Children at play

We're on the playground at recess - the children, my colleagues and I - engaged in a rousing hybrid of tag and the pre-pubescent ritual of shaming any peer who dare express an interest in those three things we all secretly most desire: love, marriage and a baby carriage.

In this particular crossover sport, the "it" kid must touch a member of the opposite sex, at which point the collective chants of the new chaser's romantic interest in the previous one.

The tragedy in this game, evident in each pair of frantic child's eyes, is that while they've nearly all developed some level of attraction to another member of their class, the embarrassment of any such proclamation, whether truthful or not, instills such a conditioned fear that each student seeks out not who he desires, but the student nearest by, to be free from the public shame of love.


This is how we educate ourselves from such an early age that it becomes our nature to fear and run from our emotions, merely because we observe and learn that others fear and run from theirs. So we keep silent, deny rumors of that first crush, grow up, and spend the rest of our youthful years desperately fighting the fear of making our intentions known.

But just as I begin to pity these children at play I see the youngest boy stop in his place. He angles his head, furrows his brow and begins, "First comes marriage, then comes carriage... wait... When is love?"

And his sincerity and innocence bring me laughing to my knees (which I pray doesn't shame him and further blur his understanding of what's socially acceptable to say).

Now level with him, I look him in his troubled eyes and with equal sincerity I confide, "John, if I knew the answer to that question, I'd be a happy man."

Content with this uncertainty, he runs back to his game.

And I, to mine.