blogthecat

Love via Pink-Eyed Horse

Consider this excerpt from a love letter from poet P.K. Page to F.R. Scott:

"I have just walked miles around the Park & I really mean miles. The sea smelled of the sea & the pines of the pines & now I am weary. But weary or no I could do with the good solid reality of you — your sweetness & your funny remoteness which was sometimes almost an agonizing inaccessibility & such a terrific contrast to the other you which was, as I think I told you once, only comparable to being enclosed in a swarm of warm, live almost imaginary birds — imaginary, because super-birds — & completely protected by them. Magnify that feeling & then you are the seraph I told you of. How silly this all sounds & how inadequate. Nowhere near as adequate in fact as the letters on fences spelling MARY LOVES ERIC."

Super birds. Letters on fences. So many images, and not one generality.

I had reason to think about love and images a couple of days ago on the occasion of my brother Dylan's birthday, an event that puts us at the exact same age by dint of our mother's heroic and mind-boggling feat of having us 11 months apart.

When Dylan and I were kids, we moved to Lesotho (a tiny country in Africa) for a little while because of my mom's work in international development. This allowed us to engage in such harmless unsupervised fun as finding scorpions under rocks and encouraging them to sting themselves to death. Don't judge! They had it coming.

We also had horses. At one time we had three: a majestic thoroughbred, September; a fat and ornery Shetland Pony, Shorty; and an asshole, Flash.

As far as I remember, there was always discussion about how to make Flash less of an asshole, and perhaps Flash was beginning to buy in because one day Dylan—who it must be said was incredibly, massively pesty—was set astride Flash and undertook an hours-long, courageous journey through the town of Maseru. All went well enough until Flash got pissed off at something and bucked my poor pesty brother right off of him. Dylan landed on a rock, splitting open his thumb, which required gazillions of stitches and permanently misshaped a digit that might otherwise have become quite lovely.

After the assault, I wrote and illustrated a story, which my dad found this week, and which I have conveniently decided some 30+ years after writing is a love letter to my brother. Without doubt it symbolizes my struggle to prioritize my brother's pain over my love for horses, my attempt to recast him as hero avenging his trauma using the most merciless weapon of all.

 

 

 

Okay there may be some ambiguity about who is the victim and who the oppressor, but if this isn't the birthday present of a lifetime, I just don't know.

I love you, D.

Also: I would have hung on, by the mane or even the tail, but you were probably just tired that day.

 

 

 

 

 

Measures of success

Oliver, at 6 1/2 and in Grade 1, received his first official report card today. In his academic life so far, he is a solid B- student, with a C or two thrown in for good measure. Since reading it this morning, I've vacillated between "whatever" and annoyance.

To cut to the chase, the report card—published on the dreariest paper with only different shades of grey demarcating the various sections—is full of lukewarm nothingness. It is the opposite of enthusiasm, the epitome of boring, uninspired, spiritless. There is minus one ounce of fun, negative sense of wonder, zero excitement.

It is full of bits like this:

"Oliver generally follows the class rules and routines ... sometimes understands what is expected of him ...would benefit from focusing ... is reminded to follow directions ... is encouraged to use active listening skills."

And it's those bits that take me from annoyed to ... whatever, and even pride.

Here's how I interpret the bits, how I might rewrite them:

"Oliver is doing a terrific job at being a kid! He finds it intensely boring to sit for more than three seconds, lots of fun to talk to his friends—whom he adores and is wildly loyal to—and may well be thinking up one of the great jokes he's been enjoying crafting ("What's a cat's favourite fruit? An avo-CAT-o!!!!")

He is not desperate for his teachers' approval, is very polite (so the report card says), and finds the playground a thrilling place to be."

An admission: I get that every kid gets the grey, murky paper and that the comments are pulled from a list of possible text teachers can pop in to the predetermined spaces. I understand that the report card can not be an ode, an artistic masterpiece. I can see how his distraction sometimes can be a nuisance in class, and that as a teacher that gets tired. I understand my preciousness.

BUT: I can object to the lack of energy, to the absence of maybe one sentence acknowledging that he is a delightful, inventive, funny little guy. I can pine (ridiculously I suppose) for a philosophy more akin to that of the Finns (who are doing quite well, thank you, compared to students from other countries).

And throughout all this thinking about how I feel about O's lackluster report card, I have remembered my own performance in school. How I was so desperate to be at the top of the class, to receive teachers' admiration. How I dropped classes in high school if it seemed I might not get an A. How stupidly proud I was in university to avoid a single B. How stressed I was, and how little my always-striving, high-strung competitiveness really mattered. How much more a cooperative, relaxed attitude and a generousness toward others' contributions actually matters in the end, and throughout a career.

What can I say? He makes up his own jokes at 6 1/2, and they're funny. He loves his friends. He craves the outdoors. He is sweet with his grandparents. He is brilliant. Here's his cat.

 

Questions

I guess for the time being this blog is just not going to be all light and rainbows. I'm going to try to fit more of those happy colours in, but I'm also not going to pretend that my mind isn't preoccupied with the creep of radical Islam and also very desperate for deep discussion about how to deal with it instead of leaving it to leaders whom I do not trust to make the right decisions. I don't trust them, and part of that is my fault, and probably other people's, too. Because so many of us are so fulfilled in and/or distracted by our daily lives that we are not playing our part in asking dumb questions, coming to greater understanding, and then agitating for the world we want. So many of us are not pressing our leaders like we need to even as we say we can't stand them.

A long time ago, I was fortunate to meet Dragan Todorovic, who was nominated for the BC National Award for Non-Fiction a few years ago for The Book of Revenge: A Blues for Yugoslavia. When he spoke at the award ceremony, you could have heard a pin drop. He spoke of how easily, how swiftly, a country can turn from being one thing to being something else entirely, about how quietly dangerous denial is.

He was speaking about his experience of watching his native Yugoslavia torn apart, and about how powerful the urge can be among citizens to hope that everything will just get better somehow if we keep our heads down, say what everyone else is saying, and leave it to our leaders to sort deadly messes out.

At the end of his speech, Todorovic looked at us all in the audience and said, referring to a country's disassembling or changing its essential values: "Keep your heads up. Do not think it can never happen in Canada. We never thought it could happen in Yugoslavia, either."

I'll never forget that speech, though I have certainly not heeded its wisdom enough. Not by a long stretch.

I think of it today in relation to social media, into which we are pouring so much of our angst about the world, for good and not so good (the latter if it supplants more effective, if painstaking, real-world action — which is sometimes the case and sometimes not). Or, into which we are not pouring it, mindful of an arguably dominant consensus that social media is the place we post cute and filtered pictures, poke light fun at ourselves, and share viral funness off sites like Buzzfeed.

And where we "like," and are liked. On most, if not all, social media platforms, there is without question a popularity dynamic at play. It is nice to be liked, and it's easier than ever to get confirmation that we are, for whatever real and silly reasons.

Here's my question: with "likes" such a potent currency in our culture now, what happens to the important thoughts we have that are NOT in line with popular thinking? The unpopular opinions that if expressed respectfully, and responded to respectfully, deepen our understanding of the world around us, change our minds, help us know what we really care about and really want to agitate for in our lives and as citizens?

What if we are NOT Charlie Hebdo, as we are encouraged to be if we want to align ourselves with condemnation of the despicable murder of the magazine's staff members? What if we don't know what "Je suis Charlie Hebdo" means, like really means, because couldn't it mean a lot of things? Are we then found wanting in our reaction to the massacre? What if we deplore the killings but feel like the provocation of radical Islamists at this point in time is not wise or even responsible? What if we believe in freedom of expression but want to think hard and for more than two seconds about how we can respect Muslims' reverence of their god at a time when jihadis are working relentlessly to convert moderates into radicals? What if we JUST DON'T KNOW, and need to take some time before we sign on to a public statement because it's the statement demanded as proof we are repulsed?

A friend of mine posted on Facebook today, "Je ne suis pas Charlie mais parfois on se ressemble," which I found comforting and honest.

Note how much of this post is composed of questions. Maybe the questions are offensive, maybe they're dumb, maybe they're ignorant. But I have questions, and I need to ask them. I can't pretend I don't have them. It's hard to "like" them. That's ok.

 

Dreams and nightmares

Pretty soon, I'm going to write a post on Bambamblog about my kids, aged almost 4 and 6 1/2, my beautiful and funny and happy and ... lucky kids. So, so lucky. I'll write about their latest antics, and it will be lighthearted because in my own life, I am feeling very lighthearted these days, after a few tougher than usual years. Tougher than usual in this world, over here, in Canada, and even then, only tougher than usual for me. But I don't think I'll be alone today in feeling surreal in what I am doing, and in my freedom and ability to do it. It feels weird, given Pakistan today and Australia yesterday, and given really a shitstorm in so many places in the Middle East and parts of Africa, to not just stop. Just stop, and not be able to move or process what's around us, in our everydays, because in this very same world is monstrous insanity and it is impossible that it is happening, that people can do this to each other, to children, to mothers, to grandfathers—anyone, so long as it moves and can make a point if destroyed. The wildly unfathomable incompatibility of our lucky lives with those of so many other people. So many of us (I think) are thinking this, but carrying it around quietly, and/or helplessly when we do talk about what's to be done. But no one knows what is to be done. No one does. And this, too, is inconceivable. But of course we can't stop, and nor should we, but oh I had to write this because I am so sick at heart for the lives, and lives lost, of so many people. It is the world, and it was always thus, I hear, and it is very much possible because it is happening. I guess what you do is cling madly to your life, and never, ever take it for granted, and think every day, every single day, about what you can do to put something good into the world. It is not enough. But it is something.

 

Out with the new

In books, as in music and film (and so much else), December is the time when everyone presents their "Best of" lists for the year, and while sometimes it feels overwhelming, it's also an exciting opportunity to take stock of the amazing feats of writing and creativity published in 12 months alone. Year-end lists fuel Christmas presents, holiday reading, and dinner conversations with friends throughout the most whirling month of all.

And then they get forgotten. By January, we're done with the year that was. We extend our arms for all that is new, brushing off any bits of fluff still bold enough to clinging to our updated selves. We turn our eye now to Most Anticipated lists, and the books we planned to read—even bought—last year get sidelined for the sole fact of when they were published: the dusty history of whole months ago. They might get read at some point in the future, and they might not. Their stellar reviews still stand, the author blurbs still call to us on glossy covers, but it is not last year but this year and this changes everything in terms of how we consume our culture.

In some ways, this is totally understandable: cultural products, including books, don't just represent creative output—they are an important currency for what we talk about, how we come together, and how we find a voice when we're at parties and restaurants with others. Because it is more likely that our friends are reading the newest books, we are more likely to want to read the newest books because then we get to have a say, to find things in common, to share.

But it doesn't mean that it's not sad, and even wasteful—this disposal of past years' works of genius, many of which—especially in fiction and poetry—maintain their relevancy far beyond the year they were published.

I love working on 49th Shelf for many reasons, but one of the highlights for sure is being able to cast deserved light on great books not published right this very instant. And I also have been involved with the BC Award for Canadian Non-Fiction since its inception 11 years ago, and it was this project that got me thinking about today's post on Blogthecat. Specifically, I was this morning looking over past winners of the award, of which there are now ten. And it struck me how impressive the books remain:

• 2005: Patrick Lane for There Is a Season
• 2006: Rebecca Godfrey for Under the Bridge
• 2007: Noah Richler for This Is My Country, What’s Yours?
• 2008: Lorna Goodison for From Harvey River
• 2009: Russell Wangersky for Burning Down the House
• 2010: Ian Brown for The Boy in the Moon
• 2011: John Vaillant for The Tiger
• 2012: Charlotte Gill for Eating Dirt
• 2013: Modris Eksteins for Solar Dance
• 2014: Thomas King for The Inconvenient Indian

Wow. Those are some incredible books. There Is a Season is still one of my favourites, and watching Patrick accept the award a decade ago, in the company of his wife and fellow dazzling poet, Lorna Crozier, was a beautiful moment I won't forget.

Thankfully, I have many reader friends, especially on Twitter, who do an excellent job of remembering the very best books published any year. It's via them, actually, that I'm now ferociously devouring Brian Francis's Natural Order, published wayyyyyy back in 2011. Well, them and one of Brian's other marvels, Caker Cooking.

I'll read my new new stuff this December, like anyone else, but I'm glad to have ways of discovering more than that. Because there's so much more.

Palmolive Vs. Cauliflower

Yesterday I tweeted the scintillating fact that I had eaten a whole cauliflower for dinner (true), then sat back, looked at it staring me in the face, and considered deleting my Twitter account. Peppering my TweetDeck feed every so often amid witticisms and breakfast reports were disgusted and impassioned pleas to help the Kurds in Kobane.

Kobane, and the whole revolting mess in Syria, is very frequently on my mind these days. Sometimes I chime in about it on Twitter, inserting and then deleting #ISIS or #Kobane hashtags because I’m paranoid about Canadian #ISIS sympathizers trolling accounts—which of course makes me a coward. So I revert to tweeting about cauliflower. And while ingesting an entire cauliflower is indeed a feat (it was roasted) you know what I’m saying.

Tangentially perhaps, I’ve been thinking about our media habits of old. Like TV commercials, which we mostly suffered through impatiently as kids unless they featured toys we then knew we needed Santa to buy for us.

Here’s the thing: I have the fondest memories of some of them.

There was the Palmolive Dish Soap series that seemed to last for my whole childhood, the one where Madge came to the rescue of sad housewives with dishpan hands. I craved Madge, and I would have sat in front of her for days on end with my hands in soap if she would smile at me like that the whole time. With the twinkle in her eye. With those perfectly manicured nails. In real life, I quite regularly soaked my own hands in the green goodness, to no effect but whatever. Felt good.

 

Then there was Pert’s glorious Bouncin’ and Behavin’ hair campaign. The trampoline. The bodysuit. The bouncin’ AND the behavin.’ As the goddess models explained, both their problems were solved (the limp dirtiness and the dry frazzledness, both so annoying!). Man, I wanted that hair! To be her! To bounce so beautifully! My poor parents put up with a lot of whining about my desperate need for Pert in the grocery cart.

Thinking back on commercials like these, I have such memories of feeling safe and soothed, which is mostly what television is all about. But when I checked them out, both campaigns launched at the start of the 80s—the heyday of the Cold War. The Iran hostage ordeal had just ended. John Hinkley Jr. had just shot or was about to shoot Reagan. Those were scary times, too.

The difference is that we were watching TV for an hour or two to escape. Our shows were doing the job for us, and we lay down on our floors or couches with a bag of chips to enhance the soothing.

I don’t watch TV anymore. I read at night, and I oscillate between Facebook and Twitter in the day, where the serious, the sad, the funny, and the overly clever are all mashed together. I am nowhere near a couch, and my brain is always on, if ricocheting against a million inputs. And it’s confusing, figuring out how to be, how to think, how to feel about your cauliflower tweet in the midst of all of that.

Imagine This

I have a tiny story to relay because it will make you happy. It's not my story; it's Melody's. Melody is a talented RMT at the place I sometimes go to for my favourite thing in the world (massage!). We were talking about the power of massage among certain groups of people, and she told that when she lived in London, Ontario, she used to go into nursing homes to give massages. Someone at one of the homes recommended that she go into the room of a particular 95-year-old lady to see if she would like one. Here's what happened, as per Melody:

"I went in and offered to massage her, and she said, 'No way! Don't touch me!' So I asked her if I could just sit with her and chat, and she was okay with that. After a while, I noticed one of those wire head massagers sitting on her bookshelf. I asked her if she ever used it. 'Well,' she said, "My daughter sometimes does that for me.' I asked if I could try it out on her. She allowed me to.

After ten minutes, she began purring. So I asked her if I could attend to other parts of her body. She said, 'Honey, you can do anything you want to me.'"

Isn't that a pretty great story? I like picturing it.

 

 

Fragments of Ourselves

I don't know what the research says now, but in 2012, two years ago (which is a long time ago in today's digital environment), 40% of Americans said they were more comfortable engaging with people online than in real person. I would imagine that proportion has, if anything, increased. The 2012 research also showed that:

• 50 percent of Americans spend less time emailing because they are on social networks
• 49 percent of would rather text than call a person
• 48 percent use the phone less because they communicate via social networks
• 40 percent feel more comfortable interacting with people online rather than in person
• 30 percent would rather connect with close friends via social sites than traditional methods

Oh la la la la la. Who ARE these people? Um. Me.

Here's the thing: I am an odd person, as we all are (right!?). I am effusive, shy, prickly, anxious, confident, smart, dumb, eloquent, and clumsy. Which is exactly why I love social media: I don't have to show any of the yuckier bits. I don't have to brush my hair, respond immediately to questions, engage with people I don't agree with, bristle when someone I love drives me nuts, cringe when someone eats with their mouth open, nearly faint after prolonged eye contact, maintain my posture, or generally make time for anything that doesn't fit precisely into my day.

I get to control everything, or a whole lot more of everything than I would were I dealing directly with people physically in from of me, or people on the phone. I get to "like" something someone says and thus show my endorsement of their point-of-view or humour. With one click! Not even a word!

I get to "like" a lot, which I guess makes me a pretty positive, lovely person, eh? I get to post a lot about things I think about, which I guess makes me pretty confident and outgoing, right? I get to think about a funny way to say something, which I guess makes me funny.

Well, no. It means I get the time and platform to exhibit sides of me I prefer to show the world, and it means—because I work at home and I LOVE being alone—that fewer people really know me. And that, because I cannot be unique, that I really know fewer people, though I sure do like a lot more of them.

I can't decide how I feel about all this. I don't feel lonely. My life is nuts with two little kids right now—but they won't always be little and I won't always be so busy. Then what? Will I crave in-person company more? If I do, will I—in the expanse of time I indulged in more social media friendships than "real-life" ones—have lost a sense of what to say and do in public, and will I be even more inept at handling real one-on-one human, serious relationships with care and generosity?

Or will I continue on this path—because let's face it, social media is an amazing place for shy people who aren't so much shy as awkward or uncomfortable in public—enjoying and sincerely appreciating more people (or personas) than I otherwise would?

What about my yucky bits? Will I deem them even more horrid, distort them and magnify them because they are so much more handily contained now that I can hide them better? What about other people's? What if we don't have to work on ourselves—our whole selves—to be more functional in real life? What if we make less and less time for that cup of tea with a group of friends to find out that, gasp, we all are horrid and beautiful all at once, that we shine and fail, are mean and caring, and smart and dumb?

I don't know.

If this strikes a chord with you, some further reading:

Alone With Everyone: http://www.cbc.ca/books/2013/01/alone-with-everyone.html

Social Media's Small, Positive Role in Human Relationships: http://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2012/04/social-medias-small-positive-role-in-human-relationships/256346/

The Flight From Coversation: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/22/opinion/sunday/the-flight-from-conversation.html?_r=0

Is Facebook Making Us Lonely? http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/05/is-facebook-making-us-lonely/308930/

On Turning Into Robots or Something: http://www.blogthecat.ca/blogthecat/2012/05/on-turning-into-robots-or-something.html

Tofu for Dummies

Close on the heels of the revolutionary breakfast soup I shared, well, quite a few months back, comes another culinary revelation you're going to want to think of for those dreaded times the ... vegetarian comes over! Aaagh!

It can be annoying to have to consider another menu just because someone is more particular about their food than you are. But before you go and do something strange and bad to that veg's meal, or go out and buy it, or just bash a bowl of stale granola down on the table without a spoon, please consult this small offering:

Barbecued tofu. Delicious. Homemade. Four ingredients. Two minutes prep time, 40 minutes in the oven. Five dollars (or so). INCREDIBLY YUMMY. Your friend (the veg, the one who is actually kind of nice if you think about it, despite her preciousness) will LOVE you.

Here we go, thanks to Moosewood Restaurant's Cooking for Health's "An Easy Baked Tofu."

• 1 cake of extra-firm or firm tofu cut into one-inch cubes
• 2 tablespoons dark sesame oil
• 2 tablespoons soy sauce
• 2 tablespoons ketchup

Mix the liquids all together and pour over the tofu in a bowl, then pop on a slightly greased (or sprayed) cooking sheet (with a lip, trust me I did the flat sheet and it's not wise). Bake for 30–40 mins at 400 degrees, turning once halfway through. Serve warm, cold, or hot.

My twist: Pop some sesame seeds in the coating mixture, too, for a little crunch. Of course I added sambal at the end, too, but I would put that goodness on a jellybean.

Disclaimer: You know I'm a veg, right? Natch.

The Making of Men

Lately I’ve been thinking about the news and what it does to us—and what we’re supposed to do with it. And I’ve been thinking about all atrocities in the world that have one commonality: they've been committed by men. The Boston Bombings. The sickening rapes in India, often of young girls. The Oklahoma City Bombing. 9/11. The 2011 Norway Attacks. The Newton kindergarten massacre. Virtually every serial murder spree you’ve ever heard of. The list goes on. Not a woman present except among the victims.

I have a son. I think of him mostly as a human being, but sometimes he really is—to be simple and un-PC—such a boy. At five, Oliver’s favourite activities include:

• Practising to be a ninja;
• Whacking things with sticks;
• Watching superhero or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle (TMNT) shows;
• Lifting household furniture items to show how strong he is;
• Beating his fists on his chest while hollering, all Tarzan-styles;
• Leaping, jumping, flying through the air;
• Wrestling his dad or friends.

We have to restrict the quantity of superhero and TMNT content he gets. If it’s been a slight day on that front, he’ll protest, “But I haven’t watched any violence today!”—funny only because he is getting that phrase from our admonishments that such shows can be too violent (i.e., he is not a psychopath).

Here’s the other side of the coin:

• He has never hit me, or Georgia (and we can be bossy and annoying)—his dad has drilled that into him from day one;
• He is incredibly sensitive and sweet—tactile in the extreme, he is on us for hugs and cuddles throughout the day, and he loves giving compliments and making people feel cared for;
• He is an absorbed and careful drawer, and loves to craft;
• He reads about five books a day, on everything from dragons to princesses who tell princes to hit the road when they’ve been jerks;
• He is fascinated by bugs, and giving them new homes or saving them.

Oliver is small now, but one day he will be a man. He will enter more fully into a world where men commit the vast majority of violent acts upon other people, as well as lesser-grade acts of intimidation. So I’m naturally interested in these questions:

• Why are men so much more likely to hurt other people?
• How much is genetic and hormonal, and how much is culture-based?
• How much is based on the balance of power in the world—gendered and other—and the threats to this balance some men perceive?
• How do we parent boys to help them buck the trend, without forcing effeminacy on them?

There are so many theories about the answers to these questions, and they’re generally quite interesting. Jesse J. Prinz summarizes some of them in Psychology Today, and rebuts the notion that men’s more violent tendencies are inherently biological and/or based on a male warrior hypothesis wherein “men are biologically programmed to form coalitions that aggress against neighbors, and they do so in order to get women, either through force or by procuring resources that would make them more desirable.” Prinz instead believes that the combination of biology (male upper-body strength) and economic development (the advent of intensive agriculture and herding) created an advantage men did not have in the allegedly more balanced hunter-gatherer arrangement (where women’s gathering function gave them power). He writes:

“Strength gives men an advantage over women once heavy ploughs and large animals become central aspects of food production. With this, men become the sole providers, and women start to depend on men economically. The economic dependency allows men to mistreat women, to philander, and to take over labor markets and political institutions. Once men have absolute power, they are reluctant to give it up. It took two world wars and a post-industrial economy for women to obtain basic opportunities and rights.”

Prinz associates violence with power in the sense that those who have power are more likely to be violent, saying:

“Of course, men still hold most of the power in the world, and it is no surprise, then, that they perpetrate most of the violence.”

To this I would say, but what about all the violence in the world that is perpetrated by men who do not have power? Men who feel stripped of power or unable to access power to “right” the world the way they see fit (e.g., Timothy McVeigh, every violent fundamentalist or otherwise violent loony)? Those are the ones who are turning to mass (and micro) destruction.

Good Versus Evil, and All That Trouble

And this is when I go smaller, when I look at my own household and my son’s love of superheroes and fighting turtles. What are these narratives about? They’re about fixing the world. About having the power to fix the world exactly as it should become: one shade of good, no grey, completely, totally, always. Now, I love me some Spidey and even Superman sometimes (though he can be a little bland), but this power stuff gets me a little jangled in the context of what we’re talking about here.

Apparently I’m not alone in my worry. This blogger did a bunch of research on the topic, and found a good article on of all sites, ComicsAlliance, called “Superheroes Are Bad for Boys. Or Possibly Good for Boys.” In this article one psychologist takes the view that superhero play among boys creates conditions where boys “wouldn't want to depend on others, or … deviate from heroic masculinity,” saying they “trap young boys in impossible versions of cartoonish machismo.” Another psychologist counters by saying, “playtime and actual aggression are firmly separated in the minds of children, [that] mock fights are perfectly healthy so long as they don't devolve into real fights.”

Right now, watching Oliver, I think he is entirely capable of distinguishing between playtime and fantasy. I’m also aware that everything that surrounds him—and his parents and role models’ interpretations of and reactions to them—is busily contributing to the value system that he is forming. So—back to an earlier point—what I’m interested in is this idea of power, and how our relationship to it and the value we ascribe to it determines our path through the world.

What is power? To Oliver at this formative pre-schooler phase, in the entertainment he prefers, power is physical, and it is black and white. It is about control. It is about being a good guy, and there are definitely only good guys and bad guys, nothing in between. And there are mostly men who wield the power—who can alter the fate of the world. Sure, Wonder Woman is an exception—but look at her. She is a black-haired Barbie doll who packs a punch, and she is no way as kick-ass as Wolverine, Spidey, Superman, or Batman—not in that outfit.

So while the real experts debate what it is that makes men more violent than women, I’m going to think about power, and how to explain it to Oliver in a little more nuanced fashion than some of what our boys are watching and reading. Things like:

• Power is not absolute;
• It comes and goes;
• It comes from making good choices, and we always have choices;
• “With great power comes great responsibility,” as Spidey’s Uncle Ben and originally, Voltaire, would have us know;
• Being powerful is about more than being physically strong;
• We all want power, and that can be a problem;
• We can't always “fix” something to be exactly as we think it should be;
• Sometimes we have to let go and rely on other character strengths like kindness, compassion, confidence, or intelligence;
• Most of all, don’t ever hit a girl. Just never do.

Obviously I have a lot more thinking to do when it comes to my role in trying to help Oliver be a good man—including how much to try to help and how much to let him figure it out. But it’s my first go at attempting to do more than react in horror or sadness—but more realistically, to do nothing at all other than feel—to the grimmer news stories surrounding us today. It’s that or look away altogether, which is tempting.

Next up: something light! A comprehensive examination of what goes into a perfect coffee shop.