There’s a great essay in the New York Review of Books by Michael Chabon about adventure stories and the disappearance of children’s adventure. I’ve been having a ball reading through Chabon’s works of late. Especially The Yiddish Policeman’s Union.
The endangerment of children—that persistent theme of our lives, arts, and literature over the past twenty years—resonates so strongly because, as parents, as members of preceding generations, we look at the poisoned legacy of modern industrial society and its ills, at the world of strife and radioactivity, climatological disaster, overpopulation, and commodification, and feel guilty. As the national feeling of guilt over the extermination of the Indians led to the creation of a kind of cult of the Indian, so our children have become cult objects to us, too precious to be risked. At the same time they have become fetishes, the objects of an unhealthy and diseased fixation. And once something is fetishized, capitalism steps in and finds a way to sell it.
It’s worth pointing out that, like everything else, there’s a class element involved in this. We live in unincorporated Adams County in Denver, which is primarily known for its salvage yards, industrial parks, and vacant lots. Ours is one in a rundown townhome complex, within sight of an oil refinery, a rendering plant, and a dog food factory, which, if you live in the wrong neighborhood — thankfully not ours — can make for a pretty unpleasant aroma. There are times I get to feeling a little guilty that my kids don’t have a yard, or that we don’t live in a nicer area.
But then I get over it pretty quickly. See, like most areas without a lot of money, there are lots of single moms, lots of folks out of work, and lots of kids. Meaning that on any summer day, you’re likely to look out the window and see a throng of 10 to 20 kids running mad around the commons area, mine included, with a few of the parents standing guard. If one of the parents needs to go to the store or the doctor or whatever, they do, and the rest of the parents pick up the slack, knowing that the favor will be returned. It’s pretty much a rotating, season-long kid party, with just enough supervision to make sure none of the tykes are cutting up any puppies or lighting cars on fire, but with a healthy amount of distance too.
By way of contrast, I work in Louisville, Colorado, which is a slightly less upscale suburb of the Boulder, Colorado. And when I hear I the parents I work with talk about child-rearing they invariably get to opining about the lack of socialization available to their kids. Which usually turns to some variant of Chabon’s complaint: that kids just don’t live the same free outdoor neighborhood lives they used to.
But kids do. There are lots of kids who grow up with all the freedom they can handle. Who live outdoors, banging around with their friends, and know all about wilderness. I always want to tell those complaining that you don’t have to live in a large, isolated McMansion in an upscale neighborhood and raise lonely, isolated children. There are plenty of other options, but you probably have to move somewhere where neighbors need each other, and where people aren’t afraid that their kids might get a little dirty or banged up.
A better question might be: do parents really want more freedom for their kids? I’ve got a little brother who’s about 15 years my junior, and I remember my mother complaining once that he spent all his time in his room playing video games and watching movies. She was comparing that to my experience, and fondly remembering that I was always outside, always on the move. Well, yeah, but that’s because I was doing drugs, getting in fights (losing most), committing petty crimes, and working on fucking any little girl dumb enough to have me (not many).
Which, don’t get me wrong, was a pretty great childhood, but not one that every parent may want for their kids. And, to be honest, not one I’m entirely sure I want for mine.
