Poor Little Frankie
Backless clogs
When my son Joe was growing up we lived next door to an
illustrator of children's books and his family: his wife and their eight-year
old son Frankie.
She was a Buddhist and we used to hear her chanting in the morning. It was hard
to make out the words through the breakfast room wall. The tone, however, was
like an hysterical vacuum-cleaner on hormone-replacement therapy, and the words
sounded, to our uneducated ears, like "a-hole-in-yer-bum,
a-hole-in-yer-bum, a-hole-in-yer-bum," repeated endlessly, over and over
again.
They were a very right-on New Age family. Wholefood-eating vegetarians,
pacifist, ecologically-minded. Little Frankie went to Steiner school.
Which is all well-and-good, you might say. Nothing wrong with child-centred
education and "honouring the child", except that - deliberately or
not - the whole thing was actually really cruel.
For instance, Frankie was made to wear backless clogs.
Backless clogs! On an eight-year old!
Have you ever tried to run in backless clogs? And isn't this exactly what an
eight-year old is supposed to do: to run, in the sheer exuberance of his
existence, for the joy of being alive? It was like he was being deliberately
crippled.
Poor little Frankie.
It was the same with the wholefood diet. What child do you know who likes brown
rice and lentils? Joe always got exactly what he wanted. At least that way he
got food into his mouth. He liked fish-fingers and chips. He liked bacon and
eggs.
One day Frankie came round to play while Joe was eating his breakfast. Bacon
and eggs and beans with a round of crusty white bread smothered in butter. And
you could see it in Frankie's eyes. His pupils were dilating. He couldn't keep
his eyes off the food. He was just staring and staring at the food on the plate
and at Joe as he was eating it. And then he was salivating, really salivating.
The drool was dribbling from his mouth and over his chin. Great globules of
spit dripping down over his chest, soaking into the bib-front of his
multi-coloured dungarees.
Poor little Frankie. I would have loved to have given him a delicious plate of
bacon and eggs too, only, of course, you cannot interfere.
He was also not allowed to play with guns. You name me a boy-child who does not
like to play with guns. I won't go into the Freudian implications of this,
except to say that it is perfectly healthy.
Almost anything can become a gun.
One day Frankie was round our house again, playing in the back garden. He had a
stick, and he was making "dat-dat-dat" noises with his mouth, aiming
the improvised "gun" at the washing pole.
"What are you shooting at Frankie?" I asked him.
"I'm shooting my mum," he said, tottering on his backless clogs.
"I've tied her up to the pole and I'm killing her. Dat-dat-dat.
Dat-dat-dat. Drrrrrr. Ka-pow!"
Poor little Frankie. I had to laugh though. At least he was getting his
revenge.
Sometimes I wonder what became of Frankie. The family only stayed next-door to
us for a year or two. I expect he's a arms-trading psychopath by now, with a
passion for raw meat. I only hope he is not cruel to his own children.
Feral kids
But it makes you wonder, doesn't it? The things we do to our kids.
It's one of the terrible consequences of the liberal sixties, that people
stopped trying to grow up. They became obsessed with their own spiritual
path to personal enlightenment and refused to accept the burden of
responsibility for their own children. Discipline was a dirty word. Kids were
meant to develop "naturally", according to some sacred inner law of
their being. Instead of which - and I've seen this - they just went feral.
I think I understood this at a relatively early point. I went to a Divine Light
mission once, at the invitation of a friend of mine who had joined the sect.
This was in the early '70s. It was in a large hall in Acton. Everyone was milling around with beaming smiles
of bliss on their newly-enlightened faces, while the kids just ran around and
played. No one was paying any attention to the kids.
One of them came up to me. He did that trick - you know: he pointed to my chest
and said, "what's that", and I looked and he brought his hand sharply
up to my nose, and then laughed brattishly.
Well I was a stranger. What could I do? I wanted to clip him round the ear, but
it was not up to me to discipline the child. Meanwhile, his parents were
somewhere else, hugging each other, no doubt, and looking lovingly into
each-other's eyes.
But actually kids love discipline. They need discipline. Watch a lioness with
her cubs when one of them is annoying her. She will cuff it round the ear, in
exactly the way I wished the parents of that child would do, just to teach him
respect for his elders.
Which is how, at least, I brought my son up.
© 2010 Christopher James Stone