Shopping for the Nephew
by Jim Marquez
'Toys R Us' the other day shopping for my nephew. He's almost 11 years old. What the hell can you get an eleven year old these days? What? Another video game? Please, enough of the soul-obliterating substitute for a parent.
He was much easier to buy for when he was 5: Hot Wheels, Legos, picture books, first readers, anything with bright colors or cartoony characters was the ticket. The blithering joy on his face made me tingle and tear up, and he had more fun romping through the torn wrappings and scattered bows on the floor it seemed. So did I. He was my little Panzon ('chubby boy', as I once was).
But then it's suddenly a half a decade later and that, 'Wow, Uncle Jimmy!' has turned into, 'Well, um, what does it do? Can I download this?' Or, 'I already have one'. Or, my personal favorite: 'Where am I going to put this?'
That is then followed by a forced smile while he places it off to the side in the pile of slippers, Spiderman PJs, and woolen bed sheets his Nana has given him. He then utters, sharply, 'So what else is there? I'm bored.'
And his father doesn't even think that's rude. Our dad would slapped the hell out of us for that kind of comment. And he'd be right for doing so.
So, perusing the aisles here, being pushed and prodded and practically cavity searched by marauding and supremely spoiled 4th generation Latino kids (I was in the second wave to be born & raised here) I hear parents a decade younger than me (I'm 37) utter one of the following lines as they 'shop' for toys this merry holiday season:
1) 'But what does it kill? It has to kill something!'
2) 'Who does it fight?'
3) 'How many times can he die?'
4) 'This is stooopid, it's, like, for learning or whatever-A!'
I made a conscientious decision a long time ago to never buy my nephew toy guys, toy soldiers, toy SUVs, play knives; nothing that blows up, destroys environments and contributes to terrorists organizations, or maims. I know my brother has probably never noticed this, but I try.
Being a writer, an educator, I try to get the nephew items of literary merit, science kits, artistic fair of some sort, sporting gear, or just some cool monsters. To work the body, the mind, the creative spirit, the things my parents barely could afford for us but always managed to pull off every Christmas. An event we looked forward to for that was the only time, really, when we could get our hands on such prizes.
Here in the store the most corrupt, most foul & wicked depictions of death and bloodshed on the outside packaging are snapped up with impunity. With no regards to price. The parents bring their 7 year olds and follow them down the aisle while the child brays, 'I want that, I want this, I want that, I want, I want, I want''
And without consideration their very young parents pile all this crap into sometimes two or three shopping carts, and at the checkout lines, homeboys, with the gang tats, the sneers, the raunchy dispositions, whip out obscenely large rolls of hundreds & fifties and twenties and toss them on the counter as if they were merely snatches of pocket lint.
I stand, gawking at this, my hands shaking, crumbling up the Sunday advertisement with the sales coupon for a toy that's $14.99. Making the kid in the red vest run to the back and scrounge like a rat for the very last hovering UFO they got in the joint. Hey, at the mall they want thirty bucks for this thing. Here they got it half price. Yes! Score! I would have loved that when I was 11. It goes 50 feet in the air!
I want to get him a wireless remote car, but naw. That make your own creepy crawlies oven kit looks great. At $16.99, even better. I had one as a kid too. Yes, freak out his mother. And a football. Yeah, my buddy suggested I get the nephew a football. A real one. Wilson. All leather.
Get the kid outta the house for the love of God; peel him off the computer screen for a few minutes. Pretend to hear the roar of the crowd as you cut left and reach out with just your finger tips for the winning touchdown. But it's too big for his little hands. The same little hands he used to explore my fat, red face for the first time I held him. Ok, maybe a "junior' ball then. But it would have to be a UCLA football, boys and girls.
As I stood at the register with my check card in grubby mitt, happy as a loon for getting the nephew's gifts out of the way, I realized, with a bit of shame, that I choose his gifts not for him but for me. I wanted that UFO, that creepy crawly set, that UCLA football. Oh, well, if he doesn't want any it I'll be more than happy to take them off his hands. I think I know a kid who might like them. Merry Christmas indeed'
copyright jim Marquez 2006
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