I try not to be a
curmudgeon. I try very hard.
However, sometimes the limits of my patience are tested, and
it appears that the world is conspiring, in my later years, to turn me into a grumpy,
disapproving stereotype – the kind of person that, as a boy, I tried to avoid.
To illustrate, I recently visited my grandchildren. Usually,
they are happy to see me – and I want to keep it that way.
However, what proved to be my trial was The Game – a video
game, of course. My sensitive, intelligent granddaughter had begun
to play it as I was sitting comfortably on the living room couch.
Understand: this was not Pac-Man, which I could have
tolerated. No. It was a shockingly realistic, nightmarish gore fest which, I
was told, is called Silent Hill.
This fictitious location featured dark, fog draped streets strewn
with mangled dead bodies. Lumbering, deformed creatures emerged from the mist,
necks tilted at unnatural angles, heads wobbling. One of these gurgling,
hissing, slurping monstrosities was coming toward my grand-daughter – at least
the character she was controlling on the screen – as her thumbs twitched
furiously in self-defense.
Here, among other things, was my problem: When my
granddaughter was even younger, she used to have terrible nightmares that woke
her up at night and reduced her to a trembling heap – and sometimes even to
tears.
There are so many ways to enjoy life, I thought. There are
not only libraries full of fascinating literature to explore; there is the
refreshing lure of the outdoors, and so much natural beauty that goes unappreciated
– not to mention the magic of imagination. Instead of enjoying these wonders, my grand-daughter had
chosen to sit in a dimly lit living room and play a game that terrified her –
she had chosen a nightmare over some
of the best things life has to offer.
My grand-daughter turned to me. “Look,” she said. “Did you
see that? I got him.” She was clutching the controller so hard, I thought she
might break it.
I forced a tolerant smile, and hoped it did not turn into
the curmudgeonly grimace I felt trying to form. I had decided not to ruin her
fun.
Then, something happened. The vision on the screen was
indescribable – a grotesque perversion of nature ripping into something else
with malicious, and possibly even sadistic, intent – in an orgy of death and
violence surpassing any horror I had ever seen. And now it was advancing toward
my grand-daughter.
It was too much. I felt the curmudgeon inside me rising to
take control; it had an entire speech prepared, and I was about to deliver it
for him. Just as the creature found its way to my daughter, a voice from
another room interrupted: “Supper is ready.”
“Hold on mom,” my grand-daughter said. “I’m coming.” She
paused the game, freezing the creature before it could do any damage. She set
down the controller, got up, then smiled charmingly – and beautifully – at me.
“Come on, Grandpa,” she said. And then she was gone.
For a second, I could not move, or breathe. When the monster
had paused, something inside me had paused as well. As I stared at the newly
static screen, a flicker of understanding had arisen.
This was not the
nightmare of her childhood. This was not any fear she dealt with everyday. Here,
and perhaps here alone, she could put her fears on pause. These monsters were no threat to her. The game allowed her an
extraordinary power – a way to confront her nightmares in a way that was
completely safe.
If only real life granted this, I thought. Being able to
actively confront fears without true danger was a hidden value – and I had
missed it.
I imagined a world in which everyone could freeze time when
bad things happened and then, go to eat supper. I thought I could appreciate
this world a bit now, with its frozen monster, a place where my granddaughter
would never feel helpless; where the threats were not real – where she ventured
bravely toward the monsters, rather than waiting for them to come to her.
