How many times have you heard new parents, their eyes bright with happy delerium (or perhaps just lack of sleep), insisting that you don’t know what love is until you first lay eyes on your baby? How many of you have reunited with old university buddies who have grown up and spawned, only to find that mouths which once argued about hyperspace and acid rain can’t seem to open now without veering into the realm of child-rearing? How many commercials have you seen that sell steel-belted radials by plunking a baby onto one? How many times has rational discourse been utterly short-circuited the moment someone cries “Please, someone think of the children!”? (I’ve noticed the aquarium industry is particularly fond of this latter strategy, whenever anyone suggests shutting down their captive whale displays.)
You know all this, of course. You know the wiring and the rationale behind it: the genes build us to protect the datastream. The only reason we exist is to replicate that information and keep it moving into the future. It’s a drive as old as life itself. But here’s the thing: rutting and reproduction are not the traits we choose to exhalt ourselves for. It’s not sprogs, but spirit, that casts us in God’s image. What separates us from the beasts of the field is our minds, our intellects. This, we insist, is what makes us truly human.
Which logically means that parents are less human than the rest of us.
Stick with me here. All of us are driven by brainstem imperatives. We are all compromised: none of us is a paragon of intellect or rationality. Still, some are more equal than others. There is a whole set of behavioral subroutines that never run until we’ve actually pupped, a whole series of sleeper programs that kick in on that fateful moment when we stare into our child’s eyes for the first time, hear the weird Middle-eastern Dylan riffs whining in our ears, and realise that holy shit, we’re Cylons.
That is the moment when everything changes. Our children become the most important thing in the world, the center of existence. We would save our own and let ten others die, if it came to that. The rational truth of the matter— that we have squeezed out one more large mammal in a population of 6.5 billion, which will in all likelihood accomplish nothing more than play video games, watch Inuit Idol, and live beyond its means until the ceiling crashes in— is something that simply doesn’t compute. We look into those bright and greedy eyes and see a world-class athlete, or a Nobel Prize-winner, or the next figurehead of global faux-democracy delivered unto us by Diebold and Halliburton.
We do not see the reality, because seeing reality would compromise genetic imperatives. We become lesser intellects. The parental subroutines kick in and we lose large chunks of the very spark that, by our own lights, makes us human.
So why not recognise that with a new political movement? Call it the “Free Agent Party”, and build its guiding principles along the sliding scale of intellectual impairment. Those shackled by addictions that skew the mind — whether pharmaceutically, religiously, or parentally induced — are treated the same way we treat those who have yet to reach the age of majority, and for pretty much the same reasons. Why do we deny driver’s licences and voting priveleges to the young? Why do we ban drunks from the driver’s seat? Because they are not ready. They are not competent to make reasonable decisions. Nobody questions this in today’s society. So tell me, how are offspring addicts any different?
I’m thinking of adding such a political movement to the noisy (and slightly satirical) background of an upcoming novel, but the more I think of it, the more it strikes me as an idea whose time has come. It’s a no-lose electoral platform as far as I can see.
Now go find me a campaign manager.