Books April 2011

Leave Those Kids Alone

Childhood is more than merely a springboard to adulthood.
Yuta Onoda

Robert Paul Smith’s Where Did You Go? Out. What Did You Do? Nothing., a best seller in 1957 and now reissued, crystallizes an idyllic childhood. Lyrical and wry, as organic and rambling in its structure as a kid’s conversation, Smith’s memoir charms with its dead-on descriptions of universal kids’ preoccupations—finding a stone that “they could believe was an axe-head, or a fossil”—and of vanished, yesteryear games like mumblety-peg and immies. Smith remembers—and cherishes—the true, deeply unsentimental kid point of view, full of idiosyncratic and inflexible rules (“Girls could carry their books in both arms across their bellies, but boys had to carry them in one hand against their sides”), and relishes children’s skill at sustaining paradoxical truths. Children can believe wholeheartedly, for instance, that they’ve built a boat, while simultaneously knowing that in fact they’ve just hauled “an orange crate ten blocks and stuck it in a muddy brook and gotten wet up to [their] armpits.” He recognizes that children want facts, but that their facts are not the same as the ones adults insist on. Adults, with their mundane concerns and all-too-real capabilities, with their organizing and explaining, are “the natural enemy of the child.” A child craves magic, Smith maintains, and magic depends on having space where adults will not “butt in.” This includes literal space of the kind long gone from nearly every urban part of this country, like vacant lots and construction sites (not like playgrounds, which reek of adult intentionality), and also metaphorical space.

The Nothing of Smith’s title represents both a child’s evasiveness (when communicating with the enemy) and a perfectly accurate description of a child’s activities. A kid needs time to lie on his back, opportunity “to find out whether he breathes differently when he’s thinking about it than when he’s just breathing” and to wonder who she’d be if her parents hadn’t gotten together. A kid needs enough downtime to be bored, yes—bored enough to stare at the sky and study the imperfections in his own eyeball. That’s what makes for a childhood worth remembering for the whole of one’s life.

Smith braces his whimsical reverie with a recurring disgust, railing against the likes of summer camp, tree houses built by parents, edifying music featuring “Serpentine the Slide Trombone,” and Little League, in which kids have “a covey of overseeing grownups hanging around and bothering them and putting catcher’s masks on them and making it so bloody important.”

A proper childhood, in other words, is a Tom Sawyer childhood. In Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, Twain (whom the young Smith discovered on his own and read exhaustively without prompting—natch) disposed of pesky parents. In the classic literary evocations of enviable childhoods in the 20th century (those of Beverly Cleary’s Henry Huggins and Ramona and Beezus Quimby, for instance, or Jean Shepherd’s Ralph), children are entirely responsible not only for making their own fun—sitting on the front steps peeling the rubber strings from the core of a golf ball or pounding bricks into rubble with a rock—but also for building their own clubhouses, taking care of their own dogs, figuring out how to make their own spending money, and solving their own problems. They may sometimes be bored, but boredom impels them to find something to do—and from this comes the drama and the fun. Adults in these accounts know their place. They’re loving, they dispense occasional assistance or advice and exercise veto power, but mostly they mind their own business and leave their children alone. They do not check homework, chauffeur to lessons, or organize games.

Smith, deriding in 1957 the idea that a game like marbles might attract enough attention from adults that the rules would be written down in a book, declares that rules for such activities should be “written down in kids.” But today, apparently, kids have for so long been deprived of time and space to play that they no longer know how. They’re like those eyeless fish in caves. Now, not only do parents need to teach their little Gradgrinds how to play, but the parents themselves require instruction books. One such book, The Art of Roughhousing, by Anthony T. DeBenedet and Lawrence J. Cohen, actually provides detailed directions for games like “Lumpy Cushions”: when your child is sitting on the couch, sit lightly on him and express surprise over the lumpiness of the cushions, etc.

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