Parenthood Control, As In Self Control, Dystopian And Otherwise

Photo by Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

There are many axioms that evolve from philosophically self-evident to sledgehammer of the gods obvious as we traverse life, but none more so than “wait ’til you have your own kids.” Those pesky olds told kid me that as a child, yelled it at adolescent me, then chuckled it when barely adult me really did have a kid, as if they knew what was coming. Being a parent changes you. Being an adult who has friends that both do and do not have children also lets you in on another self-evident thing that nevertheless must be explained to certain folks: having or not having children RADICALLY changes not only life but one’s perception of life.

Sonny Bunch, in reviewing the season finale of hit video game turned hit HBO show The Last of Us takes that approach, titling his very worth your time to read piece “Parenthood changes how we see art.” There are of course spoilers, because the main plot point involves an adult making a decision about a child and the audience response to that decision breaking strongly along lines of viewers parenting status. No worries, not going to spoil anything here.

Be assured of the spoiler free status, because I’m not going to watch The Last of Us. I do know from the game and other media about the show what the plot is and what happens, so I’m not shooting blind here (and for those in the know, I’d do what Joel did without hesitation or losing a minute’s sleep over it) but I’m not going to watch it. Nor do I watch much – if any – dystopian fiction these days. Parenthood and my own personal issues and trauma have changed how I view art to the point I’m out on dystopian anything, especially if children are involved as the main premise. Hunger Games, Divergent, Maze Runner, whatever else you want to bring, I’m out. All those series being popular with my own children has also played a part in my desire to skip the genre.

For that matter, there are episodes of SVU I just have to turn off nowadays. I don’t like damaged, hurt, and killed kids as my personal entertainment consumption. I’m not going on some crusade to purge the kid-centered dystopian genre; I just individually don’t want to ride that ride anymore. Everyone else can do whatever. Art is supposed to push buttons, but it is the individual person’s responsibility to protect their buttons that don’t need to be pushed.

Sonny rightly points out that how parenthood and children change your viewpoint is “so innately and so viscerally” understood that it is really hard to explain. There isn’t a right or wrong here, only an acknowledgement that there is a river there and folks on one side are going to see the far bank different than the folks on the other. This is good for art, which should be challenging and confrontational. This is probably not good for the discourse about art, which usually devolves from discussing the art in question into discussing ourselves using the art as an excuse.

I can’t bash the genre over my own issues. It isn’t Suzanne Collins fault I’ve seen far too many hurt and dying children in my real-life that I just don’t want to see it on the screen. It isn’t The Last of Us‘s fault that I can torture myself over the hard calls I’ve had to make as a true-life parent that wreaked as much, if not more, damage than whatever fungi the writer’s room can scheme up. I don’t really need angst and anxiety stemming from how violent the world can be as entertainment; the American people’s hard earned tax dollars are already at working trying to fix those parts of me at the VA. These are all self-regulating things that come as an adult, and until children get old enough, decisions about what they can and cannot handle as they grow older themselves. They, mine that is, all teens through young adults now, get to watch all the dystopian stuff they want, and they know well and good dad ain’t going to watch it with them. And for the most part, they know why.

This is all balanced with knowing the whole world of entertainment cannot just be watching Downton Abbey. There was a particular War on Terror-era movie I had avoided, but while in the hospital in 2016 it came on. Balancing not wanting to watch it with the effort of trying to move to change it with multiple chest tubes, a PICC line, an open surgical wound packed with gauze, and other medical apparatus that isn’t fit for discussion in mixed company sticking in and out of me, I figured I’d take a chance. At worse I could holler and push buttons until someone came and changed it. And…it wasn’t cathartic or anything, but it was good to get it out of the way. Did I ever watch it again? No. Would I ever watch it with my children? Hell no. Can I explain why? Not really. It is that “so innately and so viscerally” known thing that I don’t want to do that with my children, even though they aren’t children anymore in the truest sense. Just thinking of my children changes what I think about art. Them being in the room really changes it. Trying to share the moment of art with them changes things even more.

Recently, I did the Van Gogh immersive exhibit with my youngest and extremely artistic kid and one of her friends. Watching them made that experience totally different than if I hadn’t seen her reactions to everything. In particular, the fact the exhibit was open and very upfront with Vincent’s mental issues and suicide made a platform to talk about those issues in a positive way, since we are open about such things in our family. How things might have been different for him in another era that understood mental illness, but how would that have changed his art? Unanswerable questions, but ones that start to look for answers beyond the phrasing. I purchased the book of Van Gogh’s letters, mostly to his brother, and have been reading it since the exhibit. Vincent, of course, was childless, and talks in his letters about his views on relationships and how being single affected his art. I thought of the wonderful Doctor Who episode where Vincent is whisked into our present day to overhear an art critic talk of his brilliance. I wonder what he would think of my teenager being totally enthralled by his work a century later. I wonder, as he wondered, how children might have changed him.

To their credit, the dystopian genre — whether Hunger Games, or zombies, or The Last of Us, or whatever else — mostly runs with the understanding that the real monsters are always already in human form just waiting for an excuse to get out. It is why the genre is such a rich vein of drama and emotion. It is a good medium for the artform of not just storytelling, but storytelling with some meaning behind it worthy of examination and contemplation. Thing is, I’ve had my own kids, and soon they will be having their own kids, and so on, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise. Being a parent, and a pretty beat up human in general, has changed me and how I view art, dystopian and otherwise. I need all the bandwidth I have to manage the real-life drama of family, friends, and the various other people in my life I care for while also managing self-care.

That gets dystopian enough, believe me.