Kitabı oku: «What We’re Teaching Our Sons», sayfa 2
Money
We’re teaching our sons about money.
We’re teaching them that money is the most important thing there is. We’re teaching them that they can never have enough money, that their enemies can never have too little. We’re teaching them that money has an intrinsic worth beyond the things that it can buy, that money is a measure of their worth as men.
Alternatively, we’re teaching our sons that money is an illusion. That it doesn’t matter at all. That, most of the time, it doesn’t even exist.
‘Look at the financial industry,’ we tell them. ‘Look at derivatives. Look at credit default swaps. Look at infinite rehypothecation.’
Our sons nod at us, blankly. They’re not old enough for any of this. What were we thinking?
Together with our sons we go on the run, hiding out in a series of anonymous motels. The receptionists accept our false names without asking any questions. At three in the morning we peer out through the blinds or the heavy curtains, look for the lights of police cars out in the rain while our sons sleep.
‘Who’s out there?’ our sons ask in their sleep. ‘What do they want?’
We can’t remember the last time we slept in our own beds, cooked a meal in our own kitchens. The mothers of our sons have indulged this nonsense for far too long.
Most importantly, we’re teaching our sons how to make money. We’re putting them to work as paper boys, as child actors, as tiny bodyguards. We’re turning them into musical prodigies, poets and prize-winning authors. We’re getting them to write memoirs of their troubled upbringings. We’re using them to make false insurance claims. We’re training them to throw themselves in front of cars and fake serious injuries.
And the cash is rolling in. We’ve had to buy a job lot of counting machines.
We sit up long into the night listening to the constant whirr of the counting machines as they sing the song of our growing fortune, and we watch the rise and fall of our beautiful sleeping sons’ chests.
Geology
We’re teaching our sons about geology.
We’re teaching them about sedimentary, igneous and metamorphic rocks, about plate tectonics, about continental drift. We’re teaching them about the history of the earth, and the fossil record, and deep time.
It’s making us feel old.
Our sons want to learn about volcanoes, so we book an out-of-season holiday to Iceland. We stand on the edge of the Holuhraun lava field, staring down into the recently re-awoken inferno. Swarms of separate eruptions throw magma across the blackened, stinking landscape. Dressed in their silver heatproof suits, our sons look like an army of miniature henchmen.
We tell our sons about Eyjafjallajökull and Mount St Helens, about Krakatoa and Pompeii. We tell them how the eruption of Mount Tambora in 1815 led to a year without summer around the globe. We tell them about the supervolcano under Yellowstone park that may one day wipe out half the continental United States.
The spectacularly beautiful Icelandic tour guides – who are called Hanna Gunnarsdóttir and Solveig Gudrunsdóttir and Sigrun Eiðsdóttir – explain to our sons about Iceland’s geothermal energy infrastructure, how a quarter of the country’s electricity is generated using heat that comes directly from the centre of the earth.
Our sons try to get each other to run towards the lava flows, to see how close they can come before they burst into flames.
We are gently admonished by the spectacularly beautiful Icelandic tour guides for the behaviour of our sons. We are all a little bit in love with the spectacularly beautiful Icelandic tour guides. The mothers of our sons, of course, instantly become best friends with them and invite them to have a drink with us in the thermal pools.
In the thermal pools we drink incredibly expensive beers and watch the snow fall on our sons’ shoulders, settle on their hair. Our sons shiver in the brittle air, splash and jump on each other. They remind us of Japanese snow monkeys.
Hanna Gunnarsdóttir and Solveig Gudrunsdóttir and Sigrun Eiðsdóttir explain to us about the geothermal systems that heat approximately eighty-five per cent of the country’s buildings. They remind us that, geologically, Iceland is a young country: like our sons it is still being formed, as the mid-Atlantic ridge that splits the island right down the middle slowly pushes the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates away from each other.
We tell Hanna Gunnarsdóttir and Solveig Gudrunsdóttir and Sigrun Eiðsdóttir that we know how it must feel to be the western half of the country, helplessly watching the east speed towards the horizon at a rate of three centimetres a year. If only our sons were drifting away from us that slowly, we joke.
But they’ve already stopped listening.
Sport
We’re teaching our sons about sport.
We’re teaching them how to ride a bike, how to kick a ball, how to run at and go round and pick up and jump over stuff. We’re giving them suggestions on how to choose a team to support.
Ideally we’d have outsourced a lot of this. It’s not an area we have much expertise in. We don’t tell our sons that.
‘Throw the ball!’ we shout at our sons, trying to get into the spirit of things. ‘Catch it! Pass it! Hit it with the racquet/bat/stick!’
Our sons stand in the middle of the sports field, looking at their hands like they don’t know what they’re for. Our beautiful, brilliant sons.
Our sons getting hit in the face. Our sons getting upended into the mud. Our sons getting trampled on. Our sons crashing their bikes into walls. Our sons falling off their skateboards. Our sons falling off trampolines and vaulting horses. Our sons missing catches, in slow motion. Our sons unable to climb ropes. Our sons with water up their noses, gasping for breath. Our sons slicing golf balls and swinging wildly at pitches and hooking penalties wide. Our sons tripping over their own feet. Our sons, gamely, getting back up again and again.
Our brave and magnificent sons.
We can’t take it any more. We sprint onto the field, knocking small children flying in all directions, and scoop our beautiful sons up in our arms. Wipe the mud out of their eyes, the snot from their bashed-up noses.
And then, carrying our glorious, broken sons, we run.
Emotional Literacy
We’re teaching our sons about emotional literacy.
We’re teaching them about the importance of understanding and sharing their feelings, of not being stoic and trying to keep things bottled up.
Because we are aware of the concept of toxic masculinity, we’re trying to make sure our sons grow into confident, well-balanced and emotionally open young men.
We’ve come to the park to ride on the miniature steam railway. The miniature steam railway is operated by a group of local enthusiasts who hate having to let children ride on their trains. The enthusiasts are all men.
‘How are you feeling?’ we shout to our sons, repeatedly, as we clatter around the track on the back of 1/8th scale trains. ‘What’s really going on with you? You can tell us. We’re listening.’
Our sons pretend they haven’t heard, try to ignore us. We don’t blame them. We can’t imagine talking about our feelings with other men either. The idea is horrifying. That’s why we all have hobbies.
We explain to our sons about our hobbies. About constructing and collecting and quantifying things, about putting stuff in order. Classic albums. Sightings of migratory birds. Handmade Italian bicycles. Like our fathers and their fathers and their fathers before them.
All those unknowable, infinitely quantifiable fathers.
Two of the steam enthusiasts are arguing with a customer who keeps letting his children stand up while the train is moving. Nobody wants to give ground. Eventually the customer leaves the park with his kids. He’s coming back, though, he tells us all. He’s going to sort this out.
We imagine the stand-off between the gang of ageing steam enthusiasts and the angry posse that the dissatisfied customer has, we assume, gone to recruit. The fist-fights on top of the moving trains. The driver slumping over the accelerator, the train barely speeding up, the terrifyingly slow-motion derailment, the ridiculously minor injuries. The clean-up costs and the story in the local newspaper.
‘Can we go home and play video games now?’ our sons ask.
We wonder, just for a second, how long it would take us to die if we threw ourselves in front of one of the trains. How many times we would need to be run over. How long we’d have to lie on the track. We imagine the confusion as the trains hit us again and again every few minutes, the slow realisation of what was happening, the spreading feeling of horror among the other passengers, the eventual screams.
We don’t know whether we’d have the force of will, not to mention the patience, to wait it out.
Sex
We’re teaching our sons about sex.
We’d rather not have to teach our sons about sex this soon, all things being equal. Our sons would probably rather not have to learn about sex from us right now. Possibly everyone would be a lot happier if the subject had never come up.
But we have a responsibility, we tell them, as we follow the tracks together through the fresh morning snow. If they don’t learn it from us, they’re going to learn it from their school friends and all the pornography.
The pornography is everywhere, waiting to ambush our sons. Possibly it’s already ambushed some of them. We don’t know how we’re supposed to respond to all the pornography. Obviously, we have fairly rudimentary responses to some of it. We’re not saints.
But the sheer quantity, the scale, makes us feel dizzy.
And old.
‘Well,’ say the dads among us who actually perform in pornographic films, ‘yes, but …’
‘Sorry,’ we say, ‘we didn’t mean to –’
‘No, no,’ they say, looking hurt, ‘don’t mind us trying to earn a living, trying to provide for our sons. It’s fine.’
Obviously, it isn’t fine. But, come on, nobody forced them into the business.
The divorced and separated and widowed dads among us, of course, have their own take on things. They’re back on the market, whether they want to be or not, after years out of circulation. They all have thousand-yard stares, like men who have been under shellfire.
‘It’s all different now,’ they tell us.
We stop by a silver birch tree, its branches heavy with a month’s worth of snowfall.
‘Different how?’
‘Everyone has more choice than they know what to do with. More choice and more expectations. And less hair. Nobody is expected to have any hair anywhere any more.’
We know about the hair. Everyone knows about the hair.
‘The hair thing has been going on for a while,’ we explain to our sons.
We don’t know how we feel about the hair thing. These days, we realise, we tend to look at women’s bodies with a combination of nervousness and awe. Particularly the bodies of the mothers of our sons. We’ve seen what those bodies can do, what they can take. We’ve watched them carry and give birth to and nurture children.
We try not to think of women’s bodies – and, in particular, the bodies of the mothers of our sons – as sexy warzones, sexy former battlefields, because it doesn’t seem all that respectful.
But there we are.
We wonder how useful any of this is going to be to the gay sons.
‘Oh, you have no idea,’ say the gay dads.
But the snow has started falling again, muffling our voices, turning the world back to white, and we promised the mothers of our sons that we’d all be back in time for lunch.
Plane Crashes
We’re teaching our sons about plane crashes.
We’re teaching them how plane crashes happen, how to avoid or survive being in one. We’re teaching them that plane crashes are incredibly rare, that the chances of experiencing a plane crash on a commercial airliner are approximately five million to one. We’re teaching our sons that, no matter what they’ve seen on the internet, flying is far safer than driving, than travelling by train, than riding a bicycle.
Nevertheless, by the time the plane climbs to thirty-five thousand feet, we’ve already taken the emergency codeine we’ve been saving for exactly this sort of situation.
We’ve seen those plane crash films on the internet. We know all about shoe bombs, and anti-aircraft missiles, and iced-up pitot tubes, and wind shear, and thunderstorms, and botched inspections, and pilot error. We know how easy it is to unzip the thin aluminium tube we’re sitting in; how much time we’d have to think about our fate as we fell through the frozen air, to think about the fate of our sons.
Our sons aren’t scared of flying. They’re excited about being allowed to do nothing but watch inflight movies for six or seven hours. They point down at the glorious crimson cloud tops, at the ships on the sea, don’t even notice the bumps of random turbulence that cause us to clench our jaws.
We don’t want to look out of the window.
We tell our sons about Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, who wrote The Little Prince, and who mysteriously disappeared while flying a reconnaissance mission in an unarmed P-38 during the Second World War. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, whose father died before young Antoine’s fourth birthday.
Our sons haven’t read The Little Prince, haven’t even heard of it.
‘What are they teaching you these days?’ we ask.
Our sons put their headphones back on. We know what their teachers are teaching them. They’re teaching them to be better people.
Come to think of it, we haven’t read The Little Prince either.
We stay awake all night, listening for slight changes in the tone of the engines, for the sounds of structural failure in the airframe, for sudden announcements of catastrophe. We stare down at the lights of cities, watch for panic on the faces of the cabin crew.
We keep pressing the call button to get the attention of the cabin crew.
‘There was a noise,’ we say.
The cabin crew just smile, tell us everything is going to be okay, give us more complimentary drinks.
Our sons, more used to living in the permanent present than we are, alternately sleep or watch cartoons, magnificently unaware of all the disasters that life has planned for them.
The best we can do, we realise, is to keep their hearts from breaking for as long as possible.
The Big Bang
We’re teaching our sons about the Big Bang.
We’re teaching them about the beginning of space-time, and the birth of the cosmos, and the origins of everything. We’re explaining how reality as we know it probably expanded, by accident, from an infinitely small singularity, on borrowed energy that will eventually have to be paid back. We’re trying to make it clear that we’re all potentially the result of a single overlooked instance of cosmological miscounting.
Somehow, we’ve come on a stag do to Amsterdam with our sons in tow.
It’s not going well.
It’s late in the year and Amsterdam is spectacularly beautiful. Along the Herengracht the low afternoon light paints the tall houses in colours that take our breath away. In the Rijksmuseum, the Vermeers and Rembrandts seem to glow from within. On Keizersgracht the most beautiful women in the world ride past us on vintage bicycles.
But whatever way you look at it, this is no place for fathers to bring their sons.
The older sons want to sneak off and look in the windows of the brothels and hang around outside the sex shows, and the younger ones keep being nearly run over by all the beautiful cyclists.
‘How was the world made?’ the younger sons ask us. ‘How did this all be true? Even before the olden days?’
We try to explain about false vacuums and the weak anthropic principle, about Higgs fields and the arrow of time, but it’s no good. Half the dads have already been out to a coffee shop ‘for a coffee’, and the other half are waiting for their turn.
‘But what about even before then?’ the younger sons ask us. ‘What was there before the bang?’
‘Well, before then … there wasn’t really a then for things to be before.’
Nobody is convinced by that. We don’t blame them. This whole trip was a terrible idea.
A group of the dads has got lost. The combination of all the weed and the conversation about primordial nucleosynthesis in the first seconds of the universe has tipped them over the edge. We send out a search party, roam the beautiful Golden Age streets. We keep getting invited into sex shows, decline politely.
After a couple of hours, we find the missing dads standing in a row outside the windows of a brothel, stoned, staring, confused, at the women in the windows.
We gently guide them away, apologise to everyone.
We haven’t even started on the drinking competitions.
Ex-Girlfriends
We’re teaching our sons about our ex-girlfriends.
How many of them there have been. What they meant to us. Where it all went wrong, again and again.
We turn up at the doors of our ex-girlfriends with our sons in tow, ask if we can come in and state our cases.
Our sons sit on the sofa, accept offers of juice and biscuits and say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, are generally a credit to us. Our ex-girlfriends entertain the thought, just for a couple of seconds, that we have borrowed or stolen these children in order to impress them. That we are up to our old ways.
We are not up to our old ways.
We are aware of the remarkableness of our ex-girlfriends. We know we are lucky men to have loved and lost such spectacular and interesting women, to be in a position now to try to make amends for all our terrible behaviour.
Our ex-girlfriends are not so easily convinced.
‘What are you doing here?’ they ask. ‘What is this about?’
‘We’re trying to make amends,’ we say, ‘having undertaken a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. We want to make up for all the bad things we did back when we were drinking/gambling/on drugs/addicted to sex. For the lies, the betrayals, the constant unreliability, etc.’
Our ex-girlfriends are surprised.
‘You were addicted to sex?’ they ask.
‘Well, no,’ we say. ‘It’s just an example.’
‘Right. Because we probably would have noticed.’
‘Yes.’
Our ex-girlfriends think about it, remembering. Maybe for a bit longer than we’re comfortable with.
‘Now, Steve,’ they say, ‘he was definitely addicted to sex.’
Everyone is quiet for a bit then. Our sons shift their gaze from us to our ex-girlfriends and back again. We had expected this to go differently, if we’re honest. Outside the windows the late October light slowly fails.
‘Well, anyway,’ our ex-girlfriends say, eventually, ‘it was all such a long time ago.’
They see us to the door, thank us for coming, tell our sons what fine young men they are, wish us all the best for the future.
Our sons look at us, about to say what we’re all thinking.
‘Who’s Steve?’ they ask.
The Loneliness of Billionaires
We’re teaching our sons about the loneliness of billionaires.
We’re explaining to our sons that the billionaires all live in exclusive penthouse apartments or isolated mansions or on their own private islands. On the beaches of their own private islands, we tell our sons, the billionaires weep. Because they don’t have to worry about money, we explain, the billionaires worry about everything else.
They worry about the future, about population growth and disease, about how to save the world from climate change or the possibility that computers might one day become sentient and enslave mankind.
The billionaires are crushed by this terrible responsibility.
‘Who would want to be a billionaire?’ we ask our sons.
‘Not us!’ our sons all shout.
The billionaires spend their days inventing rockets and self-driving cars and supersonic trains. They hold competitions to find the best solutions to the world’s most pressing problems. Our sons enter the competitions and win all-expenses-paid trips to meet the billionaires on their private islands.
As our seaplanes come in low over the island, the sun breaks through the clouds. The billionaires stand on the beaches in white linen trousers, waving to us. The sea is the deepest blue that any of us have ever seen, the beaches are the whitest white.
‘Who would want to be a billionaire?’ we ask.
Our sons nod, not really listening to us, thinking about it.
The billionaires put us up in grass-roofed lodges that face onto the white beaches, and we listen to the surf as we fall asleep. In the mornings when we wake up our sons are already walking along the beach, deep in conversation with the lonely billionaires.
We spend our days learning how to windsurf and going spearfishing while our sons work on top secret important projects. In the evenings the staff serve us baked sea bass at long tables on the beach, and we watch the sun go down and wait for our sons to join us. The clouds along the horizon are lit up like the end of the world, and our sons are always late for dinner. We start smoking again because we have nothing better to do, consider our stalled careers, think about the compromises we’ve made.
We wonder what we might have done with all the opportunities that our sons have been handed.
On the last night of our stay a fire breaks out in the big house at the end of the island. The big house is where the billionaires sleep, where they come up with their paradigm-shifting inventions, where they hold their transatlantic business meetings. We’ve never been allowed to visit the big house. Whenever we try to get a glimpse of what goes on in there we’re run off by armed guards in dune buggies.
As the flames chew their way through the tropical hardwood of the big house, the billionaires stagger from the burning porch. Flames roll along the roof, climb the walls. The sky is dancing with glowing embers and ash.
The billionaires sink to their knees on the beaches. In their hands they hold the burned, sodden blueprints and plans. All those inventions. All those rockets and cars and trains.
‘It’s all ruined!’ they shout, sobbing. ‘Everything is ruined!’
In the dark, staring at the weeping billionaires, we pull our traumatised sons closer to us, hold their heads to our chests.
‘Now do you see?’ we whisper to them.
In the back pockets of our new white linen trousers, we can feel the slight weight of the cigarette lighter.
We decide we can live with the guilt.
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