Today Tyler stumbled downstairs, walked past me with no greeting, made a beeline for his computer, and bleary-eyed, flicked it on.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.
“I’m playing Fortnite,” was his monotone response.
“You’re kidding…right?” I could only see the back of his head, but I was sure he had the most serious of expressions.
“What?” he asked. “It’s Saturday. This is what I do on every normal Saturday.”
I thought of what he said about “normal Saturdays.” It is true–last Saturday and every Saturday before that, this was his routine. He would wake up and stare at his computer screen all morning long, uninterrupted, Fortnite characters in full suits of armor dancing with ridiculous abandon, the mindless chatter of his friends streaming from his cellphone. He’d take his hand away from the keyboard only to reach into a box of crackers, which he would call breakfast if I didn’t deliver him a plate of eggs, which would remain on his desk half-eaten if I didn’t come back to pick it up.
It’s so easy to say to step on the soapbox and recount the days of my own youth, when I’d wake up to a structured weekend schedule and contribute cheerfully around the house. But I remember those Saturdays all too clearly, staring blankly at our big box of a TV set with wooden panels, taking in all ninety minutes of the Smurfs, sighing and cranking up the volume as my mom vacuumed beneath my feet.
He was right. For as long as I can remember, this was weekend normalcy. And suddenly, it didn’t seem so normal anymore.
“Let me tell you about the new normal,” I began. “You’re going to go back upstairs and start your day by reading a book. Not an e-book. A book made of paper, with actual pages. After that, you’re going to get dressed, put up your blinds, and pick all the clothes up off your floor. Then, there’s this kind of food that actually grows in the ground, and you’re going to look for it in the kitchen. Only then can you go back on Fortnite.”
I’ll spare you the part all the way up to where he finally ended up in his room, door slammed, a book reluctantly open on his lap.
Five minutes later, I returned to find him staring at his book, cell phone blasting the deafening cacophony of his favorite band, “Skillet,” through his earbuds.
“Why do you still have your phone?” I demanded.
“I can’t focus without music,” he mumbled into his book.
I stared. He kept reading.
“Hand it over,” I said.
“It’s not fair,” was his defeated response as he slapped the phone into my hand.
I closed the door behind me, to leave him uninterrupted in blissful, brain-resting silence, for him to finally learn, at thirteen years old, how to lose himself in another world between the pages of his novel.
If only all the world’s injustice looked like this.
