I, Etcetera

by Susan Sontag

  Then one day we caught him stealing.

  Oh, no. He doesn’t know we caught him.

  No, you couldn’t exactly say he was accident-prone.

  He did get a nail in his foot in camp last summer. The counselor said he was quite brave.

  All his shots.

  But he never tells us when something is wrong. That’s why we have to worry so much.

  After Baby had his wisdom teeth out all at once, we took him down the Colorado. We were in a dinghy with the other tourists, all wearing heavy black slickers. He started to bleed on the rapids. A lot of water came into the boat. Baby’s face was wet and the blood ran out of both sides of his mouth. But he didn’t say a word.

  No, that was his decision. He’s got to learn to make decisions on his own. And not come to us for everything.

  Baby wants a motor bike. But we told him it’s too dangerous, what with city traffic. Not like the Valley in the old days.

  His cousin Bert had a dreadful accident and was laid up for eight months in St. John’s. Both ankles shattered, three operations. He still limps a little. Probably will for the rest of his life. And Bert was lucky! We’ve heard of some really gruesome accidents.

  You know kids. They never stop wanting things.

  He’s always wanted a dog, but we don’t think he has enough sense of responsibility. He’s too young to walk the dog each night. And he’s already late every other morning for school. So you can imagine if he had a dog to walk first.

  In a few years, maybe.

  Getting him to accept responsibility has always been the hard part. He thinks we’re here just to pick up after him.

  But you should see Baby’s room. He never throws out anything. All his torn issues of the National Lampoon and Penthouse and Rolling Stone. Jars of pennies and God knows what else, movie stubs, Dodgers score cards, dirty Kleenexes, cigarette butts, old candy wrappers, empty matchbooks, Coke cans, his clothes all over the floor. Not to mention what’s hidden.

  Baby has a swastika in his top bureau drawer, beneath his underwear.

  Baby draws obscene comic strips.

  We used to go in and pick up after him, as soon as he left for school. But he would be furious when he found something missing. Now we don’t touch anything.

  If he wants to live like a pig, he’ll have to find out how unpleasant it is.

  Some of them, we admit. They turned out to be collector’s items. Of course, Baby won’t sell them. But you’re not going to tell us that Baby’s keeping six years’ worth of TV Guides is ever going to amount to anything.

  People have to choose, don’t they, doctor?

  Friday

  Do you think a gradual gain of weight is a sign of anything wrong, doctor?

  The past six months.

  Not more than usual.

  No, he doesn’t smoke. Thank God for that. As a matter of fact, Baby’s always kidding us about smoking. He’s rather hypochondriacal. Since he was small.

  Baby is afraid of germs. He’s started wearing a white-cloth mask over his mouth, like the Japanese.

  Of course we’ve tried to give up smoking. Hasn’t everybody?

  Does this smoke bother you? Come to think of it, we just assumed, because you have all these ashtrays around—

  Good.

  Maybe he’s afraid we’ll die before he grows up.

  Pretty long-lived, on both sides. But we can’t talk about longevity to Baby. Just mention the idea and he goes wild. It only seems to remind him about death.

  Sure he knows. Every date. Baby made a genealogical chart and hung it over his bed, beside the Confederate flag. You wouldn’t believe the questions he asked.

  Imagine, he wanted to know if we were first cousins.

  Enough is enough, we said to him. Trying to make a joke out of the whole thing. And he actually seemed disappointed.

  The best part about Baby is just holding him. We feel inadequate sometimes, answering his questions. But when he shows his need for us more directly, then it’s all pleasure.

  If only he’d laugh more often. He has such a wonderful laugh.

  Baby loves spinach. And lamb chops. Those are his two favorite dishes. He won’t let us set him in his high chair unless we call him Baby Lamb Chop.

  Baby’s teeth are coming in crooked. He was born with an abnormally high palate, the obstetrician told us.

  No, but that’s what’s causing the trouble with the adenoids. It was predicted right then.

  And a bluish mark in the small of his back, called a Mongolian spot. Funny. We certainly don’t have any Oriental blood, that’s for sure. The obstetrician said it was very rare in Caucasian babies.

  Have you ever heard of the Mongolian spot?

  At least up to then. Until puberty, he used to run all around the house naked. We dropped some hints, but when he kept on doing it, we stopped. We certainly didn’t want him to feel that we—

  Perfectly normal.

  Fifteen. No, that’s wrong. Fourteen and a half.

  Well, we assume so. Naturally, we haven’t seen him naked since.

  He does like clothes, yes. You could say he’s rather vain. He can take an hour to make up his mind whether he’s going to wear the Mr. Natural or the Conan the Barbarian T-shirt to school in the morning.

  Sometimes he stays in the sauna for hours. It isn’t as if we don’t give him his privacy.

  We always feel that Baby is hiding something from us. That he’s ashamed. Particularly the crush he had on his journalism teacher, Mr. Berg.

  Baby is editor of his high-school paper. He was junior-high-school paper editor, too.

  Of course, it’s normal, in a way. You don’t need to tell us that. But you can understand we were a little apprehensive.

  We just didn’t want Baby to be hurt. We saw what happened when Berg didn’t praise one of his editorials. Baby was in a tearful sulk for days.

  No, we wouldn’t object if he turned out to be. One thing we’ve learned, doctor. Any way you can be happy, you’re already ahead of the game.

  That doesn’t mean that when Baby got married, we weren’t relieved. We’ll be honest with you.

  We don’t believe in early marriages, either. Young people have to find themselves first.

  Her father is a systems engineer at Lockheed. We should tell you about her. It’s too late to start this time.

  Saturday

  Leaving something behind means we didn’t want to go at the end of the last session, right?

  It looks broken.

  No, here. Look.

  Never mind, it doesn’t matter. We have another one at home.

  Perhaps we could double the sessions. We could both come on the same day. One in the morning, one in the afternoon.

  Naturally. But starting Monday?

  Well, it doesn’t seem to be getting any better.

  No, not worse.

  No. Why should we be pessimistic, doctor?

  We’re not pessimists by nature. We’re just trying to be realistic.

  Going to group gives one a certain confidence, you know. Perhaps we were too confident.

  Laurie died.

  The duck. Remember? We told you.

  In the back yard. By candlelight.

  Not very. Surprisingly enough. If Baby could cry when he learned that George Washington is no longer alive, the least we thought he’d do was cry about Laurie.

  We offered to get him another duck, but he said he’d rather have a snake. There’s some snake store out in Culver City, where he went after school last Thursday with a friend. He wants us to come with him, but we put it off. Spoiling him, giving him everything he wants, won’t help, will it, doctor?

  Fish, turtles, a macaw. No, first the macaw and then the turtles. They died. Baby forgot to feed them. Then the chickens and the two ducks.

  It’s funny that Baby likes snakes now. He used to be so terrified of being bitten by a rattlesnake when we had the house on Doheny Hill.

  He’s afraid of policemen, too. It started wh
en he was three.

  We pretend we don’t notice the pot smell in his room. And he pretends he doesn’t know we’re pretending not to smell it.

  Of course, the windows were open.

  He buys an awful lot of pornographic books and sex manuals, it seems to us. You’d think he’d learn enough about all that in school.

  Baby wears earphones when he plays his cassettes. We don’t take it personally, mind you. But it is another way in which he shuts us out. And the look on his face when he’s listening to music is almost indecent.

  Are you recording what we say? Funny, we never thought to ask you that. There’s no tape recorder on your desk. But, of course, that doesn’t mean anything.

  Lots of doctors do. Dr. Greenwich does. We don’t mind. It’s probably a very good system, especially if you don’t have an excellent memory. Go right ahead.

  Are you sure?

  In fact, it might even be helpful for us to listen to ourselves. You could play back parts of the sessions and we could comment on them.

  Really, you ought to think about it, doctor.

  Monday

  What pressure?

  When he dropped out of Occidental, after one year, we didn’t insist that he get a job. We told him that his room was always there, waiting.

  He hung around.

  That was later, after he did try something.

  Right. Then we forked out for flying school in Long Beach. It’s supposed to be the best in the country. But he flunked out because of his nose.

  Three adenoid operations. But there’s still something wrong with his nose.

  Have we? Every specialist known to God and man.

  Sure, we’re going to try again. We can’t let the kid go around breathing through his mouth for the rest of his life.

  You should see what happens when we go to the movies together. People near us change their seats, his breathing is so loud. They can’t at a play, because the seats are reserved.

  Oh, one thing. Before we forget. At the meeting last night, they asked us to report on our work with you, doctor. You don’t mind, do you? Perhaps we should have asked you first.

  Dissatisfied? Certainly not.

  Sometimes, though, to tell the truth, we have the impression that it’s you who are dissatisfied. With us.

  Well, impatient, then. Isn’t that true, doctor?

  Listen, if you think we have any interest in prolonging this, you’re sadly mistaken. Not to mention the money that’s going down the drain.

  OK, but imagine how impatient we are. We have to live with the problem every day, round the clock. You get to sit there, listen to us, and then you can forget about us after we leave.

  Of course, we have moments of joy. Have we ever denied that?

  Baby got a new tooth today. Don’t think that doesn’t give us pleasure. But it doesn’t cancel everything else out.

  How? We don’t just live from moment to moment, like the lilies in the field, doctor. Much as we might like to. We have memories and hopes. And fears.

  Afraid of you? Why should we be afraid of you, doctor?

  Feelings are one thing. But sound advice is another. Dr. Greenwich vouches for you. We’re sure the group is going to give you a clean bill of health.

  We’re afraid of Baby.

  Monday

  Why shouldn’t we look grim? He’s started drinking again. Mescal. Southern Comfort. And some vile stuff called Georgia Moon.

  Since he’s of age, how can we?

  Moral force? That’s easier said than done.

  Baby has a will of his own, doctor. That’s what you don’t grasp. A terrible will. Trying to stop him only makes him do it more. He’ll do anything to defy us.

  Even cause himself pain.

  We had to put bars in front of the portable grill after Baby inched all the way across the dining-room floor in his playpen, rocking it back and forth, and laid his palms on it. He knew what he was doing. He knew it was hot.

  A terrible burn. He’s got both little fat hands bandaged up over the wrists, like gloves. But the pediatrician says it won’t leave any scars.

  One day he’s really going to hurt himself. That’s what worries us.

  We’re not sure he even knows any more what causes him pain. Or else—and this is worse—Baby has made himself into someone who just feels less and less.

  When Thelma DeLara moved away, Baby was inconsolable. He cried for weeks. You remember our telling you about Thelma. His best friend in first grade.

  Now he’s gotten cold and hard.

  Whatever we want to do, he’s against. What we cherish, he spits on.

  Last night he hung a big black flag from the television aerial on the roof. We almost broke our necks getting it down.

  Patient! What do you think we’ve been all these years? You’ve heard of the limits of patience, haven’t you, doctor?

  We’ve been shopping around for a special school. Not an institution, of course. He wouldn’t feel locked up or anything like that. Just some place where people would know how to handle him.

  It’s only reasonable, don’t you think, doctor? To admit defeat when your back is against the wall.

  What would that accomplish? What’s done is done, isn’t that right?

  But we are still trying. Why the hell do you think we came to see you in the first place? Isn’t it evidence enough of good faith that we’ve—

  Already?

  Tuesday

  Do you have a cold, doctor?

  Sounds like a cold. You’d better take care of yourself.

  It’s off the subject, of course, but we’re curious to know your opinion. Do you believe in massive doses of vitamin C?

  Baby does. He’s a regular health nut these days.

  Anyway, it’s better than becoming a Krishna freak like his cousin Jane. Painted all blue and everything.

  Not Bert’s sister. Bert’s cousin. Baby takes fifty vitamin C pills a day. But he still gets colds.

  Squeamish about some things, yes. Baby threw up eating a soft-boiled egg because the white was runny. And he refuses to kiss his Aunt Rae—Bert’s mother—because he says she has a black mole on her cheek.

  No, he isn’t imagining it. She does have one. The kid’s not a basket case, for God’s sake.

  But we don’t think that was the real reason.

  Rae’s a goodhearted gal, but you have to know how to handle Baby. You have to win his confidence first. He’s not delicate but he’s high-strung, like all precocious kids.

  You can’t just charge at him and grab him. You have to kneel down, get down to his level and talk to him first. Before you can touch him.

  Baby’s never been the sort of kid who likes to be hugged and kissed just like that, or jumps in your lap, the way Bert is. Every kid is different. And they understand a lot more than you think, even before they can talk. We learned that.

  You know, doctor, what you’ve just said is a little surprising to us. If there’s some misunderstanding, we better clear it up right now. Baby isn’t crazy.

  We don’t have your clinical experience. But we know the difference between crazy and not crazy.

  Sure, we can give you an example. Baby told us recently that for the past two years, every time he is about to board the bus that takes him to school, he hears a voice. The voice says, “Sit on the left side. Or you will die.” Or, “Sit on the right side. Or you will die.” And he never knows, each morning, which command the voice is going to give.

  Right. But wait till you hear the rest. We were very upset, of course. The morning Baby told us this, quite casually, as he was eating breakfast before he went off to school, our hearts sank. Once you start hearing voices, and voices that say you’re going to die if you don’t obey them, it’s pretty serious.

  But then we thought to ask Baby a question. Has it ever happened, we asked, that when you got on the bus, the side that the voice told you to sit on was completely full? So you were forced to sit on the other side?

  “Sure,” Baby answere
d. “Lots of times.” And then what happens? we asked. Wondering if Baby had noticed that, despite having disobeyed the voice’s command, he hadn’t died.

  “Oh, then,” Baby said, cheerfully, “then the voice says: ‘Today it doesn’t matter.’”

  What are you thinking, doctor?

  Well, it’s obvious. You couldn’t come up with a neater example of the difference between psychosis and neurosis, we’ll bet, if you practiced your dubious profession for a hundred years. You know what we mean? A psychotic is someone who doesn’t hear a voice at the last minute saying, “Today it doesn’t matter.”

  Don’t you agree, doctor?

  It’s not that we’re asking you to give us much hope. But he’s not crazy. That’s not what’s wrong.

  Maybe it’s worse.

  Tuesday

  Baby’s become a vegetarian. We’re humoring him. He’ll outgrow that, don’t you think?

  Cottage cheese and fresh pineapple. And lots of raw peas. He always has some in his pockets.

  And his pockets always have holes. If you want to sum it up, there it is.

  He never takes care of his things. Clothes are to wreck, as far as Baby is concerned.

  He’s stopped wearing underwear. Is that a fashion these days among junior-high-school kids, doctor?

  Baby likes to hold his breath under the water in the bathtub. He’s got a stop watch.

  Baby hasn’t washed in two months.

  1-Y. He was all ready to go to Canada, he said. We were beside ourselves. But it turned out the adenoids were good enough. Of course, we’d feel safer with a 4-F. But Baby says they’re really the same now and that we shouldn’t worry.

  He doesn’t respect any of the conventions any more. At his high-school graduation, when they played “Land of Hope and Glory,” we cried. Baby didn’t even go.

  Don’t think we’re feeling sorry for ourselves. We’re probably better off than most parents. Two of Baby’s friends have OD’d. One suicide. And his best friend in high school is doing one to five in San Quentin for holding up gas stations.

  He’s certainly holding his own.

  Maybe we expected too much of him. The way you do with an only—