Now It's Our Children's Turn to Come to Know the World

The boy came to school every day in a cape, telling us all that he was a Transformer. His father assured us that they had never allowed their son to watch the TV shows or movies. In fact, they didn't even own a television. The internet likewise couldn't be blamed. This was the era during which Netflix was still mailing DVDs to its customers. The family didn't own any of the merchandise, although his father thought it was possible that his son had caught a glimpse of Transformers at the toy store or maybe a friend's house.

I think of this boy every time someone complains about "parents these days." It's tempting to blame parents for everything, even things that are relatively harmless, like imagining oneself with the powers of modern-day mythological heroes. They allow their children too much screen time. They don't teach them good dietary habits. They spoil them. They are simultaneously overly-protective and not protective enough. Whenever children do something we don't like, the parents are responsible.

I can't tell you how many parents I've known who did everything they could to raise their daughters in a gender-neutral way, including myself, only to have their girls insist on wearing the most sparkly princess dress, every day, from the moment they could express a preference. And still there are those who seek to place the blame on parents, because, after all, they should have refused to buy that sparkly princess dress, as if that would somehow convince their daughter that stereotypes of feminine beauty don't matter.

They matter, clearly. Just as stereotypes of masculinity matter. Our children, even very young children, can see these truths about society. The evidence is there at every turn, even if they've never seen a screen, and their parent's denials of capes and princess dresses, at best, push those worldly things off into the future because, one way or another, they must be dealt with.

Parents are, of course, influential, especially in the earliest years, but the world, in the long run, has far more to say in how our children "turn out" than any of the small things we do as parents.

There is what is often called our "categorical identity," the things that define us on government records or IDs -- things like race, sex, age, height, and place of birth. But when we put on a cape or a princess dress we are engaging in creating our "narrative identity." This is the story that each of us tells about ourselves in the world, the story that explains who we really are from our own perspective, but perhaps more importantly, how we've changed and continue to change. When we look back at our stories, we engage our memory, for what it's worth. When we cast our eyes forward from the present, we engage our imaginations, for better or worse.

When a child dons a cape or princess dress, they are seeking to tell an aspirational story about who they expect to become, how they see themselves fitting in with a world beyond the womb of family. Narrative identity is never a fixed thing so today's capes and dresses give way as children come to see that the world is more nuanced than the stereotypes. Not every young boy imagines himself soaring in to save the day, but every child who is categorically identified as male, must tell their own story around that worldly theme -- accepting, rejecting, or making it in some way a part of their own identity. Not every young girl wears a princess gown, but every child who is categorically identified as female, must shape a story around our worldly stereotypes of femininity. 

There are those who insist that if we change our young children, we will change the world, but that's nonsense, at best. If we want to change the world, that's our job. The job of our children is to understand the world in which they find themselves, not conform to the utopias we imagine for them.

This is what learning is. In order to truly understand anything, the world or ourselves, we must first embrace it fully, hold it in our hands, taste it with our tongues, hear it with our ears -- that is how we fully explore anything. We then take from it what we need, before leaping once more into the unknown: our future selves. 

Our narrative identities are stories that only we can tell and they are always, in the present, counter-instinctual in that they defy the categories as we've come to understand them. It can be uncomfortable at first, even frightening, because we are literally becoming someone else. 

That boy who was a Transformer learned that he couldn't stay a Transformer forever, even as he continued to transform himself. The following school year, he had moved on, although he still sometimes stood boldly. He still sometimes wore his cape. And he still possessed the urge to protect the "little kids." He was once a Transformer, he understood what that meant to him, and he was now something else . . . in the process of becoming yet something else.

Parents, unless they abuse or neglect, are not to blame for any of this. As parents, and as educators for that matter, our lasting legacy, the only thing that can stand up to the world is our love. Our job isn't to tell their stories for them, but rather to, stand boldly and protect them, as they grow and change and become. We have created our own narrative identities in the world as we've come to know it. Now it's our children's turn to come to know the world in their own way, a world that includes our unwavering love, and to tell their own stories about who they are and who they will become.

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