Judith Shluvetich published a thoughtful article a couple of weeks ago in The New Republic. She lives in New York; I live in a small town in Michigan some twenty miles from the Indiana-Ohio line. We nonetheless fret about the same problem.
You see, we both have children, and we do not let them run wild. Her parents did, and so did mine – and we both know that we profited from the freedom. But fearful that our offspring might get hurt, we do not do with regard to them what our parents did with regard to us. “What our children really want,” she says,
is not unstructured time, which in the absence of a playdate is often lonely, but unstructured social interaction, the collective effervescence that, if it isn’t interfered with, gels into play. That is precisely what they can’t have, because they no longer have access to the unmonitored spaces—the blocks, streets, yards, sandlots, fire hydrants, junk heaps, roofs, and sewer grates—where children used to gather, unbidden, for Red Rover or jump rope or hand-ball or other games whose names were not recorded because they were less respectable.
Perhaps because she is writing for The New Republic, Ms. Shluvetich blames her difficulties on the lack of public provision. Her son has better sense. He blames her “and my overcontrolling kind,” she reports, adding, “And I blame us too, but for a slightly different reason. I blame us for failing to challenge the ethos of bourgeois individualism that prevents local governments from building cities and towns that are more livable for children (though it must be said that the New York City Parks Department has either built or fixed up 140 playgrounds since Michael Bloomberg became mayor in 2002).” And to support her argument, being a good liberal, she cites a study by a couple of German sociologists.
But if Ms. Shluvetich’s knee-jerk response and her respect for sociologists is patently absurd – if she looks to the public authorities to create safe spaces for and thereby contrive what she rightly describes as “unstructured social interaction” – she is nonetheless right to worry. “I would never knowingly let my children get away with” sort of thing I went through myself, she observes, “and [I] would never want them to experience social humiliation, but I do worry about what will happen to them if they don’t.”
Last year I found myself in charge of an unusually large group playdate, half a dozen or so seven-year-old boys crammed into my apartment, and discovered, to my dismay, not that they couldn’t all get along—that was to be expected—but that they had no stomach for their own fighting. Every time an argument would break out about the choice of game or the distribution of lightsabers, a boy would run up to me. At first I thought I was being asked to adjudicate, but before I could figure out how to get out of doing so, I discovered that wasn’t what the boys wanted. They wanted me to turn on the television. If I turned on the television, they wouldn’t have to play anymore, and then they wouldn’t fight. I imagined legions of exhausted babysitters and mothers settling disputes in this way, and my son and his friends drawing the obvious conclusion: that group play is dangerous because conflict is intolerable, and that electronic entertainment is a good way to avoid both.
What Ms. Shluvetich cannot face up to is the fact that one cannot have “unstructured social interaction” between children without there being risks. She in San Juan and I in Tulsa, Denver, and Oklahoma City took those risks, and our parents would have been horrified had they known the whole story. I was in my late thirties before I told my mother about the night I spent in jail in Idaho Springs, Colorado when I was fifteen, and she was dismayed even then.
Fresh from skiing at Arapahoe Basin and on my way to Denver, I got stranded when the car – piloted by an older woman (aged a venerable sixteen) whom I had picked up on the slopes – broke down. The pass was closed because of a blizzard, and the midnight bus did not come. I was desperately in need of a warm place in which to sleep and so, with the friend who accompanied me on this adventure, I stopped the local cop car, and we asked whether the police could put us up. The jail was in the basement of the courthouse, and I laugh even now when I think of us rattling the bars, then settling down for a few hours of shut-eye under the filthy army surplus blankets used by legions of our predecessors in that cell. It was in consequence of this misadventure and other occasions in which I had to fall back on my own resources that I learned how to make my way in the world.
Like Ms. Shluvetich, I worry about my own children. She and I and our kind are apt to be overprotective. I see the consequences all about me. When I was a student in college – back, as I tell my students, in the penultimate quarter-century of the last millennium – I could not have imagined returning home to live after college, and I would not have been welcome. Now – and this was no less true before the current economic downturn – it is not at all uncommon for twenty-two-year-olds to reside in their parents’ home for a few years after college.
These kids leave home for college at eighteen, but they never sever the umbilical cord linking them to their parents, and they go back to the nest every summer thereafter. In my generation, college students may have made this mistake the summer after their freshman year, but not thereafter. Instead, they went to Maine, Martha’s Vineyard, or the Jersey Shore and worked as lifeguards, bartenders, waiters and waitresses in the beach towns there, or they migrated to New York, Los Angeles, or Chicago and landed summer jobs with firms such as IBM. Now servile labor in the beach towns is reserved for Ukrainians and Russians and Rumanians who come in on short-term work visas from abroad, and upper middle-class American kids miss out on the “unstructured social interaction” we had to cope with – and, frankly, they are worse off for being pampered.
In colonial America, young people became adults at the age of eighteen. When does adulthood begin these days? At the age of thirty? And will these thirty-year-olds be able to handle adversity? I have my doubts.