Kids today...

 Skimming an article online from NPR, about two middle school girls who have a podcast about what it's like to be a middle schooler today, one thing stood out: active shooter drills.

When I was in the middle school years, the Vietnam War and racial tension stressed the country. As a military dependent, I knew a lot of kids who worried about losing a father. Outside of that circle, with the draft in full operation, I knew kids who worried about losing a brother. Hanging over all of this was the threat of nuclear war. None of us as young children had any idea what might trigger it, but we all knew that it would be much more abrupt and far reaching than the start of any other war in human history. But it was abstract. When a kid lost a family member to the war in Southeast Asia, it was on the other side of the world. Their loss was real, but the carnage took place off stage.

For the past thirty years or so, school children have had to prepare more and more for the carnage to erupt in the middle of their lives. With gun laws that are not only lax but openly supportive of the rights of the homicidal, the United States is a breeding ground for grievance murderers. Most of it happens piecemeal, in domestic violence or street crime. Applying the logic used around air crashes, you never hear about the thousands of schools that go year after year without a mass shooting. You only hear about the spectacular disasters. We're just supposed to accept the possibility. Could happen. Probably won't. And hey: your odds of survival are way better in a school shooting than in an airliner crash. Do your drills and keep your wits about you if the shooting actually starts. You fall to the level of your training, kids!

Mass shootings are not limited to schools, of course. Any public gathering could become a target range for some heavily armed, sad, angry person ready to let it rip. They might or might not be suicidal themselves. Often they have no intention of surviving, or at least don't expect to.

Death hovered near us in other ways in the 1960s and '70s. Schoolmates might lose a parent to cancer or a car crash. We might even lose a schoolmate to cancer or a car crash. One kid I knew drowned in a swimming pool. Those still apply today. The unlikely but far from impossible threat of a nuclear fireball (I spent a lot of school years near DC) has been replaced by the fairly unlikely but too-often repeated scenario of a mass murderer dropping by, in addition to the daily hazards. Does it make it harder or easier to take that you might be chopped to pieces by little bits of flying lead while a nearby friend manages to evade it? It's not even combat. You're being hunted by a wasteful killer with nothing but blood lust.

In the meantime, you have to worry about whether you look sufficiently fashionable to avoid ridicule, and hope that you don't do anything that will get you plastered all over the internet for decades of unanswerable humiliation. And an older generation grumbles constantly about your flaws.

The Woman Haters

When I was about seven years old, living in a little residential neighborhood called Rogers Heights, in Annapolis, my friends and I played in the woods that abutted all of our back yards, on the other side of a rainbow-hued trickle that flowed eventually down to Weems Creek underneath the Rowe Boulevard bridge. This was around 1963.

Our group included at least one girl. She was just another grubby kid looking for frogs, like the rest of us. We gave no thought to gender in our loose group of poison ivy finders. Not much, anyway.

We never saw anyone in the woods that we hadn't brought with us, but the other kids would refer to an ominous group of older boys who called themselves The Woman Haters. We never actually saw any of them that I recall, but we did see a tree fort that the kids in the know said was their headquarters. A flag made out of an old cloth diaper hung limply from it in the windless summer air. Whatever design had been painted on it remained obscured in its folds. Feeling that we might be under surveillance from that eyrie of junior misogynists, we withdrew quietly to the safety of our yards. We had no fences, so the collective yard formed a long strip of field between our houses and the near bank of the stream.

The day that safety was violated by a BB gun sniper who shot me in the arm, everyone agreed that it was the work of The Woman Haters. Apparently they weren't too fond of anyone.

I never encountered anything like that when we moved to Newport, Rhode Island, and then to Thomaston, Maine. And when I returned to Maryland at age 11 to face an unending assault of other preadolescent stresses, we lived in a different neighborhood where enmity was much more pointed and personal.

I wonder now whether The Woman Haters existed, who was in the club, and what became of them as they grew older. But I don't waste any time wondering enough to investigate. We're all too old to matter anymore. If they made careers of misogyny, they've done their damage. If they didn't, their club name was just another stupid boy thing. I don't imagine they inherited it as a secret society, as old as the Knights Templar, and passed their lodge rituals on to new generations. I think they just liked to sit in their tree house and take pot shots at smaller kids. It was the sort of thing that never surprised smaller kids. We were the punching bags and continual irritant of older siblings and their friends.

I was not aware of woman-hating sentiments among my fellow bottle breakers and stone skippers. I never went through a phase where I "hated gurlz." I always rather liked them. Later, in adolescence and beyond, I was cruel to some of them, but never out of malice, only out of selfishness and self consciousness. That makes it no less hurtful, and, therefore, unforgivable, but they weren't the acts of a twisted man with deep-seated hostility. Just another insecure dork trying to fake out both the bullies and the objects of his desire.

Self consciousness is very different from self awareness. Self awareness puts you on solid ground to figure out how to be the person you want to be. Self consciousness never finds solid ground. For some of us, the tension between the two forces never ends.