Watching Martians
Seven is a symbol without content. Seven peas in a pod are many whereas seven peas in a plate are few. Seven cents are near to nothing and seven dollars go a little ways further. Yet not so long ago seven dollars meant a lot and seven cents meant something. Seven kilometres are shorter than seven miles. Sometimes seven means one thing, many of a kind or many of a heap. A seven year old is indivisibly one. A seven piece chocolate bar is divisible but then is no longer a bar. Seven peanuts are separated from each other. Seven things just happen to be grouped together: darkness, a wall, a thought, a piece of chewing gum, a watch, an equation and a virtue. And we had seven children.
Seven children? "Only" seven, it would have been said some time ago. Seven children? Quite ordinary, it would have been said at other times. Seven children? Wow! There's something crazy there, it could now be said. Or even: Wow! This is an admirable feat.
In fact, there were not "seven children", an abstract quantity useful in an anonymous society. There were persons, each one, each interesting for the eyes of the heart and each uninteresting for statistics. Each one is a personal adventure in time and eternity, a ceaseless mind seeking out the world, a churning heart begging to be someone for someone else, a sensitivity that cannot be trodden upon without leaving terrible imprints. Each is a name.
Take Johanne, for instance. Johanne the different one: imaginative like Christine, yet regularly off and away in dreamland. Johanne of fairies, princesses and castles. On her sixth birthday, she received a priceless gift, a gift treasured ever since, a gift told to others, even once adapted as a play for the Girl Guides, a gift that expressed her so well: it was a tale, written especially for Johanne by her father. It is Johanne's Heart...
* * *
The young witch Grimace wanted a vacation. She used to play dirty tricks against the other young witches in her class and against the older witches that taught them to be mean. But she was bored with these games. For one thing, the companions she caught with her pranks caught her with their own. And that hurt because the pranks were really wicked. On the other hand, the old witches she hurt simply congratulated her for her meanness.
So you see, the witches' world is really bad. Grimace did not want to leave it because she found it bad. On the contrary, she thought it was not bad enough. She wanted to make horrible pranks not against bad people but against good people. The real pleasure of wickedness is not to hurt a bad person. It is to hurt the do-gooders.
That evening, Grimace was flying with the other witches of her group. She let them get ahead and then hid behind a dark cloud. A short while later, they had all disappeared from sight. Grimace was free.
The young witch sat upon the edge of her cloud and looked down. There was a huge river flowing towards the sea. She saw fields and forests. But she mainly noticed a small town that was dormant: La Pocati re. Where there are towns, there are people. And people can be victimised. Grimace had a wry smile. She slipped from the cloud and flew down towards earth.
"I feel like eating the heart of a nice little girl," she thought. "Heh, heh, heh! I want to see her cry just for the fun of it. But first I must disguise myself so as to be invisible. Let me see... Ah, yes, that's it: Paf-paf-bang!" With these magical words, young Grimace became an ordinary little sparrow, flying down nearer and nearer to the sleeping houses.
She landed upon a window sill. "Hell," she uttered. "The curtains are drawn. ... Ah, not completely." She glued her eye against the screen to see inside through the slit. She saw a baby.
"Bosh! Babies can be made to cry but cannot suffer deep down inside. At best they can only be used to bother grown ups."
But then Grimace saw another bed where a princess was asleep. I do not mean a princess for the older people. Those princesses become queens and have to meet all kinds of serious people and go to boring receptions where all talk is about politics and fashion. Johanne — for that was the princess' name — was a princess for her parents, her brothers and sisters and especially for her godfather and godmother. That is the best way to be a princess.
Grimace saw that this little girl must be happy, and was very glad: "Heh, heh, heh! There's someone to have fun with. Heh, heh, heh! ... Bang-paf-paf ... What's happening? Ouch!" By the magical words, the little sparrow had taken back its witch form, but was far to big for the window sill and had fallen to the ground.
"Ow, ow, ow! That hurts! Why did I have to say the wrong magical words. I should have studied them better in class. Now what is the magic formula to become a draught?" Grimace had decided to enter Johanne's room through the screen. That is why she had to become very small like a breeze.
"I've got it! Aaa-crich-poof!" She disappeared, but in her place there was a raging breath in the air that was crossed the screen and slipped into the room.
The baby moaned in her sleep. There was evil about.
Johanne slept peacefully. Suddenly she began breathing with a rasp. Her face contracted. She was becoming unhappy. She was still asleep but there was something wrong.
Johanne was in the backyard. She had just made a new riend. That girl had a grey and black dress. She was telling Johanne a secret — a secret that hurt a lot.
"Johanne, I heard Christine and Michel who were talking about you a moment ago. They said they did not like you. Michel even said how unfortunate it was that you were born. Christine added that the best place for you would be a day-care centre and even an orphanage."
"That's not true," Johanne cried. That's not true!"
"Come on Johanne," her new friend answered, "why would I tell you a lie? You know friends are made to help each other. I'm telling you this so that you'll know what your sister and brother are really like. You have to know that they are mean and hate you."
You may have guessed that this was a dream. Grimace had come into Princess Johanne's dream in order to eat her heart. She had begun her wicked pranks. Johanne was still sleeping, but big tears ran down her cheeks.
The mad draught now slipped under the door and went down the stairs to the living-room. One got the impression that one could hear a sardonic "heh, heh, heh!". In the living-room, Grimace went on the sofa where with a "Poof-crich-aaa" she reverted to her detestable natural self.
"Now," she though, "I've just got to see how this joke turns out. What disguise could I use to stick around?" She look about. "That is just what I need," she told herself as she saw a plant on a small table. "I could become one of its flowers. Oh no! Flowers are so horribly beautiful. I'll be a leaf. At the same time, I'll be able to play another trick. I'll gradually poison all the plant and the flowers will wilt and die. Heh, heh, heh!"
Grimace said a magic "planti-poo-ha" and she was no longer on the sofa. There was a new leaf on the plant: a yellowish leaf, a poisoned one.
When Johanne woke up in the morning, she noticed that baby Marie was gently playing in her own bed. Through the slit in the curtains, Johanne saw that the sky was blue and the day should be wonderful. Yet there was something wrong. Her head was heavy and her heart was swollen. She did not know why, but she was rather unhappy.
She got up with her brothers and sisters. She kissed her mother and father. She wanted to get dressed. But then she found she really wasn't up to it. "Hurry up, Johanne," her father said. And he went downstairs to make breakfast. She would so much have wanted that he stayed behind with her. She did not want to dress up. She did not want to eat breakfast. She was so much better alone. And then she no longer knew if she was glad to be alone...
"Johanne, hurry up!", said her mother as she dressed Marie. Johanne forced herself to dress. She put on her dress and her socks. It took a long time. She was full of mixed feelings.
Bang, bang, bang. Someone was coming up the steps. Someone was coming towards her room. Johanne saw Michel come in.
"Hurry up, Johanne," he said. "Breakfast is almost ready."
"I'm coming, I'm coming," Johanne snapped in bad temper. "Can't you see I'm hurrying? You don't have to tell me to hurry."
As she spoke, she stopped putting her shoe on. Michel noticed: "You are not hurrying. You're doing nothing."
Johanne suddenly remembered that Michel hated her. She no longer knew why. She only knew that someone — whoever it was — had told her how much Michel did not like her. And she thought that Michel had come up only to taunt her. She went so sad that she didn't answer Michel. She shut herself up inside her broken heart. She finished putting her shoes on and went down for breakfast.
All through breakfast, she did not say a word. She took the toasts that were given to her. She used the jam the nearest to her. She suffered terribly.
Near her, in the next room, some flowers were falling one by one from a plant upon a little table. The leaves were becoming yellow. "Heh, heh, heh! A little girl's heart is so good to chew upon," thought one of the leaves. "Heh, heh, heh!"
After breakfast, it was time to pass the vacuum cleaner in the kitchen and the living-room. Before that, all the toys had to be picked up. That was Johanne's job. Johanne did not like working very much. On that point, she resembled nearly everyone, old and young alike. But this particular work offered a terrible temptation: that of playing with each toy as she picked it up before she put it in the box. Johanne had inadvertently begun playing with three little wooden men when Christine yelled at her: "Couldn't you hurry up, Johanne? I want to do the vacuum cleaning."
"I'm hurrying..."
That's what Johanne started to say when she stopped and looked at her elder sister. She saw that Christine was speaking to her as if she did not like her. Johanne then remembered that Christine also hated her. Someone had told her that. She became sad. She rapidly picked up the toys. She put them in their box. Then she retreated to the staircase where, sitting upon a stair, she cried inside her heart.
"Heh, heh, heh!", thought a small leaf. "Heh, heh, heh! Oh the delicious tears of a broken heart. Heh, heh, heh!." At the same time, other flowers had wilted. A few leaves, poisoned by the witch, also began falling.
Christine had begun vacuum cleaning the living-room. Suddenly she cried: "Mother! Mother, come here! Look at your plant!"
Her mother arrived and was saddened to see that her beautiful plant was dying. There were dead flowers and dead leaves on the table and on the floor.
"Poor plant," said the mother. "What could have happened?"
"Heh, heh, heh!", Grimace thought. A taste of a mother's heart seasons well a princess' heart. ... Hey! Hold it! Ouch! What's going on? Ouch!"
What was going on? Simply this: Mother was picking the yellowish leaves from her plant in order to try to save the rest of the plant. Mother had just picked the bewitched leaf who was Grimace. She carried it out with the other dead leaves to put them in the garbage can.
"No! No!", the leaf screamed silently. "Let me go! Not the garbage can! No! Now what is that darn magic formula to change myself into a bird? I have to escape." But Grimace was a really bad student. It was hard for her to recall these formulas. And when she got nervous, she forgot them altogether. You probably remember the correct formula that would change her into a bird. But you won't tell her, will you?
Poof! Grimace landed among dirty stinking garbage.
In the house, Johanne suddenly remembered that she had had a bad dream. She then understood that Christine and Michel had never said that they did not like her. It had all been a bad dream. At that moment, Michel came to her and said: "Johanne, are you coming to play on the swings with Christine and me?"
Johanne realised that she shouldn't have been sad. She knew that her big sister and her big brother had always loved her. And her heart was filled with joy.
Outside, among the garbage, Grimace was angry: the little princess' heart had escaped. And Grimace still couldn't find a magic formula to get out of the stench.
* * *
Johanne? Who was Johanne? Number three. Is that better? But she's really not a number. She is Johanne.
Then there is Claude (number four, if we must have recourse to such a barbaric designation). One morning he asked his mother: "Mother, I have nothing to give for Christmas while Christine can sew special gifts for everyone. Could I give my blue jacket to Philippe as a Christmas gift?"
This was dramatic.
Why? It's like this: Claude is four years younger than Christine. Christine is adventurous and likes to try new things. And Claude has her same temperament and hates not to be able to do everything she can. Since Christine has learned how to sew and was given a small battery-run sewing machine for her birthday, she is continuously working to make a surprise Christmas gift for each one of her brothers and sisters. These gifts are mainly doll dresses and tissue dolls. So, why can't Claude also give special gifts?
Claude's blue jacket is an old clothing that barely missed being thrown out with the garbage and has become his most prized possession: it is presently his cowboy costume.
Philippe is nearly a year and a half younger than Claude. For him, the blue vest could never be as precious as it is for his older brother.
Last but not least, a law of the house commands that no child has the right to give one of his toys away. He can lend it, but never give it. He is also responsible to see that his own toys are correctly put away before he goes to bed in the evening. This law was enacted to keep everyone happy. By it, the children learn to become responsible for their private belongings; they learn to respect that which belongs to the others and they learn the pleasure of sharing. The law especially prevents numerous tears resulting from forgetfulness ("You gave it to me." "I did not."), misunderstandings ("I only lent it to you.") and regrets ("I want it back!"). It is a law born of many past experiences.
There is no doubt that Claude is now making an incredibly generous proposal: he is willing to give away his most precious toy to please his brother at Christmas. He also wishes to be among those who give and not only among those who receive. His proposal is against the law of the house and his action is bound not to be correctly appreciated by the person for whom it is meant; yet generosity is the first law a parent wishes to teach to his children. What to do? This is hign drama.
Claude's mother made a first attempt to solve the problem. It wasn't very clever. There is one exception to the toy-law. When a child becomes too old for a certain toy, he is allowed to give it to his mother. She puts it away for a few months and then gives it to a younger child for whom the toy becomes something new and enchanting.
"Claude," his mother objected, "you play with your jacket every day. Why don't you give Philippe a toy you do not play with anymore, a toy you no longer want?"
"But, mother, a gift is not something we don't like anymore. It's giving something we like."
In order to have some time to think it over and also get some help, his mother said: "I'll talk it over with father."
Father came home. He went back to work. With all the hectic activity about, Claude's mother forgot all about the matter. Claude hadn't forgotten. Next morning, he brought it up again: "May I give my blue jacket to Philippe as a Christmas gift?"
This time Christine was around and never hesitated to butt into other people's conversation. With the superiority of the eldest child, she exclaimed: "Don't be silly, Claude. You know we aren't allowed to give away our things. And, mother, his blue jacket is his favourite toy. He can't give it away. And, Claude, you know Philippe will not like it as much as you do."
Claude was used to Christine's interruptions and was deaf to them. He waited for the truth to come out of his mother's mouth: "Well, mother? May I?"
Since Christine had said every sensible thing there was on that subject, Claude's mother felt freer to frame the same remarks in a larger and richer context which would diminish nothing of Claude's generosity: "I believe Christine is right, Claude. You see, a gift is the giving of the most precious thing one has. On Christmas day, the most precious thing one has is his smile. On that day everybody is nervous and it takes a lot of effort to smiling to one's brothers and sisters. This Christmas, try to give your smile to Philippe.
"The next important thing, for Christmas, is to give something that comes from one's self. That is why you can draw some pictures or make something for your brothers and sisters. They'll be happy you have had a special thought for them. Those would be beautiful gifts."
Claude smiled: "That's a great idea!"
* * *
When an adult meets an adult, his introductory theme is the weather. When an adult meets an elderly person, his introductory theme is health. When an adult meets a baby, he marvels at the "darling". When he meets a young child, he asks him his name and his age. And for years to come if the adult has already met the child some time ago, he will invariably exclaim: "My, how he's grown. It's incredible."
When the child is old enough, he wonders at how predictable and boring these adults can be. He might even reply the fat man's answer: "Yes, it's a habit I got from the start."
Christine had grown to be eleven the time she broke into our table conversation with an indignant remark: "If ever I met a sick bird, I would take care of it. I would pick it up and bring it home. There, I would nurse it back to health and let it soar again in the sky."
She had heard that two schoolmates had once come across a sick sea-gull and had taken pleasure in taunting the poor creature. Then they had left it there to die. The revolt had brewed in Christine's heart and mind and finally blew up.
"You are right," her mother said approvingly.
I agreed wholeheartedly. I do not cater to animal sentimentalism, but I favour a child's respect for an animal he can help. Also, a bird has something that touches the imagination and the heart. And to help it go free rather than to put it in cage is fascinating.
Two weeks later, through a whim of her memory, Christine reaffirmed to her father, then to her mother, her good intentions concerning sick animals. Once again we approved and applauded her.
Next day, as I came home for lunch, I noticed something that looked like a large cage in the backyard. I entered wondering what that could be. My wife came towards me with a preoccupied smile on her face: "Christine has brought a sick sea-gull home," she said.
"What?", I said incredulously, amazed at the coincidence. My previous theoretical and well-meaning approvals were shaken.
"She found a sick sea-gull," Danielle explained, "and brought it home in a cardboard box. Then our neighbour lent her a dog cage to put it in."
I was proud that our daughter had kept her word and was true to her generous impulses. Yet what kind of perturbation would come out of this? Noticing her absence, I inquired where she was.
"She has gone to see the vet," Danielle answered. "This is the second time she has gone there. The first time, he wasn't in."
I went outside to see our patient. There was the large grey sea-gull resting in the transparent cage. Save for an uneasy look in the eye, he (or she, I know not) had none of the nervous reactions of a wild, caged animal. I liked him and hoped he would get better.
My neighbour was on his side of the fence. I joked at how he had perverted the young and encouraged her into base sentimentalism. He confessed Christine's imploring eyes had had their effect, and he had given in to her request for help. But, as adults, we were both proud to participate in the heroics of a child.
That child suddenly reappeared. She ran towards me, jubilant because of her good action yet disappointed that the vet was still not available.
"I told you," she said to me, "that I would take care of a sick bird if I met one. You see, father, that it's true. Isn't Grey beautiful?"
Grey was an apt description of the bird's dress. I congratulated my daughter for her action. She added that the vet would phone as soon as he returned to his office.
During lunch, Christine organised the financial side of the operation. She convinced her younger brothers, Michel, Claude and Philippe, and her sister Johanne to pitch in with her in order to pay the veterinarian's fee. Grandmother Allaire had visited us not long ago and her gifts to the children helped add up to an amount of some forty dollars. I added the twenty dollar bill one of grandmother's brothers had given for an unspecified purpose for the children. Now everybody was preoccupied by Grey's health.
We then discussed how to feed the bird. Christine had given him some bread which Grey had not eaten. How about fish? Sea-gulls eat fish. We opened a can of tuna and Christine rushed outside to give some to our host.
A moment later she came back, alarmed: "He's not moving. His eyes are closed."
"He's just sleeping," I suggested.
"No. He's not breathing. He ... he's dead!"
We went out. There was Grey, motionless behind the transparent wall of his cage. Beside his beak there seemed to be a bit of vomit. The bird's face was peaceful in his final sleep.
Christine, with calm and courage, kept things well in hand. She decided Grey should be buried. But first, she went to the store to buy a film in order to immortalise the image of her short time friend.
While she was gone, the phone rang. A man wanted to speak to miss Christine Allaire: it was the vet. I told him he was too late and briefed him as to what had happened. He spoke in an appropriate hush and explained that such events were common and unfortunately made many children unhappy. Had he been there, he probably would not have been able to do anything for a wild bird too sick to flee from an eleven year old girl. I thanked him and we hung up.
When Christine returned, I told her she had done her best and had allowed Grey to have a peaceful death. I loaded the camera and went out with her. I asked Christine to take Grey out of his cage in order to get a better shot of him. Christine did not move.
"Will you take him out?" I insisted.
That is when she broke down. She ran into the house and flung herself in tears against her mother. She cried as her mother told her the necessary, yet useless words of comfort.
When Christine returned with her brothers and her sister. I gave them a spade. They went near the river at the end of our neighbour's yard, dug a hole in the ground and buried Grey in the sport where he now lies. Christine made a small cross and put it upon her friend's tomb.
A few days later, Christine asked me if the tomb would become anonymous when our neighbour would put some lawn at that end of his yard.
"Yes," I told her truthfully.
She didn't say anything. She was learning about the mystery of life and love.
* * *
Michel was too predictable to be historical. That is because he was so unpredictable deep down inside. He distrusted his primary reactions and kept them repressed till he had constructed a pattern into which they could flow. Once the pattern was fitted, he excelled in a brilliance and perseverance that outshone many.
He was four years old when, one afternoon, I was in charge of the household. I asked him if he needed to go to the toilet.
"Do I have to go?", he answered.
"I did not say you had to go. I asked you if you need to go."
"Does mother want me to go?", he said as if my question made no sense.
"That is not the point," I answered with some irritation. "Do you need to go? Do you feel the need to go?"
Michel was expressionless, as if I had been talking Chinese or metaphysics. I took a different approach.
"Michel, when do you go to the toilet?"
"When mother tells me to," he answered in a tone of evidence.
"Don't you ever 'feel' the need to go to the toilet?"
I saw from his blank stare that such a proposition did not compute. I suddenly realised with a shock that Danielle had the children so well trained that Michel really did not relate the toilet to any sensed need. When they got up, before they went outside, before they went to bed, their mother made sure they went to the toilet. This way there wouldn't be any desperate need to leave the breakfast table in the middle of the meal or to come back into the house a bare five minutes after having gone out (which was dramatic in the winter when it took ten minutes to dress and undress a child because of the cold) or having to rapidly turn back from a walk or to seek an immediate and proper relief somewhere. In following this pattern, Michel met his physical needs so well that he was oblivious to any sensory awareness of the matter.
When he went into grade one, Danielle and I decided Michel should acquire an ability by which he become proud of himself and no longer live merelyin the shadow of his bossy sister Christine. So we had him take private flute lessons. This meant a half hour practice each day. In the first two years, Danielle kept Michel by her side for these practices and forced him to do them regardless of his anxieties, panics, uncertainties and revolts. Danielle helped him master himself. During the next four years, he practised on his own. When vacations came, we allowed him to take a practice break. We felt he would love to be free just to do anything he pleased at those times. Yet, invariably, the first days of freedom from practice he was at a loss and nervously teased his brothers and sisters. Then he constructed a new pattern of action and became likeable again. At the end of these six years, he was a flute whiz, his teacher's best pupil.
When he first began grade school he naturally panicked. But he quickly constructed a security pattern which consisted in studying. In no time he was scoring high nineties so regularly that I could tease him about it: "How is it," I asked him, "that you could find ninety-eight percent on your subject matter and couldn't locate a measly two percent?"
Christine was slightly jealous of her brother's success but proud of him for the most part. Once one of her classmates wondered at her own scoring average (high eighties and middle nineties): "Are you all that brilliant in your family?"
"Oh no," Christine answered. "My brother is brighter."
When Michel was nine, he was ordered into the Cub Scouts. At first he inevitably felt dejected and suffered anxiety headaches before each meeting. Then he got the hang of it, became leader of a group of six, then first leader, and ended his career with all the badges available.
When he began playing baseball, he was doubly handicapped. First, his father did not practice the sport which meant he had never had a ball and mitt. Second, he started late. Of course the other members of his team did not appreciate having a loser among themselves. That summer was hard on Michel, but by then he was used to persisting through everything he had begun, even though this meant coping with anxieties and headaches. At the end of the playing season, his coach was proud to tell us: "Michel is the boy who has made the most progress on my team."
The following year, Michel's team cheered him on as he fairly often hit the ball in the right direction. He wasn't an all-time pro, but he had overcome his handicaps.
With such a temperament, Michel's difficulty is inevitably the finesse of social relations. They are a shifting landscape. He is admittedly a social square peg to begin with. On the other hand, he is immediately a favourite with adults as he rapidly grasps the pattern of action. Yet his social reserve hides a delicate heart which he expresses each time he writes a birthday note that accompanies a well chosen and imaginative gift for each member of his family.
Michel doesn't make good stories, but he's out to make a hell of a good reality.
* * *
Marie and Isabelle were quite a phenomenon as twins. But they were especially strange in the development of their communicative skills. Indeed, their speech was primitive at first and slow to develop. We nearly wondered if our memories concerning the development of our other children were not fantasised. Did Christine really converse fluently at three years old? Wasn't it at four? Even when Marie and Isabelle became four, strangers had difficulty understanding what the girls were telling them when they spoke. We ourselves had detected the drift of their private idiom but half-guessed a good part of the conversations they had with us. Yet neither was an idiot. By their actions and their response to our speech we readily saw that they had brains, insight and ability. What then was happening?
It was quite simple. We were before the phenomenon of language. Speech is in the mind though it has biological props. Speech is an acquired thing. A child perpetually deprived of the presence of a speaker, would have his mind stunted. The more proficient the speaker, the better the child may speak. Christine had her parents as speech companions, and she rapidly acquired an impressive vocabulary. Marie and Isabelle had each other as most common companion, since they generally shared the same interests and went through approximately the same growth periods. As their rudimentary speech served their purpose conveniently and evolved in common, they felt little need and incentive to acquire a more elaborate language to communicate with those people outside their intimate relationship. The summer before they entered kindergarten, they went to the organised town playground for the first time and, in communicating with other children of their age who had evolved differently, they began enriching their own vocabulary. This was completed within a year when each was in her own separate kindergarten class.
They proved our conviction: neither was lacking in intellectual capacity. They simply spoke Twin rather than French, English or Spanish. When they began speaking our common speech, they were as coherent and fluent as the rest of their brothers and sisters.
* * *
Philippe (he's number five, just in between Claude and the twins) was a Michel without Michel's anxieties and headaches. Thanks to his mother's efficiency, school and the outside world made only small waves in his life. And he eagerly conquered them with Michel-like results. Once he even managed to become so troublesome in class as to be remonstrated by both his teacher and his parents. We insisted that, after having achieved perfection in his assignments, he let his classmates finish their own work.
One time he got ninety-nine in mathematics, his father teased: "You've got to do better than that, Philippe. Michel got 99.3%. You still have a .3 to do in order to catch up with your brother."
Pauline and Denis, his godparents, took to inviting Philippe for some time at their home where he was like a big brother for their own boy. One evening, Denis told his son: "See how Philippe eats his peas so well. You should do the same."
Philippe ate all of his peas with dutiful pleasure before his sulky companion's. But the next day he confessed to his godfather: "Godfather, you know the peas I ate yesterday? Well, I don't like peas."
In fact peas are probably the only thing he dislikes eating. But he eats them all the same. That's the way things go at home. As a result, he can always eat anything anywhere else and like most of it.
* * *
Danielle is undoubtedly the head Martian in the home. And the best laid plans of mice and mothers are often disturbed by events beyond their control: here, the demands of seven children and a husband. Claude howls (far beyond the need) because Michel has been teasing him, Johanne wants her mother to fix the leg of her Barbie doll, father is trying to proof read an article to his wife and Philippe has just done "a nice piss in the potty" which must be taken care of rapidly for fear that Isabelle or Marie will crawl over and empty it onto the floor.
Such events take place continually while Danielle is trying to put some clothing in the washer, thinking about getting the beef out of the freezer so that it will have thawed enough for lunch and rushing to finish giving Marie a last cup of milk in order to put her and her sister back to bed before they become irredeemably grouchy.
The mixture of all these diverse elements brings about unfortunate surprises, when suddenly Danielle realises she has forgotten to start the washing machine and has lost a half hour of precious time while four more bundles of wash await their turn on the floor. Or else time comes to prepare lunch and she finds that the beef is still frozen stiff in the freezer. And at day's end, she grieves at how little she has done because she has done so much.
One day she found a brilliant suggestion in Marabel Morgan's Total Woman. Why not write each night a list of the things to do the next day? In this way Danielle would have her mind free to do one chore at a time and no disturbance would prevent her from doing each of them in their order of priority. As obligations arrived, such as making lunch, the list would wait patiently for the resumption of its items. This way a new equilibrium would be possible without sacrificing chores in order to be present to the children, or sacrificing the children in order to do the chores. By crossing out each item as it was completed, at the end of the day Danielle would physically see all she had accomplished. And what had not been done would evidently be the lesser part.
At first, it was a success. The meat taken out of the freezer became an accomplishment rather than an obsession while Danielle admired one of Claude's drawings. Cleaning the counter in the morning was a work of art; lunch was the proof of planning.
Yet starting the day was still hard and even became a nuisance. After breakfast, Danielle had to wash Marie and Isabelle's rear ends in order to rid them of a rash. Then they had to have their diapers put on. After that, it was time to wash Philippe's teeth and make sure that the older children brushed their own. Then Christine, Michel and Johanne had to be sent off to school. Finally the twins were put to bed. Cleaning the counter only began at nine thirty. There was little time to cross anything off the list before it was time to prepare lunch.
The list brought satisfaction on what was done, but it provoked a growing irritation towards all those obstacles that got in the way of getting on with the list. In fact, it gave evidence about how much of a nuisance the children could be getting on the way of checklists, as they do. Danielle noticed that she was becoming increasingly impatient towards them and that consequently they were becoming grumpy.
What should she do? Throw the list away? Or throw the children away? Certainly not the children. Each is the foundation of our lives, the goal of our home. If there was need of a choice, the list would go. Yet it had brought a certain relief from the previous feeling of impotence.
Laying out her problem before her husband's attention, she suddenly saw that it had been misspelled. The family spirit was the goal and could not be challenged. And the house chores were means to that goal and could not be put aside either. As is the case for so many questions, our problem was solved directly by placing it in its proper perspective. The time lost in taking care of the children simply became part of the list of the 'after breakfast' chores:
1- Wash the twins' bottoms and put on their diapers.
2- Brush Philippe's teeth and see to it that the others brush theirs.
3- See that Christine, Michel and Johanne dress and leave on time for school.
4- Put Marie and Isabelle to bed.
5- Clean the kitchen counter. The list goes on...
In this way, before starting the daily chores, at nine thirty Danielle would already have crossed off four items from her list. Not working meant became living with someone.
* * *
Once when I was theorising about domestic philosophy with a colleague who was a bachelor, he suddenly said: "That's right: you speak from experience in these matters."
"I do have some experience," I conceded.
Being the professional philosopher in the home, I can't help but keep my eyes open upon the general principles that seem to be expressed in our daily life. So I was happy to find Marie and Isabelle refuting the fashion of Astrology.
I knew that freedom is a matter of experience. It can't be deduced from necessities as it wouldn't be free and whoever is blind to the freedom he lives cannot be rationally proven wrong as a mind without roots works in the void and can always construct fantasies to fit any fact, as evidenced by the philosophies of men. Yet freedom works within situations and a kind of astrological conditioning is no more impossible a priori than that of the weather. By an amusing coincidence, Christine and Claude were under the same astrological sign and had the same temperament; Michel and Philippe having the same temper as mine, were under the same astrological sign as I; finally Johanne had a third temperament under a third sign. Granted Danielle had the same temper as Christine and Claude and was under a different sign, but it could be that the kinds of temperaments were less numerous than the number of astrological signs. This observation had no effect upon our life, but occasionally challenged my mind.
Then Marie was born and, five minutes later, Isabelle was born. They were truly of the same astrological sign. Yet Marie was true Georges-kind and Isabelle true-Danielle kind. That was the end of astrology even for conditioning purposes. Someone told me something about the possibility of some planet coming in between other ones at a given moment and producing mishaps in the regular conditioning patterns. I answered that if astrology was so fickle, there was no need to try to make it into a science and to preoccupy ourselves with it.
There was another point moderately haunting my mind which our family laboratory helped to clear up. There is no denying that our present-day culture is obsessed by sex and that some psychologists helped help this to happen. Chesterton would probably have said that when everything is called sex, we have learned nothing new: we have merely emptied the word "sex" of meaning. When I was a college student I had been told in a most grave manner that something called the Oedipus complex was present in all little boys and a feminine equivalent called the Electra complex in all little girls. The idea was that the boy bore a special passion for his mother, which had erotic undertones and which made his father into a deadly adversary. The girl felt much the same for her father against her mother. That this was contrary to just about everyone's experience was easily explained away by the idea that our complexes were unconscious. We couldn't be expected to have any memory of them as experiences. The facts were then fitted into the theory by a brilliantly conceived fantasy dished out as science.
I was a young student and I was duly imprinted with that fantasy since I wasn't allowed any recourse to my personal experience, since my teacher was impressive and should know what he was talking about, since I was then going through the sexual turmoil of adolescence, and since the theory was watered down to become a rather diffuse tendency of childhood with no practical effect upon our particular lives. Of course, the relevant fact was that I had never tried to seduce my mother nor to kill my father.
But now I was a parent, and I noticed that Christine seemed to have a preference for her father (without any sexual over or undertones) and Michel went preferably towards his mother. Christine was a girl going towards her father and Michel a boy going towards his mother. Could there be a bit of reality underlying the Oedipus fantasy? Then Johanne was born: in her dream world, it was hard to distinguish any definite tendency. She became irrelevant to the matter. Then Claude came. He should have gone towards his mother: he preferred his father. What could this mean? Was the theory wrong or was Claude mentally deranged? He certainly seemed quite normal otherwise. Then we had Philippe. Philippe went towards his mother. One more point in favour of Oedipus. Finally we had the twins. Both girls — Marie went towards her mother and Isabelle went towards her father. What did this mean?
It turned out to be quite simple. Those with an extrovert personality (Christine, Claude and Isabelle) fitted in more easily with the introvert parent, myself. They were assured that their primary action would not provoke a primary reaction but rather a passive acceptance till I had time to sort out my reaction. On the other hand, those with an introvert temper (Michel, Philippe and Marie) fared better with the extrovert parent as Danielle could say the first words of communication to them. Johanne, the likeable temperament, who would not offend, went towards whichever parent was ready to enter into her dream world.
What has sex to do with that? I regret to say, nothing.
Finally, I read some time ago in the newspapers that a law banned the sale of toy weapons in Sweden. Well we would be outlaws very quickly under such a regime. Isabelle, who had grown enough to learn her older brothers' games pointed a gun at me and shot. I was comfortably sitting in a living-room chair. I made the facial expressions of a dying man in agony. I moaned, shut my eyes and let my head fall back. Isabelle loved it. When I came back to life, she shot me again. And over again till I said, with the adult lack of perseverance: "Enough. The game is over."
Isabelle had to be content with murdering her father only a few times. Claude is the military maniac of the family with a whole collection of Star Wars toys, a giant tank, rifles and pistols and a few swords among which is a laser sword. He is the one who half-dreams of the day he can become a life-size soldier in a real army. He is our one maniac, but each of the children loves on occasion to shoot down somebody. Does this mean that they will inevitably grow up as warmongers and criminals? I very much doubt it. going by my personal experience. But our laboratory offers an experimental confirmation of my judgement.
First and foremost, children know the difference between make-believe and reality. For instance, when a snow storm shuts the school down, they are happy to be on a surprise vacation. This means that they do not wish to be in class that day. Yet, as soon as they are free to play, they regularly start organising make-believe classes. In the same way, Isabelle loves shooting her father dead but would be horrified if it were for real.
Next, what's wrong if the children get some fun making believe that they are killing someone as long as they know they are killing no one and would not want to kill anyone? When they pretend to be fighting and one accidentally hurts another, they say they are sorry. Which means there is a will not to hurt for real in the game of hurting.
There is no doubt a certain "pacifism" behind the toy weapons phobia, which objects to the existence of weapons as such rather than to their misuse. Yet, an adult or a child must be willing to kill a human being on given occasions. Killing an innocent is murder, but killing an aggressor who is about to kill an innocent is a service rendered to the innocent. I therefore agree that there is an ethic at worl in make-believe wargames, though these games are themselves as innocent as needle-pulling: it is the idea that force is made for the defence of the innocent, whereas violence is not just force but force used to oppress the innocent. When soldiers of many nations deliberately killed German guards and liberated thousands from concentration camps, they were using force. The guards were the ones using violence against their prisoners. This is what the children know when they are asked to settle their differences peacefully but also to help each other if one is attacked.
When Claude becomes Luke Skywalker and fights the forces of the Empire, he is playing. He is not learning a pattern of action. He may never be a soldier. He may never fight. But he is also recognising that the bad may not oppress the innocent and that it is the duty of the (relatively) good to come to the aid of the innocent. To refuse him toy weapons on the ground that all real fighting is immoral would mean to put aggression and defence on the same level and even to give the edge to aggression: for the aggressor cares not for morality and the rights of his victim, whereas the innocent would be invited to let injustice triumph.
Anger, aggression, the wish to kill are sensations that are neither good nor bad. They are qualities of character when they serve love. They become faults when they serve egotism. To refuse them rather than to guide them would mean repressing needed energies in a child and teaching him a spineless love. For love is the measure of actions and the goal for which actions are the means.
Proof of this was given a Christmas day. Claude had drawn Star Wars pictures to give to each brother and sister, to his mother and father and to his grandfather Quéloz. When grandmother Quéloz' turn came, Claude gave her a drawing of a person surrounded with flowers and told her:
"This is for you Grandmaman. I did not make you a Star Wars drawing because I know you don't like war."
* * *
Seven children and their parents. Each is a person. Inevitably the number will first strike the anonymous imagination. On the twenty-fourth of June, Saint John the Baptist's feastday — also known a national holiday for the Québécois — Christine, Michel, Johanne, Claude and I went for a picnic. We took our Quebec flag for the fun of it and walked for a good mile. The following Monday, two different persons on different occasions told me: "I heard you had a parade last Saturday."
We hadn't known that. It would seem we numbered enough to be labeled 'a parade'. To those who wondered about our numbers, I would jokingly reply that my ambition in life was to be able some day to paralyse La Pocatière by simply having my family go out on strike.
