse one Sunday morning, after nearly an hour of silent worship, I had a Queen's Gambit moment. Whereas the chess champ saw pawns moving across a phantom board, I saw each child-rearing best practice I'd been writing about line up with a principle of Quakerism. The Religious Society of Friends—'Quaker' being a derogatory term, reclaimed—is a hard faith to explain, because it tries to eschew dogma. It's now possible to be a Muslim Quaker or a Hindu one, or to not believe in any god at all. That said, Quakers all over the world tend to talk about the same principles and take part in some of the same practices. For example, in place of rules, Quakers publish 'advices and queries,' which prompt individuals to make good, considered choices. Attendees of Quaker meetings near me were recently asked to ponder: 'Do I make my home a place of friendliness, joy, and peace, where residents and visitors feel God's presence?' The children's version read: 'In what ways am I kind to people in my home?' Certain expectations underlie these questions—that one should try to be kind, for example—but so do curiosity and an openness to differing answers. As it turns out, leading with questions is a great way for parents to talk to children. Encouraging kids to come up with their own solutions grants them autonomy. And as Emily Edlynn, a psychologist and the author of Autonomy-Supportive Parenting, told me, kids who feel like they have control over their life experience better emotional health, including less depression and anxiety. Fostering kids' autonomy has also been tied to children building stronger self-regulation skills, doing better in school, and navigating social situations more effectively. Best of all, once kids get used to the self-discipline that comes with exercising autonomy, it can become habitual. Give your kids agency in one area, and they tend to 'develop internal motivation even for things that they do not want to do,' Edlynn said, 'because they're integrating the understanding of the 'why' those things are so important.' [Read: The Teen-Disengagement Crisis] It can be scary to trust children with independence. But kids are better problem-solvers than some people might think. When my son, at age 10, asked me if he could play laser tag with friends, I asked him how he could avoid pulling a trigger (in deference to the Quaker value of pacifism). He decided to serve as referee. I was proud of him for exercising 'discernment,' another Quaker value, all on his own, for listening to his 'still, small voice within' and letting it guide him to a solution that satisfied his need for belonging. He is now 13 and recently couldn't decide whether to accept a babysitting job or relax at home. I asked him, 'What do you think tomorrow-you will wish today-you had done?' He picked out stuffed animals to give his charges, spent the evening feeling needed, and had cash the next day when he wanted to buy boba for a friend. Obviously, real damage could come from giving kids complete autonomy, and Quakerism recognizes this. Early Quaker epistles inveigh against permissiveness, and a 1939 text, Children & Quakerism, quotes William Penn, the Quaker who founded Pennsylvania, saying, 'If God give you children, love them with wisdom, correct them with affection.' In other words, pacifism doesn't mean that parents can't set boundaries. As a 1967 book about Quaker education, Friends and Their Children, put it, 'There is a difference in principle between setting an army on the march and carrying a tired and hysterical child up to bed.' So when my son used to leave toys out, I wouldn't clean up for him. I'd prompt him to do so: 'I see blocks still sitting on the floor.' That was usually enough. When it wasn't, I would stage a mini sit-in, and we wouldn't go on with our evening until the blocks were put away—the type of consequence that's crucial for raising considerate kids. If he hollered, I would 'bear witness' to his suffering and 'be with' him, silent but unwavering. In addition to sit-ins, both civic and domestic, Quakers have a tradition known as 'spiritual gifts.' That involves treating individual talents as assets that belong to the community and ought to be developed in ourselves and encouraged in others. For parents, this means focusing on what our children choose to do, are good at, and enjoy. You can't ignore your kids' weaknesses—but you can spend less energy on them. For my youngest's terrible handwriting, that meant aiming for legibility and saving the time that could have gone toward cursive lessons for activities that animate her, such as building boats and airplanes from the contents of the recycling bin. Research backs up this approach. According to Lea Waters, a psychology professor at the University of Melbourne and the author of The Strength Switch, focusing on children's strengths 'has been shown to increase self-esteem, build resilience, decrease stress, and make kids more healthy, happy, and engaged in school.' But perhaps the most important element of Quaker parenting is the edict to 'let your life speak.' In practice, that looks like apologizing to your kids freely, saying please and thank you, and, yes, trying not to shout at them. It means acting in accordance with your values, such as when my grandma took me to pack toothbrushes and soap into 'kits for Kosovo,' and when my kids make PB&Js for our unhoused neighbors or bring games to a family shelter. The idea, supported by common sense and reams of research, is that kids develop empathy by living it alongside their caregivers. What's more, another study establishes that knowing that their parents value kindness above achievement protects kids' well-being. Infused in all of these practices is the conviction that children are not lesser proto-adults, but fellow beings worthy of respect and agency regardless of their behavior. The closest that Quakers come to dogma is the belief, first expressed by the religion's founder, that there is 'that of God' in every person, children very much included. That's why, as Friends and Their Children notes, Quakers try to make children feel 'welcome at the very centre of life'—a concept quite similar to the 'unconditional positive regard' that psychologists today know leads to secure kids. Children who feel valued in this way, and who believe that what they do adds value, generally come to understand that they matter. And a sense of mattering makes kids more likely to be happy, resilient, academically high-achieving, and satisfied with their life, as well as less likely to struggle with perfectionism or addiction, Gordon Flett, the author of the American Psychological Association's Mattering as a Core Need in Children and Adolescents, told me. [Read: Lighthouse parents have more confident kids] So here I am, nearly 375 years after Quakerism's founding, asking my kids questions, giving them bounded autonomy, and nudging them to invest in their strengths and be stewards of their community—all while communicating that their worth is in no way contingent. Put together, these Quaker practices result in a parenting style considered ideal by psychologists: authoritative parenting. As Judith Smetana, a University of Rochester psychology professor whose work focuses on parent-adolescent interactions, explained to me, authoritative parenting is characterized by the effort to warmly and responsively set limits, and to support kids rather than punish them harshly when they overstep those limits. Some people might argue that Quaker parents aren't doing anything special. What is free-range parenting if not oodles of agency? When Quaker parents try to stay calm and acknowledge their kids' feelings when they act out, aren't we just doing what the so-called Millennial parenting whisperer Dr. Becky recommends? In telling my teenage son that I see the packaging from his graphing calculator lying on the table rather than in the trash, am I not just following 'Say What You See' coaching? But pop parenting philosophies can be unhelpful, especially because parents not infrequently misinterpret them. Take gentle parenting. At its best, it encourages parents to give kids the respect and empathy they need to thrive. But gentle parenting, at least as it's presented in Instagram reels, can result in children doing as they please. 'What it really leaves out,' Smetana told me, 'is the importance of structure and being clear about where the boundaries are.' Many parents are left feeling helpless—a common experience among pop-parenting adherents. In the aughts, a friend of mine tried attachment parenting, an approach centered on enhancing the bond between mother and child with, among other practices, maximum physical proximity. She ended up feeling like a failure each time she put her baby down to use the restroom. [Read: This influencer says you can't parent too gently] For new parents, sorting through the good and bad of each of these schools of thought can feel not just bewildering, but impossible. 'These terms come and go so quickly,' Smetana told me, 'and fads in the popular audience don't intersect very well, necessarily, with the research.' It's taken me more than 15 years, during which I've read hundreds of parenting books and academic papers, to piece together which bits of each philosophy are relevant to me. According to Smetana, even authoritative parenting can be of limited use for caregivers, because its advice is so broad. There are lots of ways to be an authoritative parent, which can leave moms and dads (but mostly moms) feeling rudderless. That's where Quaker parenting has stepped in for me, providing a simple way to separate the wheat from the child-development chaff. It gives me plenty to cling to, but its guiding principles are also flexible enough to allow leeway. This isn't to say the religion is perfect. Its past is filled with failures. Many Quakers worked to abolish slavery, but many did not; some were themselves enslavers. The Society of Friends was the first religion to officially condemn that horror, but some meetinghouses—which are known for having benches arranged in egalitarian formations—featured segregated seating for Black members. Quakers also participated in forced assimilation of Indigenous peoples, including boarding schools that stripped children of dignity, culture, and health. Although not exclusively white, Quaker membership in the U.S. is still predominantly so. But even in these shortcomings lies an essential Quaker parenting lesson. We favor queries over strictures because of a concept known as 'continuing revelation,' or the idea that we cannot know all there is to know, and we will always later realize that we were wrong. The principle has helped me cultivate humility and compassion for myself after missteps. Because there can be no one best way in Quaker parenting, I'm freed from feeling like every detail of every decision will lead only to perfect success or abject defeat. Looking back at the Diet Mountain Dew incident, I bet my mom wanted to rail at me. She'd warned again and again that metal in the microwave would spark. But Quaker values urged restraint then, just as they did decades later, when two of my daughters enrolled at schools with grade portals. With just four clicks, I can see how many points they've missed on each test and which assignments they haven't turned in. Snowplow parenting tells me to lean into snooping and send emails to their teachers requesting retakes and extensions. It's sorely tempting. But Quaker principles remind me not just about the value of autonomy, but also that kids need stillness and peace of mind, that pestering them isn't likely to lead to the 'nonviolent communications' that improve connection, and that the goal is for teens to develop a purpose-based identity rather than a performance-based one. So I resist the urge to monitor and intervene—just as research on anxiety suggests I should. When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic. Article originally published at The Atlantic
Atlantic
03-04-2025
- General
- Atlantic
What Parents of Any Faith—Or None—Can Learn From Quakers
One morning in 1991, I prayed with the fervor that only a tween can muster for one thing above all others: cold Diet Mountain Dew. But all of the cans in my mom's stash were warm. So I tossed one in the freezer, forgot about it, and hours later retrieved the frozen-solid mass. Then I decided to pop it in the microwave. You can imagine what ensued. After extinguishing the flames, my mom asked us kids what we thought had happened. I stepped forward as if approaching the gallows—and she lavished me with praise. For telling the truth. For taking responsibility. Her response might seem surprising, but we're Quakers, and avoiding judgment is pretty on-brand. From where I stand now, I can see that her decision to use positive reinforcement aligns with research on motivating kids, something I've become quite familiar with as a journalist covering parenting and education. Still, for years, I didn't recognize the connection between my faith and the child-development studies I frequently combed through at work. Then, when the coronavirus pandemic temporarily left our public school without enough adults to meet my son's needs, we switched him to a Quaker school. The school is organized around an acronym I'd never heard before— SPICES —that stands for principles I know well: simplicity, peace, integrity, community, equality, and stewardship. Those aren't the only pillars of Quakerism, but they're big ones, and seeing them all together got me thinking. Sitting in the meetinghouse one Sunday morning, after nearly an hour of silent worship, I had a Queen's Gambit moment. Whereas the chess champ saw pawns moving across a phantom board, I saw each child-rearing best practice I'd been writing about line up with a principle of Quakerism. The Religious Society of Friends—'Quaker' being a derogatory term, reclaimed—is a hard faith to explain, because it tries to eschew dogma. It's now possible to be a Muslim Quaker or a Hindu one, or to not believe in any god at all. That said, Quakers all over the world tend to talk about the same principles and take part in some of the same practices. For example, in place of rules, Quakers publish 'advices and queries,' which prompt individuals to make good, considered choices. Attendees of Quaker meetings near me were recently asked to ponder: 'Do I make my home a place of friendliness, joy, and peace, where residents and visitors feel God's presence?' The children's version read: 'In what ways am I kind to people in my home?' Certain expectations underlie these questions—that one should try to be kind, for example—but so do curiosity and an openness to differing answers. As it turns out, leading with questions is a great way for parents to talk to children. Encouraging kids to come up with their own solutions grants them autonomy. And as Emily Edlynn, a psychologist and the author of Autonomy-Supportive Parenting, told me, kids who feel like they have control over their life experience better emotional health, including less depression and anxiety. Fostering kids' autonomy has also been tied to children building stronger self-regulation skills, doing better in school, and navigating social situations more effectively. Best of all, once kids get used to the self-discipline that comes with exercising autonomy, it can become habitual. Give your kids agency in one area, and they tend to 'develop internal motivation even for things that they do not want to do,' Edlynn said, 'because they're integrating the understanding of the 'why' those things are so important.' It can be scary to trust children with independence. But kids are better problem-solvers than some people might think. When my son, at age 10, asked me if he could play laser tag with friends, I asked him how he could avoid pulling a trigger (in deference to the Quaker value of pacifism). He decided to serve as referee. I was proud of him for exercising ' discernment,' another Quaker value, all on his own, for listening to his 'still, small voice within' and letting it guide him to a solution that satisfied his need for belonging. He is now 13 and recently couldn't decide whether to accept a babysitting job or relax at home. I asked him, 'What do you think tomorrow-you will wish today-you had done?' He picked out stuffed animals to give his charges, spent the evening feeling needed, and had cash the next day when he wanted to buy boba for a friend. Obviously, real damage could come from giving kids complete autonomy, and Quakerism recognizes this. Early Quaker epistles inveigh against permissiveness, and a 1939 text, Children & Quakerism, quotes William Penn, the Quaker who founded Pennsylvania, saying, 'If God give you children, love them with wisdom, correct them with affection.' In other words, pacifism doesn't mean that parents can't set boundaries. As a 1967 book about Quaker education, Friends and Their Children, put it, 'There is a difference in principle between setting an army on the march and carrying a tired and hysterical child up to bed.' So when my son used to leave toys out, I wouldn't clean up for him. I'd prompt him to do so: 'I see blocks still sitting on the floor.' That was usually enough. When it wasn't, I would stage a mini sit-in, and we wouldn't go on with our evening until the blocks were put away—the type of consequence that's crucial for raising considerate kids. If he hollered, I would 'bear witness' to his suffering and 'be with' him, silent but unwavering. In addition to sit-ins, both civic and domestic, Quakers have a tradition known as 'spiritual gifts.' That involves treating individual talents as assets that belong to the community and ought to be developed in ourselves and encouraged in others. For parents, this means focusing on what our children choose to do, are good at, and enjoy. You can't ignore your kids' weaknesses—but you can spend less energy on them. For my youngest's terrible handwriting, that meant aiming for legibility and saving the time that could have gone toward cursive lessons for activities that animate her, such as building boats and airplanes from the contents of the recycling bin. Research backs up this approach. According to Lea Waters, a psychology professor at the University of Melbourne and the author of The Strength Switch, focusing on children's strengths 'has been shown to increase self-esteem, build resilience, decrease stress, and make kids more healthy, happy, and engaged in school.' But perhaps the most important element of Quaker parenting is the edict to 'let your life speak.' In practice, that looks like apologizing to your kids freely, saying please and thank you, and, yes, trying not to shout at them. It means acting in accordance with your values, such as when my grandma took me to pack toothbrushes and soap into ' kits for Kosovo,' and when my kids make PB&Js for our unhoused neighbors or bring games to a family shelter. The idea, supported by common sense and reams of research, is that kids develop empathy by living it alongside their caregivers. What's more, another study establishes that knowing that their parents value kindness above achievement protects kids' well-being. Infused in all of these practices is the conviction that children are not lesser proto-adults, but fellow beings worthy of respect and agency regardless of their behavior. The closest that Quakers come to dogma is the belief, first expressed by the religion's founder, that there is 'that of God' in every person, children very much included. That's why, as Friends and Their Children notes, Quakers try to make children feel 'welcome at the very centre of life'—a concept quite similar to the 'unconditional positive regard' that psychologists today know leads to secure kids. Children who feel valued in this way, and who believe that what they do adds value, generally come to understand that they matter. And a sense of mattering makes kids more likely to be happy, resilient, academically high-achieving, and satisfied with their life, as well as less likely to struggle with perfectionism or addiction, Gordon Flett, the author of the American Psychological Association's Mattering as a Core Need in Children and Adolescents, told me. So here I am, nearly 375 years after Quakerism's founding, asking my kids questions, giving them bounded autonomy, and nudging them to invest in their strengths and be stewards of their community—all while communicating that their worth is in no way contingent. Put together, these Quaker practices result in a parenting style considered ideal by psychologists: authoritative parenting. As Judith Smetana, a University of Rochester psychology professor whose work focuses on parent-adolescent interactions, explained to me, authoritative parenting is characterized by the effort to warmly and responsively set limits, and to support kids rather than punish them harshly when they overstep those limits. Some people might argue that Quaker parents aren't doing anything special. What is free-range parenting if not oodles of agency? When Quaker parents try to stay calm and acknowledge their kids' feelings when they act out, aren't we just doing what the so-called Millennial parenting whisperer Dr. Becky recommends? In telling my teenage son that I see the packaging from his graphing calculator lying on the table rather than in the trash, am I not just following 'Say What You See' coaching? But pop parenting philosophies can be unhelpful, especially because parents not infrequently misinterpret them. Take gentle parenting. At its best, it encourages parents to give kids the respect and empathy they need to thrive. But gentle parenting, at least as it's presented in Instagram reels, can result in children doing as they please. 'What it really leaves out,' Smetana told me, 'is the importance of structure and being clear about where the boundaries are.' Many parents are left feeling helpless—a common experience among pop-parenting adherents. In the aughts, a friend of mine tried attachment parenting, an approach centered on enhancing the bond between mother and child with, among other practices, maximum physical proximity. She ended up feeling like a failure each time she put her baby down to use the restroom. For new parents, sorting through the good and bad of each of these schools of thought can feel not just bewildering, but impossible. 'These terms come and go so quickly,' Smetana told me, 'and fads in the popular audience don't intersect very well, necessarily, with the research.' It's taken me more than 15 years, during which I've read hundreds of parenting books and academic papers, to piece together which bits of each philosophy are relevant to me. According to Smetana, even authoritative parenting can be of limited use for caregivers, because its advice is so broad. There are lots of ways to be an authoritative parent, which can leave moms and dads (but mostly moms) feeling rudderless. That's where Quaker parenting has stepped in for me, providing a simple way to separate the wheat from the child-development chaff. It gives me plenty to cling to, but its guiding principles are also flexible enough to allow leeway. This isn't to say the religion is perfect. Its past is filled with failures. Many Quakers worked to abolish slavery, but many did not; some were themselves enslavers. The Society of Friends was the first religion to officially condemn that horror, but some meetinghouses—which are known for having benches arranged in egalitarian formations— featured segregated seating for Black members. Quakers also participated in forced assimilation of Indigenous peoples, including boarding schools that stripped children of dignity, culture, and health. Although not exclusively white, Quaker membership in the U.S. is still predominantly so. But even in these shortcomings lies an essential Quaker parenting lesson. We favor queries over strictures because of a concept known as ' continuing revelation,' or the idea that we cannot know all there is to know, and we will always later realize that we were wrong. The principle has helped me cultivate humility and compassion for myself after missteps. Because there can be no one best way in Quaker parenting, I'm freed from feeling like every detail of every decision will lead only to perfect success or abject defeat. Looking back at the Diet Mountain Dew incident, I bet my mom wanted to rail at me. She'd warned again and again that metal in the microwave would spark. But Quaker values urged restraint then, just as they did decades later, when two of my daughters enrolled at schools with grade portals. With just four clicks, I can see how many points they've missed on each test and which assignments they haven't turned in. Snowplow parenting tells me to lean into snooping and send emails to their teachers requesting retakes and extensions. It's sorely tempting. But Quaker principles remind me not just about the value of autonomy, but also that kids need stillness and peace of mind, that pestering them isn't likely to lead to the 'nonviolent communications' that improve connection, and that the goal is for teens to develop a purpose-based identity rather than a performance-based one. So I resist the urge to monitor and intervene—just as research on anxiety suggests I should.
Yahoo
20-02-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Deeply Unfunny Man JD Vance Says Telling Jokes Makes Him a Man
JD Vance has weighed in on what he thinks masculinity is, and it's one big joke. During an interview to kick off the Conservative Political Action Conference in Washington Thursday, Vance pontificated over what makes him a man. 'I think about like, 'What is the essence of masculinity?' You could answer this in so many different ways,' Vance said. 'But when I think about me and my guy friends, we really like to tell jokes to one another.' It's entirely possible that the simple question caught him off guard. After all, Vance has been more or less shunned from the public eye since entering office, in favor of Donald Trump's actual favorite Elon Musk. So maybe he's just warming up to answering questions again. Vance's comment is particularly ironic considering that on the campaign trail, the ineffectual vice president demonstrated time and time again that he's actually too hostile to deliver a joke, let alone a funny one. There are those of us who still remember his weak attempt to rib cancel culture over his choice of Diet Mountain Dew. Or his sexist 'childless cat lady' comment. Vance claimed it was just a joke, but in reality, it stood only to demonstrate his actual approach to manhood, what Ginny Hogan for The Nation called his 'insecure, backward-looking, and grievance-driven' brand of masculinity.
