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As noted earlier, a child with many books in his home has indeed been found to

do well on school tests. But regularly reading to a child doesn’t affect test scores.

This would seem to present a riddle. It bounces us back to our original question:

just how much, and in what ways, do parents really matter?

Let’s start with the positive correlation: books in the home equal higher test

scores. Most people would look at this correlation and infer an obvious cause-

and-effect relationship. To wit: a little boy named Isaiah has a lot of books at

home; Isaiah does beautifully on his reading test at school; this must be because

his mother or father regularly reads to him. But Isaiah’s friend Emily, who also

has a lot of books in her home, practically never touches them. She would rather

dress up her Bratz or watch cartoons. And Emily tests just as well as Isaiah.

Meanwhile, Isaiah and Emily’s friend Ricky doesn’t have any books at home. But

Ricky goes to the library every day with his mother; Ricky is a reading fiend.

And yet he does worse on his school tests than either Emily or Isaiah.

What are we to make of this? If reading books doesn’t have an impact on early

childhood test scores, could it be that the books’ mere physical presence in the

house makes the children smarter? Do books perform some kind of magical

osmosis on a child’s brain? If so, one might be tempted to simply deliver a

truckload of books to every home that contains a preschooler.

That, in fact, is what the governor of Illinois tried to do. In early 2004, Governor

Rod Blagojevich announced a plan to mail one book a month to every child in

Illinois from the time they were born until they entered kindergarten. The plan

would cost $26 million a year. But, Blagojevich argued, this was a vital

intervention in a state where 40 percent of third graders read below their grade

level. “When you own [books] and they’re yours,” he said, “and they just come

as part of your life, all of that will contribute to a sense…that books should be

part of your life.”

So all children born in Illinois would end up with a sixty-volume library by the

time they entered school. Does this mean they would all perform better on their

reading tests?

Probably not. (Although we may never know for sure: in the end, the Illinois

legislature rejected the book plan.) After all, the ECLS data don’t say that books

in the house cause high test scores; it says only that the two are correlated.

How should this correlation be interpreted? Here’s a likely theory: most parents

who buy a lot of children’s books tend to be smart and well educated to begin

with. (And they pass on their smarts and work ethic to their kids.) Or perhaps

they care a great deal about education, and about their children in general.

(Which means they create an environment that encourages and rewards

learning.) Such parents may believe—as fervently as the governor of Illinois

believed—that every children’s book is a talisman that leads to unfettered

intelligence. But they are probably wrong. A book is in fact less a cause of

intelligence than an indicator.

So what does all this have to say about the importance of parents in general?

Consider again the eight ECLS factors that are correlated with school test scores:

. The child has highly educated parents.

. The child’s parents have high socioeconomic status.

. The child’s mother was thirty or older at the time of her first child’s birth.

. The child had low birthweight.

. The child’s parents speak English in the home.

. The child is adopted.

. The child’s parents are involved in the PTA.

. The child has many books in his home.

And the eight factors that are not:

. The child’s family is intact.

. The child’s parents recently moved into a better neighborhood.

. The child’s mother didn’t work between birth and kindergarten.

. The child attended Head Start.

. The child’s parents regularly take him to museums.

. The child is regularly spanked.

. The child frequently watches television.

. The child’s parents read to him nearly every day.

To overgeneralize a bit, the first list describes things that parents are; the second

list describes things that parents do. Parents who are well educated, successful,

and healthy tend to have children who test well in school; but it doesn’t seem to

much matter whether a child is trotted off to museums or spanked or sent to

Head Start or frequently read to or plopped in front of the television.

For parents—and parenting experts—who are obsessed with child-rearing

technique, this may be sobering news. The reality is that technique looks to be

highly overrated.

But this is not to say that parents don’t matter. Plainly they matter a great deal.

Here is the conundrum: by the time most people pick up a parenting book, it is

far too late. Most of the things that matter were decided long ago—who you are,

whom you married, what kind of life you lead. If you are smart, hardworking,

well educated, well paid, and married to someone equally fortunate, then your

children are more likely to succeed. (Nor does it hurt, in all likelihood, to be

honest, thoughtful, loving, and curious about the world.) But it isn’t so much a

matter of what you do as a parent; it’s who you are. In this regard, an

overbearing parent is a lot like a political candidate who believes that money

wins elections, whereas in truth, all the money in the world can’t get a candidate

elected if the voters don’t like him to start with.

In a paper titled “The Nature and Nurture of Economic Outcomes,” the

economist Bruce Sacerdote addressed the nature-nurture debate by taking a

long-term quantitative look at the effects of parenting. He used three adoption

studies, two American and one British, each of them containing in-depth data

about the adopted children, their adoptive parents, and their biological parents.

Sacerdote found that parents who adopt children are typically smarter, better

educated, and more highly paid than the baby’s biological parents. But the

adoptive parents’ advantages had little bearing on the child’s school

performances. As also seen in the ECLS data, adopted children test relatively

poorly in school; any influence the adoptive parents might exert is seemingly

outweighed by the force of genetics. But, Sacerdote found, the parents were not

powerless forever. By the time the adopted children became adults, they had

veered sharply from the destiny that IQ alone might have predicted. Compared

to similar children who were not put up for adoption, the adoptees were far

more likely to attend college, to have a well-paid job, and to wait until they were

out of their teens before getting married. It was the influence of the adoptive

parents, Sacerdote concluded, that made the difference.

Levitt thinks he is onto something with a new paper about black names. He

wanted to know if someone with a distinctly black name suffers an economic

penalty. His answer—contrary to other recent research—is no. But now he has a

bigger question: Is black culture a cause of racial inequality or is it a

consequence? For an economist, even for Levitt, this is new turf—“quantifying

culture,” he calls it. As a task, he finds it thorny, messy, perhaps impossible, and

deeply tantalizing.

—THE N EW Y ORK T IMES M AGAZINE, AUGUST 3, 2003

6

Perfect Parenting, Part II; or: Would a Roshanda

by Any Other Name Smell as Sweet?

Obsessive or not, any parent wants to believe that she is making a big difference

in the kind of person her child turns out to be. Otherwise, why bother?

The belief in parental power is manifest in the first official act a parent commits:

giving the baby a name. As any modern parent knows, the baby-naming

industry is booming, as evidenced by a proliferation of books, websites, and

baby-name consultants. Many parents seem to believe that a child cannot

prosper unless it is hitched to the right name; names are seen to carry great

aesthetic or even predictive powers.

This might explain why, in 1958, a New York City man named Robert Lane

decided to call his baby son Winner. The Lanes, who lived in a housing project in

Harlem, already had several children, each with a fairly typical name. But this

boy—well, Robert Lane apparently had a special feeling about this one. Winner

Lane: how could he fail with a name like that?

Three years later, the Lanes had another baby boy, their seventh and last child.

For reasons that no one can quite pin down today, Robert decided to name this

boy Loser. It doesn’t appear that Robert was unhappy about the new baby; he

just seemed to get a kick out of the name’s bookend effect. First a Winner, now a

Loser. But if Winner Lane could hardly be expected to fail, could Loser Lane

possibly succeed?

Loser Lane did in fact succeed. He went to prep school on a scholarship,

graduated from Lafayette College in Pennsylvania, and joined the New York

Police Department (this was his mother’s longtime wish), where he made

detective and, eventually, sergeant. Although he never hid his name, many

people were uncomfortable using it. “So I have a bunch of names,” he says

today, “from Jimmy to James to whatever they want to call you. Timmy. But they

rarely call you Loser.” Once in a while, he said, “they throw a French twist on it:

‘Losier.’” To his police colleagues, he is known as Lou.

And what of his brother with the can’t-miss name? The most noteworthy

achievement of Winner Lane, now in his midforties, is the sheer length of his

criminal record: nearly three dozen arrests for burglary, domestic violence,

trespassing, resisting arrest, and other mayhem.

These days, Loser and Winner barely speak. The father who named them is no

longer alive. Clearly he had the right idea—that naming is destiny—but he must

have gotten the boys mixed up.

Then there is the recent case of Temptress, a fifteen-year-old girl whose misdeeds

landed her in Albany County Family Court in New York. The judge, W. Dennis

Duggan, had long taken note of the strange names borne by some offenders. One

teenage boy, Amcher, had been named for the first thing his parents saw upon

reaching the hospital: the sign for Albany Medical Center Hospital Emergency

Room. But Duggan considered Temptress the most outrageous name he had

come across.

“I sent her out of the courtroom so I could talk to her mother about why she

named her daughter Temptress,” the judge later recalled. “She said she was

watching The Cosby Show and liked the young actress. I told her the actress’s

name was actually Tempestt Bled-soe. She said she found that out later, that they

had misspelled the name. I asked her if she knew what ‘temptress’ meant, and

she said she also found that out at some later point. Her daughter was charged

with ungovernable behavior, which included bringing men into the home while

the mother was at work. I asked the mother if she had ever thought the daughter

was living out her name. Most all of this went completely over her head.”

Was Temptress actually “living out her name,” as Judge Duggan saw it? Or

would she have wound up in trouble even if her mother had called her

Chastity?*

It isn’t much of a stretch to assume that Temptress didn’t have ideal parents. Not

only was her mother willing to name her Temptress in the first place, but she

wasn’t smart enough to know what that word even meant. Nor is it so

surprising, on some level, that a boy named Amcher would end up in family

court. People who can’t be bothered to come up with a name for their child aren’t

likely to be the best parents either.

So does the name you give your child affect his life? Or is it your life reflected in

his name? In either case, what kind of signal does a child’s name send to the

world—and most important, does it really matter?

As it happens, Loser and Winner, Temptress and Amcher were all black. Is this

fact merely a curiosity or does it have something larger to say about names and

culture?

Every generation seems to produce a few marquee academics who advance the

thinking on black culture. Roland G. Fryer Jr., the young black economist who

analyzed the “acting white” phenomenon and the black-white test score gap,

may be among the next. His ascension has been unlikely. An indifferent high-

school student from an unstable family, he went to the University of Texas at

Arlington on an athletic scholarship. Two things happened to him during

college: he quickly realized he would never make the NFL or the NBA; and,

taking his studies seriously for the first time in his life, he found he liked them.

After graduate work at Penn State and the University of Chicago, he was hired as

a Harvard professor at age twenty-five. His reputation for candid thinking on

race was already well established.

Fryer’s mission is the study of black underachievement. “One could rattle off all

the statistics about blacks not doing so well,” he says. “You can look at the black-

white differential in out-of-wedlock births or infant mortality or life expectancy.

Blacks are the worst-performing ethnic group on SATs. Blacks earn less than

whites. They are still just not doing well, period. I basically want to figure out

where blacks went wrong, and I want to devote my life to this.”

In addition to economic and social disparity between blacks and whites, Fryer

had become intrigued by the virtual segregation of culture. Blacks and whites

watch different television shows. (Monday Night Football is the only show that

typically appears on each group’s top ten list; Seinfeld, one of the most popular

sitcoms in history, never ranked in the top fifty among blacks.) They smoke

different cigarettes. (Newports enjoy a 75 percent market share among black

teenagers versus 12 percent among whites; the white teenagers are mainly

smoking Marlboros.) And black parents give their children names that are

starkly different from white children’s.

Fryer came to wonder: is distinctive black culture a cause of the economic

disparity between blacks and whites or merely a reflection of it?