One Boy, One Gun

 

As a farm boy I grew up with guns. The Old Man had a double barrel shotgun tucked away at the top of the wardrobe and professional shooters regularly came onto our land to hunt hares, rabbits and pheasant. I often found limp, bloody animal carcasses on the front porch in the morning. Death is a constant presence in the country. I once heard a neighbour tell some city cousins: “This is a farm. We kill things here.” In the 1960s the Second World War still loomed large in the imagination of British schoolboys. My boy’s newspaper, The Hotspur, was chock full of men with guns – stout Tommies with Bren guns and cold-faced Germans with Mausers and flamethrowers. 

Most of our schoolyard games involved shooting, wounding or blowing up our scabby kneed mates. Emptying a couple of shotgun cartridges and making an improvised bomb was a particular highlight but required a certain amount of subterfuge. I remember my older brother blowing up a rat in a barrel – it was as big as butcher’s dog. For a child of my era the greatest prize of all was an Action Man figure, complete with bazookas, grenades and the whole arsenal of death. Australian culture, too, is saturated in militarism. At the museum in the Victorian goldfields city of Beechworth there’s a photograph of boy soldiers rehearsing for the Great War. Most look no older than 12. Oddly enough there is something touchingly innocent about these pint-size soldiers. The same is true of the ludicrous xenophobia which permeated my childhood. 

But today’s world, with its 24/7 terrorism, gangland shootings and violent video games, is far nastier and more brutal. Is it still acceptable to let your kids run around with toy guns?  My wife, who learnt to shoot as a girl in Nigeria, sees no problem about Myles having a water pistol; in fact she wants him to learn about guns when he is older. I have canvassed the opinion of many parents over the past few weeks. Most seem to accept that guns and war play are an unescapable part of boyhood. “We try to limit our son’s access to toy guns,” said one mother. “But I don’t think you can have a blanket ban – they’ll just turn a tree branch or a broom into a gun if you do that.”  Other parents report having a “disarm” a visiting child who arrived at the house with a vast assortment of pistols, knives and grenades. “We had a weapons crate at the front door,” said one mum. 

My eldest son, now 24, was raised in a gun-free household but didn’t display any obvious pacifist tendencies. He once had stitches over one eye following a violent clash with plastic swords.  Indeed, many childhood experts do not subscribe to theory that early exposure to guns will turn your child into a violent adult. American parenting author Christine Gross-Loh says there is no evidence to suggest than engaging in gunplay is bad for your child – quite the reverse. “It can actually help teach children to read each other’s facial cues and body language, figure out their place in a group, and learn how to adjust their behaviour in social settings,” she says. But toy guns and aggressive war games are understandably frowned upon in progressive Western countries such as Australia, New Zealand, Britain and Canada; although I suspect rural parents are less PC around guns than their city counterparts. 

I actually think we should remove toy guns from the whole debate. We cannot shield our children from the evils of the world. Gun violence exists. The slaughter of innocents is played out on our TVs and computer screens daily. Will denying Myles a water pistol make him a better, more compassionate person? I don’t think so. Like the mother I quoted earlier, it’s probably best to monitor his access to toy weapons but not to impose a total arms ban. He can terrorize his little mates with a replica Mauser but blowing up live rats is verboten.

Surgery or savagery?

A day after he came into the world my son Myles was due to have a small operation. The procedure, male circumcision, sounds innocuous enough. I certainly thought so until the paediatric surgeon walked into our hospital room for a pre-op chat. “I just thought you should see what’s involved before we go ahead,” he said, firing up his iPad. “It is a pretty routine operation – but you need to understand the risks involved.” 

The images that flashed before me were truly gruesome: bloodied and scared penises; the faces of baby boys contorted in pain. I looked at my tiny son sleeping in the crib and felt numb with guilt. Was I really going to expose my tiny child to such a harrowing ordeal?

Our surgeon explained the procedure, possible complications and the recovery process, which can take weeks. Like other medical professionals in Australia he was careful not to express a personal opinion about the merits or otherwise of male circumcision – given its immense cultural baggage this is understandable.

But I had one burning question I needed answered. “What are the medical benefits of putting my son through this horrible ordeal?” I asked. The surgeon thought for a moment before replying carefully. “Well, none really,” he replied. “There are some American studies showing that circumcised males are less prone to contract sexually transmitted diseases – but plenty of other studies that contradict those findings. I cannot give you a compelling medical reason for doing this operation.”

My mind was made up. I would not consent to the operation. My son was a day old, small and vulnerable. I turned to my wife expecting some resistance – although born and raised in the UK, Vina’s family is from Nigeria where male circumcision is universally practiced. Perhaps exhausted by the delivery or maybe just sensing my emotional outrage, she agreed with my decision and Myles was saved from the snip – and a long and painful recovery. His foreskin would remain unmolested.

Our paediatrician looked equally relieved not to wielding the knife, even though he would forego the modest surgical fee, which incidentally was not covered by our private medical insurance. “Put it this way, when a boy is around 12 he falls in love with his penis – whether its circumcised or not,” he said. “It’s a lifelong obsession.”

Over the past few months I’ve read widely about the politics of male circumcision and canvassed the opinion of friends, family and work colleagues. The issue is deeply polarizing. Some of those opposed to the procedure describe it as little more than “butchery” – a medieval practice which is on a par with female circumcision and one with devastating results for male sexuality.

Advocates, including Professor Brian Morris from the University of Sydney, point to a number of recent American studies which suggest that circumcised males are less likely to contract diseases, such as herpes and syphilis, and have lower rates of urinary tract infection and even penile cancer.

Apart from the US, where two-thirds of boys are still circumcised, male circumcision is becoming less and less fashionable in the western world; only around 32 per cent of Australian men under 30 are circumcised. This is in stark contrast with the 1950s when the procedure was almost routine – the legacy, it has been suggested, of the many clean-living American GIs who were stationed on these shores during World War 2.
Male circumcision is still widely practiced in both the Jewish and African communities where the ritual has compelling religious and cultural significance. But the medical consensus, at least in Australia, is that the procedure is unnecessary and in many ways undesirable – the Royal Australasian College of Physicians says, based on available evidence, that the level of protection against disease offered by circumcision does not “warrant routine infant circumcision in Australia and New Zealand”.

So why do otherwise sane and rational people subject their baby sons to such a painful and potentially dangerous procedure? According to the BUPA website around 4 per cent of all newly circumcised babies suffer complications, such as bleeding, infection and permanent damage to the penis. Death from uncontrolled bleeding, meningitis and septicaemia are rare, but not unheard of.

Given the advances in personal hygiene (and the questionable benefits mentioned above) male circumcision should be as popular in 21^st Century Australia as witch burning. So why is it still being practiced?
Could it be, as Professor Morris argues, that vital facts about this ancient and controversial procedure are being withheld from us by the medical establishment? Or does it simply come down to aesthetics? Does the world still prefer the neater look of a circumcised penis?

Now You Are 9 (Months)

My wife once said her only major concern about being a mother was that she loved our son, Myles, “just too much”. I understand that sentiment completely. When he was first born I used to fret about my work deadlines, rushing back to my desk with dark mutterings after helping with a bottle feed or a particularly nauseous nappy change. Now I tend to linger over playtime, savouring the feel of his squirming, inquisitive body against mine or kicking a squidgy football around on the rug as Myles, like a highly strung Teletubby, trots on all fours around my feet. Occasionally I find myself watching Peppa Pig long after Myles has returned to his building blocks. “Don’t go up the room,” Vina warns me as we watch TV in the evening. “You’ll only wake him.” But there’s a special delight in watching my baby son slumbering in his cot, one fist loosely bunched and Flopsy, his loyal bedtime toy, tucked under the other arm. Truth is, I’m besotted with Myles. I marvel at this speck of humanity who has already gone from wrinkled baby to athletic boyhood in such a short space of time. The other day I composed a list of all the things that delighted me about my son: his first attempts to say “Dadda” (Vina tells me all babies say that first and not to get big headed), the way he hauls himself to his feet only to tumble over onto his amply padded bum, the look of utter concentration as he plays with his building blocks or pushes his wooden car, his pre-dawn chats to Flopsy before the rest of the house stirs. Best of all is his distinctive wave – an oddly artistic even Royal twist of the wrist. But what really melts my heart is his warm brown eyes, so serious one moment and scrunched up in laughter the next. When people ask me what has changed in the 23 years since my first son Courtney was born, I could say medical technology, children’s TV or nappy design (all true) but the biggest shift is in me. I try to enjoy every single moment with my son, whether that’s a simple walk in the park, a cuddle on the sofa or trying brush off a trail of goo on my jacket. At nine months Myles’ personality, confident, questioning and I suspect slightly anarchic, is already beginning to shine through. He may not have acquired much of a vocabulary beyond “gee” and “dee” but my son speaks to me through his laughter, his smile and, from time to time, his operatic sobs. It is sobering to think that human beings learn to laugh before we talk. Myles reminds me that we are here to be joyous, passionate and curious. Not glum and pessimistic. As all parents know you can never love your child enough – only be grateful for everything that they bring into your lives. I can’t wait for his first birthday!

Good Airline, Bad Airline

This blog originally appeared on the Travel Without Tears website http://travelwithouttears.com

Every traveller knows that sinking feeling when you arrive to check in for a long-haul flight only to be told: “Australia? Mmm. Looks like your original flight has been cancelled. Let me see what we can do for you.” 

At Heathrow Terminal 3 last week, the ice maiden from Emirates soon discovered she could very little for us – or our five-month-old baby. After a month in the UK showing off Myles to his granny, cousins, uncles, aunts and other admirers it was time to head home. Our nerves were frayed and Myles, who had begun teething, was ratty. The 22-hour flight loomed ahead of us, as ominous as having root canal surgery while watching The Block.

All consumers know they are basically just fodder in a great capitalist meat grinder, but few of us feel as powerless as when we are clutching Economy tickets for a flight that no longer exists, pleading with a lowly airline operator who couldn’t give a monkey’s (dreaming no doubt of that cushy job in the First Class Lounge) and waiting for your baby to start wailing.
“Okay, we can get you on another flight,” she makes even this sound like bad news. “But getting a bassinet from Dubai to Adelaide is going to be a problem. Let me see if I can ring my colleagues in Dubai.” She does (several times), but Dubai is otherwise engaged. She punches the speed dial on her mobile with increasing frustration. Her immaculate eyebrows narrow in distaste as she surveys us: her problem. “Why didn’t you book a bassinet in the first place?” she snaps. I explain that we actually bought return flights with Emirates’ code-share partner Qantas which had told us it was not possible to book a baby cot beforehand. “Just turn up at the airport and we’ll sort things out,” our Qantas consultant said. Qantas were as good as their word. We were assigned bassinet seats all the way through to London. No worries, mate.

“We have a different policy,” said our Emirates check in executive. “You need to go online to reserve a bassinet seat. I suggest you go and speak to the Qantas desk.”
I felt like a drowning man being thrown a lifeline. Surely the sensible folk at Qantas will sort out this mess – especially for a long-time frequent flyer and loyal member of the Qantas Club? My optimism was premature. “Let me just have a quick word with my supervisor,” said the Qantas liaison person. At least she looked genuinely concerned but the supervisor proved to be as elusive as the desk in Dubai. I showed her my Qantas Club card, my business card, my baby. Pearls before swine.

“This happens all the time,” said the Qantas non-liaising person in the efficient looking blue suit. “Basically Emirates and Qantas have different systems and we don’t talk to each other. It was much better with BA.”

After almost three hours in the grubby American Airlines lounge (Qantas does not have its own in Terminal 3) we were herded onto our flight to Dubai. I would like to report that Emirates – yes this is the airline which features in all of those glossy TV commercials – was able to redeem itself once we were in the air. Not so. The young female cabin crew struggled to install the bassinet, seemed reluctant to heat a bottle and never asked whether the two nursing mothers, including my wife, in our row needed any assistance. Maybe they were at the first class bar upstairs chatting to Jennifer Aniston over a mojito and a bucket of foie gras? They certainly managed to avoid too much contact with the prisoners in Economy.
Every so often I managed to corner one of these elusive queens of the desert in the galley. “Could you heat this for me please?” But the sight of a baby’s bottle seemed to cause genuine alarm – as though I’d just asked her to perform open-heart surgery right there on the floor with a swizzle stick and a mini bottle of scotch.

“I know you don’t have a microwave, so I need you to put the bottle in a small jug of hot water,” I would dutifully explain. “Jug?” said the Russian speaking one. “Oh, I see. For how long, this jug?” I’ve seen dog owners display more pleasure scraping canine faeces off the pavement than the crew of EK440 when handling a baby’s bottle. Flying with a small child on Emirates was truly awful. The check-in was brusque, we were not fast tracked for boarding and the cabin crew were hostile. Oddly enough I could cope with that rubbish. After all, who expects decent treatment when flying zoo class? What really hacked me off was that at the end of our 13-hour ordeal from Dubai to Adelaide, one of cabin queens asked us to pose for some happy snaps. Are you kidding? They were lucky I didn’t have a fully loaded nappy close at hand. Like many other rusted-on Qantas customers I am left wondering about the merits of a code-share arrangement that delivers such a poor standard of service and truly abysmal food. The fact I paid more to fly with Qantas and an extra loading for seats I couldn’t use only added to my sense of outrage. I have written to Qantas – the ultimate act of the impotent traveller who knows there is only one thing worse than flying Emirates Economy, and that’s flying Emirates Economy with a baby.

Curse Those Pesky Christians

When I sent out the formal invitations for my son’s baptism in December I was expecting plenty of no shows. People are busy, have lots of work commitments and cannot always travel; many of our friends and family live interstate or in the country. What I had not anticipated was the hostile reaction to the idea of a formal church ceremony.

“I just don’t like going into churches,” said one friend. Another, a lapsed Catholic, tried to engage me in a dialogue about organized religion: “I just don’t get this baptism thing at all. What does it really mean?” Perhaps the cross on the invitation had upset him. I later had to ‘unfriend’ another person, someone I have known for 20 years, from my social media network, after he posted a comment on Facebook, saying that having Myles baptized would be of little value to him later in life; a stupid and insulting comment.

Is it open season on Christianity at the moment? I cannot imagine that anyone would be so blunt or abusive if, for example, we were practicing Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Sikhs, Hindus or even members of the Baha’i faith.
Had we held the ceremony in a mosque or a synagogue, non-believers would have been intrigued by the ceremony, respectful of our values and impressed by the sense of community support evident throughout. They might have asked tactful questions and mingled politely with the worshippers afterwards. Anyone who had a problem with formal religion itself would, no doubt, have made a polite excuse – and kept away.

The same rules no longer seem to apply to Christians, who must constantly defend the idea of bringing their children up in the faith. Atheists seem to think that ritual is a somehow outmoded and embarrassing notion, with no value in our scientific, consumerist world. But even non-believers celebrate rites of passage, observe Christian holidays and occasionally get married in church – because they like the gothic architecture and, perhaps, the music, as I do.

Christians are routinely mocked in the media in a way which would be unthinkable if applied to other religions. Anglicanism, the most tolerant and ecumenical of the Christian churches, seems to generate a particular level of public opprobrium. So instead of celebrating our son’s baptism at St Peter’s Cathedral in Adelaide, I find myself having to defend my faith – and my decision to bring my child up in such an archaic, outmoded belief system.

To the knockers I say: there is nothing sinister or ridiculous about Christianity. At its core, Christianity is a religion of love and tolerance. And hope. That is exactly what we have found at our weekly worship at St Peter’s – a positive, supportive community.

Although conducted at the rather grand marble font, the baptism service at St Peter’s was very personal – the start of our son’s spiritual life but also a chance for us to reaffirm our faith. Each child was marked with the sign of the cross in water and presented with special baptism candle. “God has brought you out of darkness and into his marvellous light,” announced the Very Rev'd Frank Nelson, Dean of the Cathedral. Afterwards I held Myles aloft to the congregation, which burst into generous applause. It was positive, life-affirming moment.

Do I believe every child should have this type of religious initiation? Of course, not. Religion is a matter of private conscience. But surely Christians deserve the same level of respect or at least forebearance as those of other faiths? Maybe some of the cynics out there are tilting at windmills. I believe in a tolerant, pluralist, multi-faith Australia. Rather than sneering at religion, my secular colleagues should open their minds, and hearts, and embrace such diversity. Either way, I am delighted he is an Anglican, at least for the moment. It will be his bedrock in the years to come.