Are Kids Evil?

 

If you are a believer (as I firmly am) that kids do not become fully human until they have reached the age of, say, 25 – then, you will, perhaps, recognize an ethical problem.  If these creatures are not human in the full sense of that word, is it even fair to ask if they are capable of being ‘evil’ which, after all, necessitates a human sense of recognizing that concepts like ‘good’ and ‘evil’ actually exist?

We don’t say that ‘brute’ beasts are evil, we just question their instincts.  Sharks (even allowing for Benchley) are not evil creatures; they are not good either – they just are.

So, there is surely a case for saying that apprentice humans just ‘are’ as well.

And yet, and yet.

Let us consider a test situation.  In this part of the world there is a game that kids play.  It is called ‘Marco Polo’ and is simplicity itself to play.  The rules are that when one person says “Marco!” everyone else replies “Polo”.  And that is it.  That is the game.  And kids play it with manic gusto.  And go on playing it.  And on, and on.

There is a sort of genius about it.  How, you might say, innocuous a game.  Where is the harm in it?  Well, let me tell you, if you have listened to kids raucously ‘playing’ this game around a swimming pool for what seems like hours you, as an adult begin to pray for death: either the kids or yourself, after a while it doesn’t really matter.  All you want is for it to stop. 

  

And this is where the genius part comes in.  How can you, seriously, tell kids to stop?  Who is it harming?  And, of course, you know that if a kid suspects for a moment that something they are doing is irritating then there is no inducement on earth that will make them stop.  And what sort of idiot would you be to angrily tell kids to stop saying the name of the great explorer?  Perfect.  The kids have created something that cannot be stopped without making the person stopping it appear like a crazed idiot.  And, once you have suffered from an extended “Marco Polo” just a single mention of “Marco” brings back all the dread that you have previously suffered – instantly.

Do they do it to annoy because they know it teases?  I’m not sure.  Kids love doing it.  It gives an immediate sense of community; it gives form to play; it allows the youngest to get an automatic reaction from elder; it establishes territory by claiming sonic space; it gives voice to youth; it is comforting – and I bloody hate it.  Hate it.

I am not sure if it is hell or purgatory where you would find yourself around a pool with kids playing “Marco Polo” for ever, but the adjective hellish seems to be not inappropriate.

The question of blame obviously centres on whether or not the kids know what they are doing.  If they do not, then they only have to wait until they are 25 when they will realize just how awful they have been for the past two and a half decades.  If they do know what they are doing, then it answers the question at the top.

And, don’t forget Damien!

On a completely unrelated topic – though, come to think about it, there could be a tenuous link using the concept of ‘youth’ – the words of a Christmas carol came back to me as I trudged off the beach through the soft sand.

Never let it be said that my time as a (moderately) angelic looking choir boy in Cathays in Cardiff was wasted.  I had a good boy soprano voice and found the high notes relatively effortless to reach.   

Being in a choir means that you tend to pick up new tunes relatively quickly, in much the same way as a (struggling) trombone player in school orchestras encourages to you get to know orchestral pieces after a couple of rehearsals – well, as trombone player you usually have so few notes to play that you may as well spend the time waiting for your entry by listening to the music that other players are creating.

Although I cannot say that I positively enjoyed my time in the choir (perhaps it was something to do with the stiff, white, plastic collars we had to wear with cassock and surplice) I did get to know a great deal of ‘sacred’ music, and the lyrics. 

There were some that we didn’t really have to learn, and those were carols.  Or should I say, we did get to learn something, because we had to know more than merely the first verses.  Just like being in the Cubs, where the one thing that I retain from my time there is knowing the second verse of the English national anthem, I also know more of the words of more hymns that I ever get the chance to sing.

Anyway, back to the trudging.  Given my thrombosis, embolism etc etc I feel I have a real and authentic reason not to like walking, and have a fully justified condition to find the easiest way to do things that demand physical effort.

So, trudge, trudge, trudge (resenting every step) when the words of one particular carol came back to me about a youngster whingeing about having to make his way through thick snow, following behind his master, who responds by saying:

“Mark my footsteps, my good page

Tread thou in them boldly . .

In his master’s steps he trod

Where the snow lay dinted

Heat was in the very sod

Which the saint had printed”

Works with sand too.  Where Toni left a footprint, I trod and, lo and behold, it was a good sight easier than making my own flat-footed way.

Therefore, Good King Wenceslas, not only gave me an easier way of walking through soft sand, but it also allowed angelic looking little boys to sing the word “sod” inside a church!

Of such things are memories made.