August 17, 2023
945: The Jungle
August 17, 2023
945: The Jungle
Transcript
I’m Shira Erlichman and this is The Slowdown.
Today’s poet reflects on a girlhood lived in contrast to boys. Feral boys whose roads to manhood were paved by recklessness and violence. From inside the auditorium of her son’s school play, of all places, she leads us through a dark labyrinth of questions: What does it mean to be a girl, then a woman, then a mother to a son in this culture, this chaos, this jungle?
The Jungle
by Carrie Fountain
In motherhood I begin to celebrate my own smallest accomplishments, as when I wake to find I’ve slept through the night and I feel a little healed because sleeping is something I didn’t learn how to do until I was an adult and had to read a book about it because, I’ve always liked to joke, I was raised by wolves. I was raised by wolves was, in fact, the very joke I made in explaining to a fellow mom as the children’s theater went dark that, like my own youngest son, I was seeing The Jungle Book for the first time. I don’t even know what it’s about, I said. I was sort of raised by wolves, I said and laughed, and then the curtain went up and I was shocked, of course, to find The Jungle Book is about a boy who was raised by wolves, and I am shocked again now, having just googled it, to find the number one query associated with Rudyard Kipling is: Is the Jungle Book a real story? People are dumb is what I was thinking, I admit, when I read that, but then I clicked and clicked and found that—oh my god—The Jungle Book is based on the story of a feral boy found running on all fours alongside a wolf in the Indian jungle, which is funny to me because feral is the word that has always come to mind when I think of the boys I grew up with: those feral boys who moved through the world with the ease afforded to those who didn’t give two shits about anything, who’d empty beer cans in seconds, wrap cars around poles, all the while joking about fucking each other’s mothers. They were feral in the desert shooting guns out by the airport. They were feral on their skateboards in the Whata- burger parking lot. They were feral because they were allowed to be, and eventually we’d all get in trouble for what they’d been doing, even us girls who—what did we do all that time while the boys were fighting and spitting and calling us whores? I don’t know. We were talking to each other, I guess, which is how we became human. But no—no. Those boys weren’t feral. Those boys were typical. They’d been born knowing the world would be theirs long after they’d grown bored of nihilism and turned their attention to capital, became men, became man- kind, the kind of men who’d ruin something if it meant they got to keep it, who’d kill something if it meant they could see it up close, maintain the illusion of having owned it, having earned it, even, who’d track a boy and a wolf through the jungle for days until finally they had them trapped inside their own den. When those men found they couldn’t lure the boy out with words, they forced him out with smoke. And when the boy finally stepped out into the sunlight those men captured him, bound him, and when the wolf who was the boy’s mother came following close behind, the way, at intermission, I followed my own son, who is by now too old to come with me into the women’s room, to the very threshold of the men’s room door—when she came out behind him, they shot her.
“The Jungle” by Carrie Fountain from THE LIFE © 2021, Carrie Fountain. Used by permission of Penguin Random House.