When this old world is getting me down
And there’s no love to be found
I close my eyes and soon I find
I’m in a playground in my mind
Where the children laugh
And the children play
And we sing a song all day
– Clint Holmes, Playground in my mind
Whenever hope is at a premium, as is almost always the case in this challenging post-pandemic proposition, just like Mr. Holmes described, I head back to that late-sixties Evanston St. Nick’s playground where dreams and possibilities were as abundant as those white blouses, plaid skirts, navy blue pants, light blue dress shirts, and clip-on ties.
No matter what our situation was, and most of them were questionable at best in those always fascinating German Catholic families, we’d convinced ourselves that life could only get better. The future was boundless and no one could tell us otherwise. It was the blissful convergence of exuberance, resilience, and a lack of life experience that defines the very nature of children.
My vision always starts with a descent down the stairway opening out onto the westernmost edge of that asphaltic expanse. As I burst out of the levered door the streaming noon sun envelops me as I close my eyes to take in the subtle scents of the first warm spring day. It’s a glorious portent of impending summer and the promise of freedom to come.
Having adjusted to the brightness, I open my eyes to survey the stately elms, their nascent leaves lazily dancing in the gentle breeze, towering above me in the backyards adjoining the playground. The sparrows, robins, and cardinals, oblivious to the sublime cacophony below, simply add their songs to the seasonal operatic offering.
Then I lean back against the red-bricked wall and take a deep breath of that youthful hope that spontaneously springs forth from the playground inhabitants in almost infinite amounts.
But if I linger too long, the skies start to darken, an ill wind kicks up, and the glorious multicolored scene fades to a stark black and white. That’s when the nuns start ushering their charges back into the building, their traditional habits perfectly blending in with the now colorless scene.
As the children start filing back into the school, I have to sublimate an almost irresistible urge to shout, “No! Don’t go back in. The storm will pass. Take advantage of every outdoor moment you can. Life will start beating you down soon enough.” But I remain silent because I know my warning would go unheeded. The untamable energy of youth is far too powerful to let them listen to reason.
When I finally leave the imaginary flight behind and begin to consider the actual late 60’s reality, I remember that life was already beating us down, it’s just that we were a bit more resilient back then.
There were some great nuns, but they were the exception to the bitterly sadistic and physically abusive rule. “Joy” generally wasn’t a word in the Sisters of St. Agnes vocabulary. And by today’s standards, a plurality of those St. Nick’s families could not have withstood the most minimal DCFS investigation. Then all of that pain, anger, and fear came bursting forth on the same playground in the form of a hierarchy that could be rather brutal to those on the bottom rungs.
Life didn’t get better for most of us, either, it got worse. And it got worse because the natural response to that stress – rebellion – only exacerbated the dysfunctional cycle. And the fact that the various escapes were far worse than any underlying trauma failed to deter us from attempting to prove otherwise. Then those encroaching social expectations put the dagger in the heart of our youth for good.
Life turned into something that takes a toll. It became something to survive. And that’s just about the time that spring playground hope gets relegated to the most distant of memories.
Please understand, I’m not complaining about those often-blunt realities because it’s not the case. What good would it do if I did? I’m only proceeding with my involuntary role as the messenger who occasionally has an insight into the truth. Think of me as someone who (thankfully) missed his calling as a biblical prophet.
Just how does one effectively “complain” about an existence with an explicit intent to provide those kinds of regular beatdowns?
One of my favorite Twilight Zone episodes revolves around recently deceased gangster Rocky Valentine, who, to his great surprise, ends up in what he believes to be heaven. And he’s convinced it’s nirvana because he’s promptly handed everything he’s ever dreamed of – money, expensive clothes, a luxury apartment, and beautiful women.
But after a few weeks of every wish being granted, Rocky starts to chafe against the lack of any challenge, finally asking his guide to take him to the “other place.” That’s when the guide laughs malevolently as he says, “This is the other place!”
Like it or not, and there are plenty of times I don’t, human beings cannot thrive without the growth induced by enduring the scars of challenges, disappointments, and setbacks. As the great comedian Chris Rock so eloquently explained:
We need bullies. How the fuck you gonna have a school with no bullies? Bullies do half the work. That’s right. Teachers do one half. Bullies do the whole other half. And that’s the half you’re gonna use as a fucking grown-up. That’s right. Who gives a fuck if you can code… if you start crying ’cause your boss didn’t say hello?
We need bullies. Shit, pressure makes diamonds. Not hugs. That’s right. Hug a piece of coal and watch what you get. You get a dirty shirt. I’m telling you, we need fucking bullies.
That may be a bit harsh, but he’s dead on. If I had to choose between a 60’s upbringing with the dysfunctional family dynamic and the fascinating Catholic education that went along with it, or growing up in the self-esteem and participation trophy era, I wouldn’t have to think twice. I’d head back to St. Nick’s in a heartbeat.
That means, even if those fictional playground children could listen to me, they shouldn’t. My errant effort to “save them” from life’s impending pain would rob them of who they might otherwise become. Yes! Hugs are important. But only pressure can create diamonds.
So, what separates the folks who endure and make the best of life’s trials from those who succumb to the inevitable pain? It’s that playground hope. It’s never letting go of Studs Terkel’s brilliant notion that redemption, no matter how difficult or seemingly distant, is always around the next corner. It’s never easy, but all we have to do is trust in ourselves and those endless childhood possibilities and we will move forward.
Call it “grace” if you like, but it’s also an essential part of the human condition.
So, why am I bothering you with this? Because, though the most circuitous of routes, I just found out that, about a year ago, my youngest brother Michael succumbed to the addiction that runs so rampant in my family. It wasn’t a surprise, I’d mourned his loss quite some time ago. The coroner’s report only confirmed what I already knew.
Two Septembers ago, my wife and I headed into Evanston for the St. Nick’s Class of ’72 50th reunion, and decades after the fact, I got to walk on the playground that still contains the echoes of my nine years there and so many other’s. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it turned out to be more fun than I could’ve imagined. The best part was the communal sense of having endured the kind of shared struggle that only we could fully understand. The late ‘60s certainly were a tumultuous time.
And the fact that we’d all come through it meant we were proof of the power of hope. We could see it in each other’s eyes. All of that pressure only made us better. It was one of the most uplifting experiences of my life. My only wish is that more of our classmates could’ve been there to experience it.
But sadly, my brother Michael lost hope. All he could see was the pain and nothing beyond it. He couldn’t perceive the growth that might come from facing down his demons for the shadows they really are. He’d completely forgotten about the St. Nick’s playground because the past had become something to avoid at all costs, even if it meant the end of his life.
I know I’ve taken far too long to get here, but my point is this. Hope is as an essential part of the human condition as being tested. So, whenever this existence starts closing in on you and times get tough, and they will, as Mr. Holmes advised, head back to whatever playground suits you and reconnect with the childhood hope that sprung forth from each and every one of us as naturally as sunlight and rain fall from the heavens.
Please remember that redemption is always around the corner, but most of all, never give up hope.
In the wonders that I find in the playground in my mind
In a world that used to be, close your eyes and follow me
Where the children laugh and the children play
And we’ll sing a song all day
