“The greatest burden a child must bear is the unlived life of its parents” Carl Jung
I am congratulating myself on becoming an enlightened parent, by deciding that I won’t claim to be their Custodian of Correct Career Choices. Of course, (most) parents want their children to do better than they did, to be more successful than they have been. But when is this help actually a Trojan horse? Where ends the selfless regard for the child’s self-identity and where begins the desire for something useful to the parent: a continuation of a business, a legacy, a family reputation? Where ends the pride in a child’s achievement and where begins the child as a tool for parents’ self-aggrandizement?
I’m avoiding the trap that my advice may have less to do with how I view my kids and more with how I view myself. I am side-stepping any temptation to usher them towards traditional, respected professions: there will be no judgments promulgated by me to pursue a career in Law, no prescriptions issued to take up Medicine.
Telling my children (young teenagers) to take up a very specific job in future because it would be best for them would be like intending to encourage them to eat healthily, but end up banging on at them to just eat grilled chicken and nothing else.
So, in my newly found state of enlightenment, I offer my children a framework to guide rather than prescribe. A map rather than an instruction manual.
“Listen up, boys” I say, as I scribble a Venn diagram of career principles, with three intersecting circles: enjoyment, aptitude and utility. “You can enjoy something, even have a passion for it, but be average or useless at it. Or, you could be good at something but not enjoy it as much you might hope. Or you may be lucky enough to excel at something which you also enjoy but then find it won’t earn you a living because no-one is willing to pay for it.”
I continue, on a roll: “The sweet spot of course is to find a perfect marriage of all three elements of enjoyment, aptitude and utility.”
I tell them that few do find that. I tell them that most just default into a seat at an open plan desk at the intersection between “utility” and “aptitude”, with “enjoyment” just a fleeting visitor.
A flicker in my eyes signals to the boys that I realize I am describing my own job. I quickly move on.
As for doing something that has utility, I take on the guise of a futurist momentarily, exhorting them to give thought not to the world in front of their eyes now but the one they will occupy as adults. Automation is something that will render many roles redundant at some point, I announce; especially where a solution can be provided on the back of empirical data. I tell them that even basic legal solutions or medical diagnoses will be computed and churned out. The more historical data there is to rely on, the greater the squeeze on the need for a person rather than a computer to process it. The strongholds of human contribution will be roles requiring empathy or novel solutions or where empirical data is scarce (humans will always be needed to make judgments in the gaps). Computers will process all other answers.
“What are these roles?” they ask me. “Well, Google it,” I answer without any hint of irony.
Wherever my children end up taking their seat on this Venn diagram I want them to have arrived there with their eyes open. To find their own fulfillment and self-worth and identity free of constraints of traditional parental expectation.
Moments later I log in online to see how my stocks are doing. Some indices have taken a hit. I grimace. Then I recall that one of the boons of having kids as young as I did was to rely on them as an alternative pension plan. I glance up from my laptop: “You’re doing great, boys” I say in the most manly, matter of fact tone I can muster.
They throw a quick, benign look of acknowledgement in my direction and then quietly return to shooting people on the PS4.