When the World Trade Center buildings collapsed into dust and ash, my firstborn was just under four years old: much too young to hear about terrorism, death, ruin. On September 12th I sent him off to preschool with all confidence that his teachers felt as I did. That confidence turned out to be well founded. But as it happened, some preschoolers had learned, inadvertently or not, about the fall of the twin towers. And a boy who knew that we had just visited my mother in New York City walked up to my son and asked (I imagine matter-of-factly) whether his grandmother, my mother, had been killed when the plane flew into her building.
Of course my son came home crying. And though I was able to reassure him that his grandmother was safe (we even talked to her on the telephone, as proof), I was forced into telling him something about September 11th. I kept my explanation brief and sketchy, but even so my child’s eyes widened in shock and dismay. I remember that as a day when the curtain of child-like innocence opened a sliver to allow a stagehand to pass through. Later the curtain would be opened to let the human show begin.
I also remember being furious at the boy who scared my son, and at the boy’s family, too. Irrational anger, I realized, but I had wanted to protect my son for longer than three years and eleven months of his life.
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Now that same child is a news junkie. He watches the MSNBC lineup nearly nightly. He is as well-informed about current events as many of my adult friends. Last night we watched Michael Moore’s Bowling for Columbine. As he does most other information, my kid soaked it up. When an executive at Lockheed — which maintains a plant in Littleton, CO, also home to Columbine High School — tried to argue that its weapons were used only to defend the United States against foreign aggressors, Moore inserted a slide show of images, graphic and disturbing, of the violence spawned by the dictatorships America has repeatedly supported or installed. A soldier defending one or another regime shot one man, and then another, in the head at point-blank range, and the bodies jerked forward responsively, like puppets. Dead bodies were heaped in piles in Nicaragua, in Vietnam, in Germany.
I could not contain a tiny yelp, my maternal instinct to rush over and cover my boy’s eyes. But he is nearly fifteen years old. So instead I looked toward him to gauge his reaction to the news footage. I don’t know whether I wanted him to be dry-eyed and stoic, or sobbing. I do know that I wanted to rewind the clip, to take it back and fold it into myself, away from him. He met my gaze, and said, wryly, “They don’t teach this in the history books.”
He’s not a child anymore. Not quite an adult, either, but getting closer all the time. My wanting to shield his three-year-old self from September 11th was appropriate, but I’m beginning to understand that at this point I would do him a grave disservice by sheltering him from, well, everything. All of it. Jerry Sandusky and serial killers and all the other terrible, awful things that are out there. As long as he’s able to perceive the good in us — and there’s so much of that, too — he can’t fully grow up unless he knows the bad.
More, how would he fight and hope to conquer an enemy he never even knew existed? As much as it pains me, I want my children not only to see the world as a place worth preserving but also as a place that too often needs lots of help being preserved.
My son is going to be a fighter, and I won’t be able to stop him. I don’t want to stop him.
My son is considering a military college and stint in the Army or Marines. We did not even own a television until he was well into elementary school. I did not allow any toy guns in my house until he was almost 9 years old. But around age 9, he became interested on his own, first in cap guns, then nerf guns, then BB guns, then airsofts and finally real guns. He was also into archery, buidling his own bows and making his own arrows. He even made blowguns and darts and could shoot ballons out of the air. He was also into robotics, advancing to a world competition when we lived in Europe.The first time he shot clays with a shotgun, he nailed 48 out of 50. He was 12 years old and had never fired a shotgun before and did better than many adults. Over time, he became a self-taught expert on antique guns, impressing collectors with his knowledge of manufacturing history and construction.
While at first I was freaked out by all of this, I realized this was a genuine and compelling passion of his and that I could not change that. So we made sure he learned gun safety and gun law, we joined the Izaak Walton League so he would have a place to shoot and be among responsible and educated gun owners who enjoyed target shooting.
Whenever he has talked about a career in the military, I have been respectful of that choice but also honest about what that means, the good and the bad and the inbetween. Especially the Inbetween.
He is almost 17 now.
I decided early on that I would never shelter my kids from hope or passion and, conversely, the darker sides of life. We’ve had many intense discussions where misconceptions were cleared up and viewpoints considered. It’s a decision I’ve never regretted …
I guess this is what they mean when they say a parent must let go…..
I think it’s great. I think that kids SHOULD know the truth, even when we want to shield them from it. There have been a lot of ecstasy deaths in the city lately, it’s on the news a lot. A local dad died from ecstasy. Anyway, the kids asked about it and I told them pretty much the unvarnished truth, and they weren’t scared – they were very curious though. We had a great discussion about drug use and what it can do to your life, and how people can ruin their lives and their chances – we talked about Whitney Houston. My kids are only 8 and almost 7, so they seemed young for this talk, but this is the world they live in. They can make a difference, but they need to know truth. Right?
God, how poignant it is to read these words given recent events in Colorado.
The dawning of real political awareness was a huge part of my life at your son’s age. I well remember plastering my school books, bag and bedroom walls with stickers, badges and posters about everything from Aboriginal land rights to ‘No Mining in Kakadu!’. I remember the vividness of my fear of nuclear war, and my teenage anguish about apartheid. These reflections make me think (a) that our generation of teenagers had some pretty heavy stuff to deal with; and (b) that there have been some very real changes for the better (something I reflect on with my sons sometimes – they are starting to display interest in such topics, but I worry that they show signs of tipping into cynicism before they’ve barely begun). This passionately political teenager became a social worker (after a couple of false starts!) – a career which in my view requires an ability to marry clear-sightedness with hope. I have really enjoyed things that you’ve written about your older son’s take on the world, and wonder where his worldview and passions will lead him. I would put in a good word for the helping professions, but it seems he’s quite the scientist! I’m sure he’s got an interesting life ahead, and think that your candour about the world he is inheriting will only help him find his way.
So interesting how time and again we are thinking on the same wavelength. I’ve been thinking about my 8 y.o. At what point is it irresponsible to continue shielding him?
Brave mother. No, you can’t keep a kid in a bubble and expect him to acquire immunity. Him or her. I remember the terrible moments when my girls were hit with hugely painful truths and how helpless I felt. Now they are strong women and I am proud. And relieved, I must admit.
The book, ‘Columbine’ is also terrible.