Green IslandThoughts on Fatherhood
January 17th 2011 09:58
Wordsworth wrote:
“Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come.”
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come.”
These are no doubt beautiful words. The beauty of the bard’s words is only surpassed by the beauty of my child’s smile in the morning before she shits herself. Children are born naked and they have no thoughts or other lives to forget, other than the life they lead in the womb. Bodily actions are the only thing my daughter doesn’t forget and that is because it is written in her genes. The way people project ideas onto babies reminds me of the way people project emotions and personalities onto pets.
I have never been a fan of babies and the idiotic slavish regard people hold for them. I’ve always considered creativity of the biological variety to be of the lowest order. On top of that I believe there are few people of sound mind who would argue with me when I say that there are too many people in the world already. Agent Smith in the Matrix got it completely right when he said humanity is a virus devouring the world and its resources. We need less people in the world and if a high proportion of them happen to be old, so be it. This will happen very shortly after the oil runs out.
Opposed to this rational (and perhaps callous) point of view is a more visceral and existential argument. It has been gnawing away at me for a while that old age beckons (or a more haggard version of youth) and the chance to lead a full life is a matter worthy of both sober and stoned consideration. When you’ve shared tea and stale bread with Africans in Tanzania, when you’ve been held at gun point by Chinese soldiers in Tibet and when you’ve spent all night snorting white frenzy in Buenos Aires what more is there to do? Obviously threesomes, more drugs, murder, vast fortunes and power also cry out for inclusion in a Renaissance life. Not to mention that I’ve always dreamed of scoring the winning goal in the World Cup for England. In my fantasy I scramble the ball past the German goal keeper in the dying seconds of the final and suddenly the world is on its feet and my name becomes legend along with Robin Hood and that bloke who invented acid.
Having relinquished the goal scoring dream and having putting on hold the ménage à trois fantasy I answered the question about what else there is to life with the tired old cliché of parenthood.
I guess I shouldn’t beat myself up about betraying my Malthusian principles. Besides bringing 1 child into the world and 2 parents finally leaving the world produces a net loss of 1 person. And furthermore, somebody has to take the fight to the Shnade’s of this world and their unconscious mission to increase the amount of idiot spawn amongst us.
I took the plunge eleven months ago and here I am on the shoreline of change. The little imp demands more attention than the worst spoilt teenage Princess. But unlike the pubescent Princess my daughter needs the attention. She has a complicated process going on. She is perfecting turning protein and saturated fat (which isn’t bad for you) into biomass. I’m trying to work out how I can convert my flat so I can take it off the grid and make it entirely dependent on a very dependable source of steaming and formless fertilizer. This could be a breakthrough in Green Interior Design. Perhaps a methane conversion system would work.
Now that I have a child I’m able to write with a little more authority on a number of topics. So please indulge me as I chew some of my favourite fats.
First up religion: I have studied my two month (and a bit) old daughter thoroughly and I have found no mark of Cain upon her, just funny baby blotches. And I’ve spent many a long minute considering her behavior and again there is absolutely zero trace of original sin. She has the nascent bits for ‘sinning’ but to claim she is anything but innocent is utterly dumb. My daughter is as innocent of all sin as the baby JC himself. Apart from the baby Blair I expect this is true of all new arrivals. Religion, as always, flies totally in the face of reality. I’ve just realized that is actually what defines religion. Anything that denies reality vehemently is a religion. Robert Mugabe is thus a religious figure as are West Ham fans. Interestingly enough, my daughter is very fond of falling asleep doing the same black power salute as Mr. Mugabe. I’m very proud of my daughter for taking a side in the great racial conflict before she is even aware what race she herself belongs to.
Another thought worth sharing: I’ve been thinking of analogies to a baby – a baby is like.. Here are the three that have occurred to me so far:
1) A baby is like a big money belt. Just like a money belt you can’t leave it unattended for a moment. It always has to be on you and safe or else in a situation that you believe is safe. There is no 2 ways about it.
2) A baby is like an old Indian truck in the Himalayas. It needs to be coaxed to sleep just as the truck’s engine needs to be coaxed to keep taking the punishment of the mountains. Both are full of ritual. Perhaps if I stand over here in the shade next to the door it will help and perhaps if the Indian trucky prays to Ganesh and makes subtle twists and turns on the engine bolts it will make a difference. The love and patience that is needed to keep an Indian truck going is of the same magnitude as the care that parents must bring to the task of rearing a child. Feeding, cosseting and making a hundred small variations in the desperate hope of locomotion and the start of sleep.
3) The face of a baby is fluid and full of odd pouts, purses, frowns, smiles and crunched red expressions. The dear slug has a no notion of self or room or dad. She has the vaguest notion of mother and the connection with milk. Her consciousness is like a cloud when she forgets about milk and when she remembers her need for milk there is no distractions for her. Anyway that fluid face – it is a joy to watch: the eyes twinkle, the mouth motors through poses and forehead and cheeks perform a ballet of unfelt emotions. It reminds me of an actor warming up or Jim Carrey on acid.
One of the things that puzzle me about people is that they have a compulsion from manners or some artistic vision to make the boldest statements about who the baby looks like. I have brown eyes, reddish brown natty dreads and a thin wrinkled visage. My wife has dark eyes and dark hair and looks the part of a Japanese bird. My daughter resembles neither of us. She has blue grey eyes a proud right angle little forehead and a bulging cranium like an African kid. She has the lightest covering of light brown hair and a funny flat nose. The big ambiguous eyes set in a little round face make her beautiful. But I can’t see how she resembles me, other than that she is white.
And there is my serious point. Japanese people say:
“Half mittai”. This means something literally like ‘I see a half breed’. I suppose things get lost in translation but these two words encapsulate a keynote idea for the Japanese. Consciously or unconsciously they believe they have ‘pure blood’ and are ‘homogeneous’ and look ‘unique’. The truth is that any Chinese or Korean who is not a Uighur could look Japanese. Tests have been done to prove this point. Trial groups of Japanese were shown a series of photos of Asians and they were asked to spot the Japanese. Needless to say of those tested nobody even got 50% correct. The Japanese look is a complete myth. You can spot a Japanese person because they waste money on designer bags and purses and drive cars the size of tanks. Not only is there no look that defines Japaneseness, there is also no such thing as ‘pure’ Nippon blood: it is mixed with Asian bloodlines from the mainland as well as from Polynesia, not to mention the poor ousted aboriginals of the islands, the Ainu.
My daughter is half fucking nothing. The phrase is doubly objectionable because it is both racist and meant as a compliment of sorts. Those who say it are not 100% anything apart from 100% brain washed. Whereas my daughter is 100% Jim Carrey tripping and 100% efficient protein processor and 100% Shiva adorned Indian truck.
I used to love the end of South Park episodes when Stan would say, “You know I learned something today...” and then he would present a neat summary of the reasonable point of view regarding the show’s satiric outrages. Even such a topical and contemporary show as South Park uses a literary device that was used at the time of Shakespeare and before.
Well since becoming a father I have learned something. When I was younger I could never begin to comprehend how much a mother sacrifices for her child. Now I know. A mother is on call 24/7 for the next 18 years. Suddenly the gravity of concern shifts from self to a new life. Men rarely experience this sea change. And often if they do it is a frightening shift of allegiance to an idea such as in the case of St Paul or Che Guevara. Such is the devotion to the idea that it suddenly becomes ‘logical’ and ‘necessary’ to shun, ridicule, excommunicate, torture and kill any who don’t subscribe to the holy idea. The allegiance to an idea (flying in the face of reality) only leads to suffering. The allegiance of the mother to a new life hurts no one and sets an example that patriarchy stubbornly ignores. As John Lennon said, ‘Woman is the nigger of the world’. I see how my wife has grown up. How she has stopped smoking and drinking. How she has now placed her priorities as subservient to those of another. How many men do that?
Having a baby has made me a little less misogynistic. I see how people are quick to criticize or cast mud into a clear pool; and I see how the criticism comes back to the woman. Here is a case in point. One of my few male students is a 60 something year old who used to teach math at a local school. Let me call him Mr. Twit for sake of convenience. Mr. Twit has mastered English to the extent he can speak his bizarre opinion about whatever but he can neither answer a question nor do a class activity. One lesson I showed Mr. Twit and the other students in the class some pictures of my baby. One of the shots was of me milking the baby with a bottle.
After the picture showing finished he said, “Oppai feeding ne?” and made some obscene gesture cupping his right chest with his right hand. He proceeded to continue doing this action and saying in very garbled English that my wife should be breast feeding my daughter. I tried to ignore it but he wouldn’t shut up and wouldn’t stop fondling his tit. Oh Mr. Twit with your slanting buck teeth and shock of silver hair you need to be told.
“I think women do the best they can, Twit. And I don’t think you are in ANY position to judge. Women do the best they can and any help they can get is fine. You should stop doing that…I’m sorry everyone. Let’s start the lesson.”
That was my speech. As I delivered it I was trying to contain my anger (I have some issues) and I was looking around at all the other students in the class who were all women.
After the lesson I locked the door and paused at the entrance of the stairwell. I saw all my female students gathered around the old man one flight down the stairs. Many of them mothers, they surrounded Twit and were wagging fingers at him. Twit’s normally blithe self assurance looked like it was faltering under the barrage of opinion he was receiving. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but I have no doubt they were explaining to him the folly of his ways. Mixed in with their defence of the ‘foreigner’ I’m sure was some old fashioned female pride. It seems in that story I was like Stan telling how it should be.
There is no revelation that comes with fatherhood. No wisdom. I continue to observe and listen and reserve the right to make up my own mind. Nothing has changed. People expect more from you because fatherhood is tied up with the notion of rites of passage. They want to believe in the magic of birth that can turn the boy into a man. I’m sorry to disappoint: I have not crossed over to real adulthood. Equating fatherhood with adulthood is just like equating the ‘real world’ with slaving at a job. It is a con job to make you shut up and fit in.
Why do societies make a big deal about rites of passage? They do so because they are trying to brainwash you with a bit of drama. Standing out in the corridor of a hospital fearing that my wife and/or baby could either die or turn out all fucked up is enough drama.
Let me state the truth: there is absolutely no way that just because I’ve had a baby I’m going to think that cars are good or bankers are kind people or that Emperor Hirohito is anything but a mealy mouthed war criminal. Work, money, Japan, fashion and 3 day summer holidays remain in my opinion dubious social constructs. I’m still me and now I want to live long enough to explain all of this to my daughter.
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Comment by Anonymous
Comment by Green Island
Trippy Traveller
Maths was never my strong suit. A bit of sophism keeps the reader on his or her toes. Still I'm hoping that my daughter will justify her place in the human race.