As a grad student, I hated deconstruction. I didn't get it. Every time I thought I got it, it eluded me.
I got a B for the literary theory class in grad school. Deconstructionism is largely to blame.
My bigger problem, I realize now, is that I thought too much about it. Because when I was my son's age--younger-I literally pulled apart sentences, looking at every possible definition, and realized early that sentences could actually mean their exact opposite meaning.
He asks me repeatedly what things mean. Lots of things. And he remembers my responses. And compares them.
This is the kid they tell me is slow. Takes more time to process. But he asks questions that no one else thinks to ask.
The other night he quoted Mussolini at the dinner table. My husband, an Italian by birth, knew the quote, but couldn't imagine how his offspring knew it.
(He reads. He researches. His wikipedia adventures include editing entries. Since Age 12.)
I'm trying to find comfort in this. I'm trying to make peace with a lot of missing and misunderstood pieces. This is who he is.
I am so proud of who he is.
But I wish the fates had better things in store for him. He deserves better.
