The cultures of childhood

A shorter version of this piece appears in the spring edition of Persimmon Review under Short Takes: https://persimmontree.org/spring-2026/cultures-of-childhood/

My childhood during the 1950 and 60s was marked by obedience, invisibility and an expectation you pull your own weight from the moment you can walk. The seen and not heard variety where some of us were conceived in large Catholic households without contraception. Dispensable when death or disease comes knocking prematurely and although my parents were sad momentarily they needed to get on as did the rest of us. 

My childhood is book ended by dead babies, the first daughter before I was born during the Hunger Winter of 1945 when an elder sister died at five months of malnutrition. At the other end, the last child in my family of nine, my youngest sister was pronounced still born. Her mother’s placenta could not hold firm enough to nourish her. 

My childhood was marked by hunger.

My children’s childhood during the 1980 and 90s is marked by expectations. Four daughters and two parents hoping to improve their children’s lot which leads to a different conclusion and load, not so much of hunger as a type of excess but still the notion this time you pull your own weight once you come of age.

Forty years later we are in the current generation. Grandchildren so far numbering seven and their culture fluctuates between empathy and a type of one of indulgence though I hear my daughters speak of setting limits in some cases in others, the need for gentle parenting. 

Children the harbingers of a future that is marked by unrest and climate change and will we be the last on earth.

My childhood in the shadow of the second world war. My children in the shadow of a nuclear explosion and the current lot fresh hold fresh fears of extermination.

To offset these, the culture of childhood must offer hope. 

‘My body, my choice,’ my granddaughter tells me when I suggest she choose an alternative outfit to the oversized princess dress she has in mind. She’s four years old and already knows the concept of choice and of privacy. The toilet doors installed now in childcare centres to prevent abuse.

In my childhood such abuses were overlooked and during my children’s we began to recognise the pernicious nature of small people used as playthings for the adults. 

Childhood is a time of joy and wonder where everything is new.

Childhood is a time of terror when everything can be marked by danger, the unexpected, the unpredictable, the abusive.

Childhood is a time of utmost vulnerability that stays with us throughout our lives and returns with full force in our final years when once again we are rendered feeble in our bones and bodies.

Childhood the signature of our beings.

It’s never easy being small. Subject to the whims of those who hold greater power. But there’s also strength in childhood in the sense of honesty and authenticity a child brings before their minds are warped by adult cultures that override the joys of youth and the hope of a future filled with wonder. 

If as psychologists argue we are born almost hallucinating a bright future ahead, then childhood is that time when hopes for the future burn brightest. And this must be a good thing, however much life might subsequently disappoint. The culture of hope.