Cowboys

This week we learned that cattle drives began right after the Civil War. During Reconstruction, people were very hungry, and longhorns were brisket and pot pies on legs. With some help, they could get themselves to a railroad, which might be a few states away, and then via rail to the nearest meat-packing plant, where Armour & Co. put them into cans.

I must confess that for decades I thought that cattle drives were about exercising the cows, or getting them to greener pastures, or maybe to another owner. I didn't realize cattle drives were the beginning of the cattle's demise--in a drive today, a can tomorrow, in someone's tummy after that. I didn't know that the history of the drives was intricately linked to the devastation wrought by that war.

* * *

It was Halloween this weekend. In the spirit of our studies, I try to convince Simon to go as a cowboy. No way.

"Mom, that's for little kids. I'm going to go as a criminal with my gun-machine.”

“It's machine-gun, Simon, and you're not going to take it out for Halloween.”

“It just shoots soft pellets, Mom, and I'm not going to aim the gun at anyone. Just up into the air.”

We have a long talk. I speak of our neighborhood being our community, I remind him of the spirit of Halloween, I mention the many younger kids up the street. I tell him that due to terrorist attacks—some of which he knows about—people are scared. I suggest that he dress up as a criminal from history—maybe Henry VIII.

"Nobody knows who that is, Mom,” he says impatiently. Sadly, he is probably right. “Remember, Mom, they don't know who the Vikings were.” Six month ago Simon made a Viking ship and showed it to the neighborhood boys who were out on their scooters and bikes—all public-school fourth and fifth graders. They had never heard of the Vikings.

So we agree he can go trick-or-treating as a criminal but without the gun. He dresses all in black: black gloves, black sunglasses, black tights, and slips a plastic dagger into the pocket of his black jacket—a man in black. He looks more adorable than dangerous, but George and I let him know he definitely has become a terrifying crook, a thief maybe: “Do us a favor, Mr. Thief--stay away from our house.”

It is not easy to raise a boy in this seductive, consumerist, violent culture. When it comes to eleven-year-old boys, that culture takes the form--primarily--of aim-and-shoot video-games, weaponry and paramilitary equipment, and a steady barrage of cartoons and movies where the heroes have mastered the art of treating others with utter contempt. Stay out of my way, moron.

Earlier in the week, Simon had attended a homeschooling Halloween event. He had dressed up as a detective, in George's fedora and my raincoat, a costume he'd come up with in a jiffy, after I reminded him that kids would be dressing up. Looking at himself in the mirror, he said: "This is great." And yet, once we got to the party, a kid called him a dork. Simon was not about to get put down again. He, too, has learned what the culture's expectations are. So on the actual eve of Halloween, he went around the neighborhood armed, ready for combat. Make my day, worm-face.

George and I work hard trying to teach Simon that you can have a great life without being like everyone else, without buying the latest whatever--gaming-console, I-pod, I-phone, cellphone, video-game, weapon, Transformer, sneaker, designer cap, skateboard, t-shirt, or back-pack. Sometimes I feel like I'm pushing back a flood with my bare hands.

We're not nut-case radicals—Simon has a small arsenal of play-weapons, a DS, and access to a TV, but his screen time is limited, and, until recently, play-dates could not involve screens of any kind. So far so good, although I should confess he has a roomful of Lego, and if I can't immediately locate an audiobook at the library, I buy it. It's not like Simon is deprived.

For now, Simon and his friends are happy to play with Lego, or draw, or run around in the back-yard with swords, or play Battleship, or cards. For now. For now, Simon comes back from the homes of other kids and notices they have few toys, only video-games. For now, we have managed to keep his desires at bay and shape days and weeks that are fulfilling. For now, Lego and books and paper and colored pencils—and his screen-time at the end of the day—are enough. From time to time he calls me an “evil mother” because he cannot watch more TV. But then he laughs: “Just kidding.”

But this won't last. He will be called a dork again—and again. And he will try to fix it by being like everybody else. And being like everybody else will involve buying something—a gaming-console, an aim-and-shoot video game, angry music, something that oozes contempt.

I'm not exactly ready for what is coming, but I recognize it for what it is. Small consolation. I just hope I have a light touch, and some humor, when it shows up.

* * *

Cowboys. My father loved--and loves--cowboys, Westerns, John Wayne. When I was a child and an old John Ford flick was on, I could always bamboozle him into letting us watch TV.

What my father loves about Hollywood cowboys is what I find so appealing about Buddhism. The cowboys from all those movies owned nothing: a horse, a canteen, a bed-roll, a rifle--the miles of this great country stretched out in front of them. There were no fences. The blue sky was all theirs. Having nothing and wanting nothing, they were free. And as Buddhists (and all Hollywood cowboys) know--if you need nothing, own nothing, desire nothing, you will not suffer. (Or, at least, you won't suffer as much.) How do you teach that to a child at the beginning of the 21st century?

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My father's favorite cowboy song is Don't Fence Me In. I always thought this was a song that went back to the 19th century. Researching it this week, I discovered it was written by Cole Porter for a movie. There are various wonderful versions of the song on youtube. The one by David Byrne is a favorite.