The Jump Kick
As boys looking for adventure, my brother and I hit the jackpot. We had a volcano so big it looked like it was practically in the back yard. There was jungle at the end of the street, and outside every household, at least one giant hand sized shiny black and yellow banana spider hung upside-down from a large web. A world of color and danger everywhere and we were unafraid and free to explore it together.
Darkly tanned from playing under the sun, every hour of everyday it was shinning, we almost passed for local kids except for our matching blue eyes and starkly sun bleached crew cut heads. Our feet were calloused and tough from the combination of dirt fields and rough white-hot concrete neighborhood roads covered with blistering strings of black tar. We never wore more than shorts in the sweltering wet heat of the Philippines except on school days, which are difficult to remember at all compared to the blinding bright days of adventure and play together.
Big brother and little brother, we were a set to be reckoned with in our own minds. The locals in our neighborhood treated us like kings because we were Americans. We wanted for nothing and survived the jungle’s wild boars daily. Once, while the country was still under martial law, we had climbed the boarder wall to walk along the top in defiance until the armed boarder guards would come to chase us away.
Spending our rainy days watching Bruce Lee reruns in Chinese with no subtitles and reading comic books during typhoons, we fed overactive imaginations and played out every idea that we could dream up. Having noticed our fascination with martial arts Mom surprised us with private Karate lessons! We had a very over dramatic sense for it all and studied hard, practicing in the meadow next to our house for hours after each lesson. The two of us would be as good as Bruce Lee one day, of that we had no doubt.
The men worked as hard in the sun as we thought we played and had more than half way constructed the new house after two months using only hand tools. These construction workers next door to our meadow seemed unstoppably tough and we would pretend to fight this ruthlessly evil gang of dark natives daily, kicking their butts but good! We were quite the foolish and entertaining show playing in our meadow.
Often the workers would invite my brother and I over for lunch breaks. Conversation about martial arts and food suited us just fine. Our friend Billy, who had one blinded gray eye and a hell of a, “how it happened story,” would stick up for us when the others tired of our endless questions and attention. The lunch menu was always wonderfully strange and many bargains were struck that led to trading our peanut butter or bologna sandwiches for popcorn shrimp, white rice, papaya, and dried apricots. We tried everything at least once. If one brother were squeamish the other would dare him into eating anyway. We were boys in love with a foreign land and this new adventure with new friends.
Change came after us in the middle of the summer when all the workers seemed to be very irritated about something gone wrong with the mortar of a new gray block wall they had built. This mistake was going to be taken out of their pay if something didn’t happen to cause the wall to be rebuilt. After eating with the men I approached our friend Billy with a plan of action. I bet that my brother and I could kick that wall down. Both little and big brother were eager for the test, especially in the name of friendship. Ha! In our comic book fevered brains this was at last the chance to be “real heroes” and help our friends!
We were in the back yard before the word, “yes,” finished falling from Billy’s mouth, but only because it took all the men so long to finish laughing. As the older brother with the idea I got to make the first attempt. I jumped up, my foot connected with that wall and WHAM! The jolt back from the wall traveled up through my leg then hip and spine to the base of my brain. I had nailed it; the kick was picture perfect and surely as hard, as high and as cool as Bruce’s would be! Never mind that I was only seven and a half and skinny as a rail. I watched, as the wall flexed and swayed like a wave, amazed and waiting for my ultimate triumph in this fantasyland. In front of these tough grown men, the wall cracked away from a sidewall in one corner and then . . . held fast. Standing there upright and still again, the defiant gray wall was staring back at me and my eyes watered up with disappointment.
My little brother’s turn now, I felt sorry for him as I blinked back tears, there was little chance of his success. He lined up to attack but was both shorter and lighter than me. His run was determined. Hey, why didn’t I run? His jump was a vault! I’ll remember to run on my next try. He connected with all his weight behind and through his leg, what a kick! “Good One,” escaped my lips, forced out by brotherly pride. The wall shook, a solid thing turning fluid, my brother didn’t even notice. The smaller boy already walking away from a dancing monster like it didn’t exist. Knowing he had failed, he was making way for big brother’s next attempt. I was hit by the momentary fear that the massive gray wall would fall on him and crush him, but then the wall gave over and fell out of the yard away from us smashing itself to ruble on impact with the ground.
As my brother jumped in celebration, an errant thought escaped through my mouth, “It was my jump kick that loosened it up for you or it would have never fell.” Words in the air, then they hit my brother’s ears, muddied the color in his eyes and could never be taken back. Big brother set against little brother, the jumping stopped and more than his victory was diminished.
We turned from each other to our friend Billy hoping for a victory celebration or some thanks for our help. That was when Billy turned his one gray eye on us, ”Run you @#*^ American brats, go and get your Father,” Billy yelled,” HE IS going to pay for this right now!” Both in tears, never talking to any of these grown men again we took our one-way trip the shortest possible route out of the yard through the new back exit, crossing over the gray rubble of the wall.
The meadow was never the same again and in fact this entire fantasyland took on a cloudy, overcast quality. There was a brief reprieve from feeling we were super dupes after our scolding from Dad. He said to us, with a smile and a wink, ”Boys, honestly it was worth the eighty dollars to see the proof with my own eyes, I’ll be damned.” Then brief reprieve over both of us boys would grow up. Secretly, I fantasized that block wall in its death had merely been transformed and was still our enemy. There was comfort in the daydream of brothers facing future challenges and common enemies together, but in truth for each of us too much had changed, in a single day, to ever cross back over to our time before the jump kick.
No Batteries Required
I love to surreptitiously watch my son play and witness the choices he makes. Lately, Harry likes to play with his wooden train set, though it’s not the wood or colors that attract him. He usually notices the battery-powered locomotive first and then wants to run it on the track. In his childhood wisdom, invariably and amazingly he retires the powered train engine to the floor and out of the way after the first few minutes of play. Of course, it is still “on,” making its noise and shining its light, helplessly lying on its side like a wounded thing, shunned. There is only one engineer in Harry’s railroad adventure and when the advanced battery powered toy drones on in its dissenting and unchangeable way, Harry simply chooses to remove it. Despite the abundance of electronic toys offered to toddlers today, often it is the simpler classic toys that provide a richer and more desirable experience for both the child and his or her parents. Something about a battery powered toy’s predefined, linear play flies in the face of the creative and imaginative free play with classic toys. Maybe simpler is better?
Harry queries me, “Da da,” with one arm outstretched from across the room where he has been building again. This time it’s his favorite set of wooden blocks and he has constructed a loosely shaped pyramid with a small tower stacked in the middle. He has a satisfied smile of accomplishment and proud eyes that glow impishly. Once I am caught, Harry directs my gaze with an exaggerated turn of his head toward his latest masterpiece. “Excellent Harry! Very, very good!” I exclaim.
This child and parent transaction has never occurred during Harry’s interaction with his electronic learning toys. While he has busied himself repeatedly with electronic activity boards, simulated car dashboards that have steering wheels, and even a “Leap Pad Jr.,” Harry has never requested validation of the activity. These electronic toys have their own built in acknowledgement systems, with bells, words, and flashing lights confirming completion of a task. These toys not only guide the course of play in a “to-do list,” fashion but also reward the child for successfully subordinating to each toy’s defined purpose. This combination is missing a crucial third party interaction from a living counterpart and murders the true process and success of creative free play.
Delighted at my response to his achievement, Harry immediately destroys the tower, scattering the blocks with a backward sweep of his little hand and then claps happily. The revised ritual of, “come and play blocks with me Daddy,” begins. This consists of a flurry of activity, and excited chatter, all while doing a back and forth dance between the table and me. “Would you like for me to play with your blocks Harry?” I ask as I sit by him at the table. The response is positive and I may even get another hug or kiss!
Now that the singing and dancing are over the terms of the invitation to play are stated in a simple patient gesture. Harry slides five or six of the thirty or more blocks towards me and queries “Da” once again. This new custom is subtle, but the change in my developing son may be immeasurable.
The invitation is to accompany Harry as a witness and participant in his creation of another masterpiece, not to aid or manipulate the process. This change is the newest twist and almost a complete reversal in our shared play scenario. Do I have the defiant electronic toys to thank for this new willful and deliberate nature in my sons play experience? Clearly if I do not subordinate I will undermine his new found sense of purpose and he will retire me to the floor just like the battery powered train.
I prefer to observe, and participate with, my son deep in the mist of an incredible free play adventure utilizing classic toys, and the reaping of the rewards that style of play offers him. However, there are lessons to be learned and each type of toy and play combination has value. The choice is his, will he be starring in and directing an adventure of his own design today with classic toys driven by his imagination or will he sit back and take a ride on the entertaining and leading experience that batteries have to offer in a toy?
The Madness of Mechanized Personalities
We all have at least one acquaintance, friend, or compatriot in our daily lives that is in fact only a machine. To us they are both our saviors and our curse. We could not get through the day without them and while they never get credit for things gone right, everything that goes wrong is their fault. You will seldom hear the praises of their accomplishments and those will be short lived, if recalled at all.
Most of us have a favorite horror story we remember about machines, and seem to treat such a story as if it were our own personal urban legend, whether or not the story ever really happened to us. Like the time you were embarrassed by the coffee machine in the morning that said, welcome back to the grind, by spitting on your clean clothes at the office. Maybe you’ve had the neglected car that wouldn’t start out of spite when you needed to go somewhere in a hurry (like anywhere else but straddled on a train track). Maybe it was one of those curling irons that became ravenous for your hair. I’ve even heard stories about power tools that, like a dog, turn bad on their master or worse bite a neighbor!
Certainly machines, used by people for daily routine or an immediate and important activity, enjoy an assigned personality from the person using and depending on the machine. How enjoyable this exchange would be for the machines if they could actually have feelings is questionable. Machines are socially accepted as soulless and bottomless dumping grounds for blame, fault, attitude, and life’s many problems in general. As a friend or coworker with no real feelings to hurt, machines are often sacrificed on the altar of our own ineptitude. Late for a meeting and unprepared again, the dog ate my homework, will not pass excuse muster in front of your boss but, the copy machine is having a bad day, acting up, mad at me again, or throwing a fit, will do just fine? We humans can be so cut throat in delegating our responsibilities onto the machines we use. Well, why not since they only have feelings that we assign to them and when the choice becomes them or us the answer is always them.
I have two important friends myself and there is no doubt from daily interaction that I rely on both as if they are nearly sentient partners that I live and work with. My favorite and usually cooperative daily partner is the computer I am writing to you on. The bane of my existence is the printer I’m going to have to print this writing on. Her feelings about our little love triangle are apparent by the way she treats my writings, bills and family pictures. Jealous and wasteful she chews paper, smears ink, and mocks my efforts to produce good work. With no reference to moodiness in her control menu or directions in her manual to explain the behaviors she exhibits daily, sometimes only sweet talk will earn her cooperation.
My wife has complained to me about the habit of assigning gender to an object. It’s not that men do it, but she noticed that I and other men always assign the source of such frustration a female role. A computer, entertainment system or a sleek sports car that is looking good or being difficult inadvertently becomes a female with its own issues, its own agenda. I’ve heard it all my life from others saying things like, She’s a beauty, when actually the she is a car. A word of warning, Be careful He’s got a nasty bite, when the he is actually a table saw in a friend’s workshop. This assigned gender is just another form of projecting personality and life to the lifeless machines we relate to and depend on so much.
People needing to work with or depend on machines seem to have adopted this practice of projected life in order to create a sense of balance in their one sided relationships with those machines. It’s not a quality of the machine that requires the exchange. It is simply a human nature. This seemingly natural practice facilitates the person’s need for a reciprocal relationship with the entity they have learned to trust and depend on or admire so much, even if it is just a machine. Through our need to relate to them our electronic and mechanical partners are, at the very least, dependable beasts of burden, or even like loyal a pet, to which we owe some gratitude.
Read More
