A Culture Full of Children
what I saw on a trip to Staples
Fauci gave an interview recently in which he was asked if Americans could gather for Christmas. Rather than, “Americans are free and fully functioning moral agents in this world who will need to make those decisions for themselves,” Fauci’s answer was that it’s too soon to tell.
To anyone seeking the quintessential moment that symbolizes American decline, the last 20 months have offered an astonishing array of choices. That one is, at least for the moment, mine. I cannot fathom anyone over the age of fourteen asking anyone for permission to celebrate Christmas.
Being told to wash our hands, get a shot whether we want it or not, to cover our faces when we go out; being instructed when we are or are not allowed to go out with our friends, attend a concert or play; being threatened with punishment to include not being allowed to have a job — in every sense, the government is behaving as a parent might with a child. Its judgment is being substituted for our own, and imposed by force, with the admonition that it’s for our own good and to keep us safe.
This is not a surprise. Government does what it does.
The surprise, to me, has been the extent to which the American people have gone along with this. We appear to be not just willing, but absolutely desperate for the government to step in and act as a parent.
On one level, I understand this. My childhood was functionally absent of parenting in the sense of nurturing, love, attention, care. One grandmother and sometimes the parents of friends did for me what they could, but they didn’t live in our house, where I was never a kid. I vomited and cleaned it up myself starting around kindergarten age; I’ve had thousands of nightmares and been comforted after one exactly zero times. I’ve made some really humiliating, age-inappropriate mistakes as a result of the many important things that nobody ever bothered to teach me because I never mattered enough to anyone. Trauma is fragmenting, and there is a fragment within me that wants a parent—really, that wants to matter. That wants to be important enough to be worth parental investment. So, I get it. I really do get it. I understand on a deep and visceral level.
That this is happening culture-wide, and with the morons in Washington in the parent role? That is profoundly terrifying. It is wrong in every sense, dangerous and putting at risk absolutely everything that matters.
The primary work of my adult life is to learn to integrate that fragment, to address those needs, to learn to be a good parent to myself in whatever sense and for as long as I experience any part of myself as still needing that. It is my job, nobody else’s, and it cannot be delegated to anyone else — and certainly not to the government.
A piece of the puzzle, how absolutely overwhelming this cultural pursuit of eternal childhood is, became clear to me on a trip to Staples.
Yesterday I had to go to the hospital for a test. (I’m fine.) On the way home, I passed a Staples and remembered that I needed printer paper. My gratitude journal is almost full, so I also spent a couple of minutes in the journal aisle. There I saw an array of sticker collections, including the one below.
This collection is just as dystopian as it appears. The many options available for adults to celebrate their achievements include putting away the laundry or dishes, going to the gym, refraining from spending all one’s money, or cooking for oneself.
One can reward oneself with a sticker in a variety of color choices for paying a bill on time.
There are so many choices for how to celebrate adulthood, including making it to work on time or making a good decision.
I once praised a human being for making a good decision before giving her a sticker and a hug.
I was her nanny. She was three.
I wonder how long it will be until wiping one’s ass after defecation will become an option?
Notice, however, that there are even stickers for failing to be an adult, including spending a day watching movies or failing to earn a “didn’t spend all my money” sticker and thus ending up “broke (again)”.
In the Before Times, I hung out in Staples a lot. It’s near my therapist’s office, and I’ve always been a bit of an office supply nerd (and snob — keep your medium point pens and wide ruled paper far away from me!). I never saw anything even remotely like this. The change this represents in just 20 months absolutely floors me.
Perhaps it shouldn’t; millions of my fellow Americans are apparently waiting on governmental permission to celebrate Christmas.
In the name of Moderna, Pfizer, and the J&J, Amen.