Remote Islands.

My kids are now six-almost-seven and three-almost-four. We currently live in Miyakojima, Okinawa, Japan. If you’d told me, twenty years ago when I started this blog that at the age of 56, I would have two young children, be married to a Japanese woman and live in a place I’d never heard of in Asia I would have been sceptical of that as my future direction for any number of reasons, primarily perhaps because of a complete disinterest in Japan and all things Japanese, something which, with the exception of that tremendous wave of post-War filmmakers and some post-70s musicians I’ve maintained. Okinawa, however, is a different story and there my interest is fairly intense, but that's not something I’ll focus on here.

So, while living on an officially designated remote island in Japan might have been remotely possible as part of a possible future, having two kids certainly would not. I never had a strongly determined sense of the path my life must follow or sense of vocation, no strongly positive vision, you might say, rather my life was constructed and navigated around a set of things I absolutely would not do- buy a house, learn to drive, have kids, pursue a career, settle down.  Normative stuff that in my earlier years and in fact in most of my middle ones I regarded as simply traps or impositions or too-great concessions to the depressingly humdrum, imaginationless lives of the average, worn-down majority to whom I was determined not only to not belong but in my more grandiose moments of self-regard, to stand as a living rebuke. 

This isn’t to say I was chaotic. I was, to a degree, in my early twenties, but generally people are at that age. Or unreliable, or interpersonally difficult, or not wildly so at least-I had my strongly held opinions but I was also gregarious enough to be viewed as basically a bit eccentric, having a chip on my shoulder that most people looked over or past; a character, an oddball, unnecessarily angry about certain things but not particularly hard to get along with.  I held down jobs in the same places for many years, had broadly good relationships with colleagues and bosses and the people I taught and when I left, I did so on good terms- i didn’t burn any bridges or accumulate any enemies professionally or personally. 

Ultimately, during all this time, though I was almost continuously in relationships and living with someone I only really had myself to consider and look after and there was no need to invest in anything in particular, financially or interpersonally.  Life felt like a series of open-ended experiments with various prospective expressions of self- or perhaps its better to say that for me there were a number of selves I had to work through until I arrived at one that felt like a terminus, until I arrived at a form of settled and less clamorous selfhood that wasn’t in itself pointing over the horizon to someone else I might become. Suddenly all of my internal disquiet quietened, the storminess abated. There I was, at the end of some long turbulent process, longer than that of my peers certainly, becalmed but not adrift.

That earlier storminess didn’t necessarily express itself in outward displays or frequent changes of job or place or wild schemes and fluctuating personae but internally, and in writing as well I felt that I had lived and died and been reborn any number of times. In writing, in fact, I rehearsed the arc of a proxy life and death. It was a kind of incubator and accelerator of the process of cycling through selves, and in that way tapped and distilled into a virtual form whatever was fighting to take expressive shape within me. Most people I assume experience this to varying degrees-partly its the passage of time and the subterranean processes of shifting and realignment and new growth coming up along the cracks and fault lines. There were moments certainly when things went wrong, relationships broke up or it became clear that some long idealized move or project wouldn't bear fruit and I had to hunker down inside myself and let the storm pass, the blizzard of argument and self-recrimination. When you are young you think it will last forever, as you get older you know it will recede- but then everything becomes more muted, more bearable as you age: you lose, you gain, wonder and excitement decline but so do disillusion and despair.  

Within all of that restless internal shifting, invisible to everyone in me as it largely is in anyone (but for a willing listener or reader) I also set myself projects and completed them, built relationships with people that endure and was largely content, you might even say happy. I traveled quite a lot, had satisfying work, lived in a major city without any financial worries, eventually became part of a peer group of writers and artists I admired and who I shared aesthetic and political convictions with.

And yet, I look back on those years before I became a father, rich in time and ideas and intellectual and sensory excitement as they were and find them essentially empty. Again that’s not to say I was floundering in existential despair or mouldering unloved in some basement-well, I was at some points, but not generally- from my mid thirties on, from round about the time I started this blog and largely because of it I was busy and happy and determined I wouldn’t destroy that contentment and freedom with mundane life and mundane worries, the most mundane of all being the mind and time-sapping mundanity of looking after kids.

Now, it was also the case that I obviously liked kids, felt more than just comfortable around them but actively delighted by them and driven to engage with them- and that they also liked me generally. I often had, and continue to have immediate rapport with them.  This led to plenty of people saying I would make a good dad, though that’s a commonplace compliment/nudge from new mums among your peers as you begin to drift into your childfree thirties, then forties, and which, anyway, allowed me to hand back the standard line that I was quite content getting a bit of ersatz fatherhood from other people's kids because when the nappy needed changing you could hand them back. 

I have, of course, subsequently asked myself why I didn’t have children earlier or why I was so determined not to have them at all. There are a number of reasons, all of which, except one, I won’t go into here. Having them was in fact not something I had rejected out of dislike or disinterest, but rather the opposite, it was something I desired deeply- the role, the relationship, the connection, the immersion in the unrepeatable intimacy of parent and child and its mutual constitutiveness, but it was a role and a relationship I felt I wouldn't be able to satisfactorily take on. If I had a child, I wanted to spend time with them, a lot of time, more time than is generally possible while also making a living and the fact that it was almost impossible outside of being wealthy enough not to work, which I certainly wasn’t, or being a house-husband, which I was certainly prepared to be but which was also practically difficult, meant I had essentially to give up on the idea- or more simply that it was just foreclosed. Rather than fearing that the children would pull me away from “the world” I really feared that the world would pull me away from them.

There are lots of reasons I’m on the Left that predate my adulthood; the time and place, both geographically and socially of my birth and my parents beliefs, particularly my dad’s, having rooted me in a certain type of politics, but as an adult, especially one who wasn't themselves driven by money or status and was rather other-directed, interested in play, creativity, the interpersonal I felt that the way the world was set up would rob me of the capacity to love my children in as full a way as I needed to for both my sake and theirs. What I was supposed to do, as a father, was go out and work, earn as much money as possible and derive satisfaction, even if I left before they woke up, got home when they were already sleeping and saw them only for a few hours on the weekends, that I was “providing”. I may be wildly atypical here as a man, but whether I am or not, for me at least work and the necessity of money meant that I experienced a fairly profound and central form of alienation-I wanted my relationship, the relationship of parent and child, to be as deep and attentive as possible and in reality I would barely see them.

You can of course suggest that my fears were exaggerated but I know kids, classmates of my daughters in the UK and now in Japan who spend the majority of their time from several months old either with their grandparents or in wrap-around care. I also suspect that in these circumstances, especially with fathers being so busy and believing that their role is best expressed through work and earning, along with the lack of sustained paternal leave, many fathers never really bond with their kids-certainly it’s not immediate and automatic, it requires presence, play and lots of physical proximity. It took me a while myself with my daughter- a few months before I could feel my own chemistry and neurology rearranging. Shifting to accommodate her, to both open up and to extend outward, to allow us, across a gulf of time and space to interlace. 

Of course some men actively use the traditional role of father, wage-earner, provider as a way of hiding away from their children, expressing their love through toys and gifts, using objects both as a bridge and a shield.  I think many men are frightened of or feel ill-equipped for the emotions that the child might draw out of them or the types of expressive behaviour and play that the child requires and insists on- stiff and distant, slightly panicked, awkward looking fathers are everywhere, perversely it may even be the case that those most aligned with the ideals of parenthood, conservative, normative types are also the ones with the least capacity for the flexibility and spontaneous responsiveness needed for the role-at least if you consider that the role entails seeing the child as they are and helping them grow into the fullest expression of selfhood rather than imposing a model from outside. Men do hide away, busy themselves- gardening, DIY, doing the dishes, all practical, helpful stuff that is designed to limit their contact with the conflict and decision making, doing supportive, practical busy-work in the domestic space as a way of staying in the background of the family's life. When i was a kid they just used to go to the pub, these days that's probably less acceptable, so they seek other ways of escape that are more defensible-”I thought you wanted the bathroom tiling!"

Having my daughter just before Covid arrived and my son a few years later then, terrible as it might have been for older kids or families where remote work wasn’t possible, was something of a boon for me-the lockdowns and ongoing remote work have meant that I have got to spend an enormous amount of time with them. I have a high tolerance for playing with and talking to kids and I was also extremely sensitive to how important parental interaction and play are in the first three years, probably the first six and I told myself that in that period of both their lives I would devote my time and energy to them. I am an older father and I know that six years is nothing, indeed, it’s already gone and I also know that I don’t have lots of time to spend with them when they are adults, that children and parents aren’t necessarily particularly alike in adulthood and it’s in the earliest years when we can love each other in the least complicated and most immediate ways. In effect I have been that stay-at-home dad and they have had a stay at home mum too. Neither my wife or I have any particular status needs or desire to spend money so we have happily traded income for time and moving to the remote place we currently live was a part of that trade off, we certainly make less here and have much more limited opportunity than we would if we were still on the periphery of London, but we would be out every morning at 7 o'clock, rushing back to spend a few hours together in the evening while also cooking and bathing them before we put them to bed.  Some people make it work, many do in fact, for me it would have been utter misery, and no salary or title or engaging social milieu could have possibly compensated for not seeing them. 

Still, that earliest years period has sort of come to an end, or at least its most intense period is tailing off: my son is in nursery in the morning now and seems to be happy there. He isn’t yet producing any Japanese, or rather he’s just starting to, but he passively understands everything he needs to, my daughter is now at peer-level though, interestingly still sounds a bit like she has a British accent. 

In writing this I realised I had quite a lot to say about any number of things- parents and children, Okinawa, the past and present, class and identity, Britain, culture, politics and economics, aging, all the stuff that interweaves in my everyday life. “Blogging” has professionalised significantly over the past ten years, all those unemployed PHDs and ex-journalists looking for subscribers online, but I just want to continue in the amateurish, uninhibited way that expresses my essential dilettantism best. That said, because social media has also become much more febrile and because I want to be candid and exploratory I’ll also put myself behind a minimal substack paywall at some point- a minimum buffer against motivated or uncharitable interpretations. It may be that absolutely no-one cares to join me behind it, but I don’t mind, I’ll sit there alone with my thoughts and words.

Silence and distance, contented aloneness, call it self-possession if you like, is something I have grown more capable of and anyway, nothing really matters that much, because I have the kids.