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Getting Past Pan They talk of distaste for "the real world," or even fear of it. They reminisce fondly about the times when they weren’t so old, jaded, and faced with responsibility. They long to be college freshmen again, or even kindergartners. Childhood is elevated in their minds to a time of blissful freedom and innocence. It’s a lot like the notion of the "noble savage," the ideal of human beings unfettered by civilization and living in harmony with nature, but without the need for other cultures. After all, if you want someone that prefers to go "au naturel," you needn’t look further than the nearest toddler or two. And it’s a pretty safe bet they’ll be fairly uncivilized little heathens, at that. I actually tend to get along with children rather well. Consequently, babysitting was my primary source of income when I was in high school, and I’ve spent a great deal of time since as a camp counselor, gymnastics coach, and head of playground excursions at family picnics. (This last might have something to do with my own fondness for swings and sandboxes.) In my experience, besides being cute and fun to play with, kids are rather interesting human-beings-in-training. And it’s true that they often lack the cynicism and ingrained prejudices that many older people accumulate. However, they also tend to lack patience, consideration and foresight. They’re liable to throw temper tantrums, cut each other in line, and need to be reminded to go to the bathroom. Why is it, then, that any college students would be eager to imitate them? Sure, you don’t hear people waxing poetic about their bed-wetting days, but how many do you see jostling for the title of "responsible adult"? A friend who graduated last May to become a reporter was infinitely relieved when her younger sister asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. "I was just happy she didn’t think I was already grown up," my friend recounted. "Grown up" is the designation to avoid at all cost. When I was a kid, my family called them "grups." My parents were classic Star Trek fans, and it was a reference to an episode in which the Enterprise encounters a strange disease. Although the virus prolongs children’s aging for centuries, as soon as they hit puberty, they are struck with rapidly degenerative symptoms: growing sores, progressive insanity, and a very painful death. If the dread in their voices is any indication, that doesn’t sound altogether different from what a lot of recent college graduates expect will soon happen to them. Of course, it could be that the notion of donning "a tie and a serious expression in the middle of July" seems nearly as bad. Though not everyone comes from a family of science fiction fans, we were all introduced to the myth of Peter Pan at a tender age. As for me, I remember thinking that the Darling children were fools. And the non-Disney version, wherein Peter himself renounced his idyllic world of mermaids and flight? That was simply tragic. Religion offers a more serious twist on adulthood. I probably couldn’t even count how many times my Catholic grade school, in religion classes alone told and retold the story of Jesus declaring, "Let the little children come to me," and scolding the adults for not being more child-like. It wasn’t supposed to be an ego-boost, though. It was third grade when we were admonished, lest we think we were paragons of virtue, "That passage isn’t talking about you; it’s talking about the kindergartners." At eight, we were already too old and corrupt. From every quarter, we hear the sentiments of "Jack and Dianne" in one form or another: "Life goes on long after the thrill of living is gone." Depending on whom you ask, the reason for the degeneration varies, as does the age of no return. But the muddled message is pervasive: "growing up" and "growing old" are horrible prospects, to be fought and denied as long and aggressively as possible. Most forget to ask what it is about adulthood that we’re supposed to so dread. Is it the burden of having to feed, clothe, and decide for ourselves? The diminished social status of no longer being every marketer’s target audience? Perhaps part of what everyone wants back is the ethical simplicity of childhood. A symptom of growing up that I’ve heard voiced on multiple occasions was the wistful recollection, "I used to know for sure." In Peter Pan, after all, there’s no confusion about who the pirates are, or if they might be making a good point; sending Hook to the crocodile isn’t a difficult decision. But most human beings aren’t as distilled an embodiment of right or wrong. Even individuals who share the same ideals might not always come to the same conclusions. And sometimes, people make mistakes, of greater or lesser degree. (This is not to say, of course, that the "grays" are either inevitable or desirable, merely that they exist and can be difficult to judge.) In one episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (I’ve already confessed to being raised on Star Trek; I might as well further reveal my geekiness), after staking an old friend of hers who turned vampire to avoid dying from cancer, the title character asks her mentor, "Does it ever get any easier? . . . Lie to me." "Yes," he replies with a sad smile. "It's terribly simple. The good guys are stalwart and true. The bad guys are easily distinguished by their pointy horns or black hats and we always defeat them and save the day. Nobody ever dies, and everybody lives happily ever after." "Liar," she retorts knowingly. But such troublesome complexity also offers potential. In the adult world, "enemies" don’t always have to be fed to crocodiles; sometimes, they can be reasoned with and dissuaded from their wicked ways. A lover can be a great deal more than a playmate. No victory in video games or sports competitions can compete with the thrill of a successful career. Indeed, there are myriad joys of being a grup that often go unappreciated by all those who are too busy trying not to become one. As lovely as Never Land might be, a thimble isn’t a kiss. And anyone who’s seen Hook knows that when Peter Pan learned to fly again, his happy thought was his son. I can see why he left. Kids can make great company, after all; I just wouldn’t want to be one. (adapted from an article originally published in Fordham University’s The Ram)
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