Yesterday, one of my kids threw a rock at the other one. Both are fine; it was one of those brotherly “accidentally-on-purpose” things, and fortunately didn’t even leave a mark. And believe you me, there were consequences.
But there are also consequences for all of us–consequences that are not isolated to my family, however much you would like to pretend they are, and which are part and parcel of the political and theological position in which we find ourselves.
It doesn’t matter that the bigger one threw the rock, in the end, because the altercation began when the little one explained that the small collection of rocks underneath his tree was his “arsenal” against his “enemies.” Scene: a pocket park in a gated planned community. Enemies: a distant gathering of three same-sized children.
My kids are 6 and 9. They were born Unitarian Universalists, and have spent time in Montessori education, arts-based preschool, homeschooling.
And friends, it saddens and frightens me to report that we as a family are having a hard time overcoming the culture in which our children are being raised.
As I sat on a park bench, and then at home, with first one and then the other child, explaining that we live in a peaceful place, do not have enemies, and do not need weapons, I realized that there is something that we desperately do need: other stories to tell our children. Other stories with which to raise our boys.
My husband and I both played with legos constantly as kids. Guess how many of our sets came with guns?
I’ll let you reflect on your own childhood. How many molded plastic Lego guns? Ever?
In my six year old’s short childhood, which has involved thousands and thousands of Lego bricks, I have involuntarily amassed an arsenal that could arm the revolution. It could. My kids now just bring them and set them on my dresser as soon as they open the box. I find tiny revolvers on my nightstand, miniature semiautomatics on my make up counter.
Friends, every package marketed to boys comes with weaponry of some sort, often with a remarkable variety of firearms. It is incredibly difficult to find large sets without them. Go look. I’ll wait.
Now consider the movies with which our children are raised. The shows. The games.
Now consider the narrative.
The only story that this contemporary moment is willing to teach my sons:
Everything interesting that could possibly happen involves the potential or actuality of a physical fight. The entire game is preparing for one or defending against it or, better still, prevailing within it.
We literally have no script for the story where there is peace.
Peace, in our little boys’ games, is simply the space between skirmishes.
When it should–and truly, I promise you, it could– be all that they know.
What have we given them to even imagine this? What script, what story, are we illustrating and encouraging, for the world in which they are actually growing up?
One which admittedly features more weapons than any generation in living memory– but not because we need them, have needed them, or (God forbid) will need them. No, it is because of this stupid story- “Life is one long fight to the top, composed of other, smaller fights, because this is what we do with and for resources.” It’s a story that sells, and it has crowded out so many other stories of childhood– the nursery rhymes and fairy tales, and also the stories we found and dreamed and created as we roamed neighborhoods, caught frogs, climbed dirt piles, watched ponds.
And yeah, on those dirt piles, we sometimes played King of the Mountain.
We sometimes pushed each other. We sometimes played the game called war.
And then somebody got a bloody nose, and somebody cried, and all of us learned that some games aren’t really games, and that there’s an edge beyond which danger lies . . . an edge beyond which none of us want to push.
Is that what my kids were trying to learn, yesterday?
Maybe. Maybe they were, and maybe they would have gotten it with their eyes still intact, without intervention.
But maybe we’ve given them too much of another story to be able to pull it back.
How long has this reality been in the works? What forces– what power, what money, what desire for control, what fight for a cultural narrative– lie behind it? How do we quit the military-industrial complex ourselves while we simultaneously train our children to be part of it?
How will we find something else?
And how will we (all) pay if we don’t?
I wish I didn’t wonder these things. But I do.
And I think the questions, and this moment, have been a long time coming.