Youthful Escapism

I would be standing in the outdoor commons or at a classroom window. A mecha, perhaps a fighter plane like Robotech, or one of the lions from Voltron would swoop down and land. I’d be the only one who could operate it, and all the other junior high brat—, er, students and faculty would stare as I headed off to do battle among the stars. And not return to junior high. Ever. No one would beat me up for being a nerd ever again.

Well, obviously, that fantasy didn’t come true. Probably just as well, given my difficulty with spatial visualization. I have enough trouble in atmosphere. Take away gravity and…the results would be entertaining for observers, or hair raising, or both at different times. I’d do better as a mechanic, or intel analyst (which is eventually what I planned on being after college.) I survived my teen years, more or less intact, at least physically. We shall not speak of my mental state, because it was unspeakable.

I was reminded of this from a discussion over at MGC where someone observed that he didn’t understand why Eustace Scrubb got so upset at being transformed into a dragon in the novel Voyage of the Dawn Treader. The commenter would have been delighted to wake up as a teen and find himself a dragon, one that could fly (and preferably breathe flame as well). I suspect a decent number of us voracious readers, nerds, baby bats (proto goths), and so on entertained visions of escaping in some way. Without clear rituals of passage from childhood to adulthood, aside from high school graduation*, there’s a period of floundering and sorting out, often relatively unsupervised by actual adults. As a result the pack turns on the Odds, unless we are 1) so ferocious that the group decides its safer to leave us alone or 2) we can contribute something of value, or 3) gain protectors, often because of Option 2.

And we read everything we could get our hands on, disappearing into different worlds. Now people game as well as read, immersing themselves in situations where they have more control (perhaps) and can actually do something about the problem.

What do you want to be? The answer changes over time as a child grows and sees more of the world. A giraffe, or a ballerina, Han Solo or Indiana Jones, a pilot, an elephant, a pony, a mad scientist [he got a PhD and does industrial chemistry, last I heard], a sports star, a rock star, a witch, all those things get tried on, perhaps adapted to this reality, perhaps discarded. After all, the job market for giraffes is somewhat limited at the moment. Those of us who still can’t decide, or who insist on being Odd often end up on the outside of the pecking order, fair game for other insecure or power-hungry people. Alas that pattern all too often extends past teen years into the Real World. Or predators take advantage of the Odds, as we see with dismal regularity today.

I just wanted to get away, to go be an adult doing adult things. I admit, a few days I dreamed of leveling the junior high building on my way out, with everyone safely outside of it. If the building was gone, then the problem would be gone, Or so I imagined. I know better, now.

And some days I want to be Professor Henry Jones Jr, opening the office window and climbing out and leaving the TA or secretary to deal with ungraded papers, unsigned forms, and dumb administrator requests. Turning into a dragon would be a nice bonus, but not required.

*And that’s no longer always true, given the over-emphasis on four-year-plus degrees and “you have to have a bachelor’s in something.”