On boys and their toys
I walk into Marta's livingroom, and the first thing I notice, in strange juxtaposition to the tasteful
furnishings and subdued colors of the room, is the chaotic sprawl of her young son's toy collection
spread all about on the floor. They are mostly war toys. Guns, tanks, soldiers (human and alien), space
ships and miniatures of the classic racecars. Machines, machines, machines. The toys seem to go against
everything I know about Marta, so I ask her how she feels about her son's fascination with all of these
replicas of loud, destructive, violent machines. It bothers her, of course, but she's finding that there's
little she can do. It seems to be something innate, something written on the male chromosome. He listens
to her, even comprehends, when she tells him what the toys really represent, but when she's done he goes
right back to vrooming and making exploding sounds while crashing the toys into each other. I think back,
and tell Marta that I shared a similar fascination when I was a kid. She says, "That makes me feel better.
You turned out OK. Maybe he'll outgrow it."
I wouldn't count on it. I look around at my own collection of toys. It's quite an arsenal. Loud,
dangerous, fire-spitting machines with triggers and pistol grips. No, I'm afraid it only gets worse when
one gets to be a big boy. Happily, my fascination has channeled itself into very purposeful tools of
construction rather than agents of destruction. The similarity, and possibly the source of the fascination,
is the power. A tool becomes an extension of one's hand, one's abilities and, ultimately, one's mind.
Depending on its attachments, a human can chew through wood, burn through metal, cleave stone, bend, shape,
smooth, pretty much anything imaginable. I have come to the realization that humans in general are pretty
manipulative creatures. We have a lot of energy and power to express. We like to take a space and make it
ours, conform it to our desires. Whether it be moving into a new apartment and cleaning, painting and
putting up curtains or cutting down trees, blowing stumps out with dynamite and hauling big rocks around
with tractors to prepare a site for a house.
Like most anything, the tool can be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on the person whose hands
it is in. A chainsaw, for example, when it is driven by business interests from half way around the world
can be a murderous intstrument that can lay waste to an entire countryside. On the other hand, when used
consciously for thinning, pruning, carpentry and forest maintenence, the chainsaw can be a wonderful machine
that can help one live harmoniously with the land. You know where I am leading: this is an argument used by
gun advocates, "guns don't kill people, people kill people." To which I can only respond, "Yeah, but guns
sure make it a whole hell of a lot easier." I have argued with guys about guns, their purpose and whether
they are tools or not. The whole issue gets pretty complex when the passion of individual freedom and the
right to protect oneself from one's own government (if, God forbid, that ever became necessary) get stirred
into the mix. Makes me just want to forget about the whole thing and go back to my nice gun-free existence.
I know it's impossible, though, because whether I choose to see them or not the guns are out there
expressing the hatred and frustration of those who shoot them. Statements spit in lead. I know, too,
that I'm one of the lucky ones, to have been raised with exposure to lots of creative outlets to channel
energy into. I'm not the sort to think I know how to solve the world's problems, but imagine if everyone
who feels the need for a gun could have the chance to build instead of destroy. If the tools they had in
their hands left a satisfying mark instead of a bloody hole.
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