The Childish Cruelty of Peter Pan

Peter Pan isn't just a tale of eternal youth; it's a haunting reflection on the heartlessness of childhood and the bittersweet reality of growing up.

This is not going to be another classic children's story; it is actually way more gruesome than you thought. In this video, I promise I'm not here to tear up the image of Peter Pan and prove that your whole childhood was a lie. Okay, well, maybe I'll do that just a little, but that's not the point. The reason I'm making this video is because Peter Pan is not just a classic story; it's a part of culture. We all recognize the symbols: Neverland, the Pirates, The Lost Boys, fairies, fairy dust, mermaids, Captain Hook, and the misunderstood shadow of the daring little boy who never grows old. It's a story that has sort of become synonymous with childhood.

Peter Pan himself is almost a patron spirit of youth, both an incarnation of the impudent desire never to grow old and a wistful acknowledgment that one day you must. This is true of the Disney film, the one that everybody knows, and you'll probably be surprised to know it's basically also true of the original story. This is one of those odd cases where the core content of the original and its adaptation aren't really that different. The biggest difference between them is a bit more conceptual. If Peter Pan is childhood, then using almost all the same symbols, the original J.M. Barrie story offers a very different perspective on childhood.

Yes, it is still about the innocence, the purity, and the joy of childhood, but it also considers something that not many other pieces of popular media do: the heartlessness of children. One of the most palpable differences between the original Peter Pan story and the Disney adaptation is also a very thematic one. Originally, Peter Pan was like a baby; in the Disney version, at a glance, I'd give him, I don't know, 14 or 15 years old. In the first story that the character ever shows up in, The Little White Bird, written in 1902, he's just 7 days old and he gets off to kind of a rough start.

In that original story, the author takes for granted that, of course, all babies start off as birds—not delivered by birds. All of the stories themselves start off as birds and find a human family to grow up with. But when Peter is born, if that's the right word for it, he forgets that he isn't a bird anymore and decides to fly away back to Kensington Gardens, London, where all such birds come from. When he finally returns after who knows how long, he's surprised to find that things have changed. He had fully been expecting his mother to be waiting patiently for him with open windows and arms, no matter how long he spent away. Instead, the window is closed and she's asleep, cradling a new baby boy.

That's our first ever introduction to Peter Pan. The story would change a little in future versions; in the 1911 novel Peter and Wendy, the backstory is mostly the same, but he's been aged up a few years. We aren't told exactly how old he is, but it's still far closer to babyhood than the Disney adaptation. He's described as still having all his baby teeth and his gurgly first laugh. When Barrie commissioned a statue of Peter Pan for Kensington Gardens—which, if you didn't know, is actually a real place—he gave the sculptor a reference photo: an image of an actual six-year-old boy dressed as Peter Pan. That's probably about the final age range of the original character. Wendy is described as being about the same age, and the Lost Boys can't be more than a couple of years older than either of them.

I'm not trying to split hairs here; this is again not just a material difference in the stories, but an important thematic element. The difference between a 6-year-old and a 15-year-old is, in developmental terms, an eternity. There is stuff that Peter does in the original story that, if this older Disney version of the character did them, you'd think he was a sociopath. In the Disney film, the adventure is pretty tidy. Peter leaves with Wendy and her brothers while their parents are attending a party and are fast asleep in bed. By the time they come home, however, in the book, it's not quite so tidy. They still leave on a whim, but it takes them months just to get to Neverland. All they have to eat along the way...

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Childhood innocence is a myth; even in play, the darkness of human nature lurks beneath the surface.

Stories are an important thematic element, particularly when considering the vast difference between a 6-year-old and a 15-year-old. In developmental terms, this difference is an eternity. There is stuff that Peter does in the original story that, if this older Disney version of the character did them, you'd think he was a sociopath.

In the Disney film, the adventure is pretty tidy; Peter leaves with Wendy and her brothers while their parents are attending a party, and they are fast asleep in bed by the time they come home. However, in the book, it’s not quite so tidy. They still leave on a whim, but it takes them months just to get to Neverland. All they have to eat along the way is what bread they can steal from the mouths of birds. At times, they fall asleep while flying, and Peter rescues them from the ensuing fall just in time to avert tragedy. Not because that’s the best he can manage, but because he thinks it’s funny. The book states, “it was his cleverness that interested him and not the saving of human life.” Additionally, Peter was fond of variety; the sport that engrossed him one moment would suddenly cease to engage him, so there was always the possibility that the next time you fell, he would let you go.

Eventually, Wendy and her brothers realize that they are in far too deep, totally at this literal child's mercy. When John grumbles about Peter, Wendy stops him, saying, “You must be nice to him. What could we do if he were to leave us?” Finally, they reach Neverland, and Peter asks John if he’s up for an adventure, suggesting they go down and kill a pirate who is sleeping below. When John anxiously asks, “Suppose he wakes up?”, Peter responds, “I would wake him first then kill him,” clearly offended at the suggestion he would do something so unsporting.

Murder is a favorite pastime for Peter Pan; he kills a lot of people in the book. The violence isn’t graphic; it’s actually disturbingly mundane. Almost every adventure seems to involve killing people to the point where it’s taken for granted. The text notes, “he may have forgotten his adventure so completely that he says nothing about it,” and then when you go out, you find the body. In another passage, it refers to the Lost Boys, noting that Toodles has bad luck with missing adventures, as he always comes back right when the others are sweeping up the blood.

Pirates are one thing; you could take it as some kind of tribalism—kids versus adults in Neverland—but no one is safe. However, that’s not really it; no one is safe from Peter Pan, not even the Lost Boys. He is the smallest of them, yet they all respect him with a reverence that can only come from fear. They aren’t allowed to dress like him, and they aren’t allowed to know anything he doesn’t. If they complain that make-believing dinner isn’t going to fill their empty bellies, Peter wraps them on the knuckles as punishment. If, God forbid, any of them has the audacity to grow up—which, since they aren’t magical little legend boys like Peter, they all eventually do—Peter “thins them out.” It doesn’t take a scholar to interpret that one.

Despite all of this, Peter Pan isn’t a bad person; you could argue that he’s not really much of a person at all. He is just a small child who dominates the Lost Boys in the way that a particularly strong-willed 5-year-old takes over a group of playmates. He forgets his adventures the way a small child living ever in the moment might forget what they did the week before. The violence of the adventures in Neverland is really just a reflection of the violence of children’s play in real life—cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians. So many of these traditional childhood games involve one side attacking and possibly killing the other. What adult hasn’t been on the receiving end of a preschooler pointing at them and saying, “Bang Bang, You’re Dead”?

In a world where make-believe becomes real, these innocent games take on a darker cast, which makes you wonder: is innocence really the right word for all of this? The popular conception of childhood, at least the way the adaptations of Peter Pan portray it, raises significant questions about the nature of innocence and the darker aspects of childhood play.

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Childhood innocence is a double-edged sword; it breeds heartlessness as much as it fosters joy, leaving us to wonder if true empathy can ever be learned without guidance.

A child living ever at the moment might forget what they did the week before. The violence of the adventures in Neverland is really just a reflection of the violence of children's play in real life. Games like cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians often involve one side attacking and possibly killing the other. What adult hasn't been on the receiving end of a preschooler pointing at them and saying, "Bang Bang, You're Dead"? In a world where make-believe becomes real, these innocent games take on a darker cast, which makes you wonder: is innocence really the right word for all of this?

The popular conception of childhood, at least the way the adaptations of Peter Pan seem to depict it, is as something precious and pure, tinged with the wistfulness of adults. They say, "We all have to grow up someday," but don't you miss being a child? Don't you wish you could have stayed one forever? This perspective is almost the exact opposite of how Barrie seemed to see it. Near the end of the story, he calls children "gay and innocent and heartless," not as if they're separate qualities but as interdependent things. It suggests that the heartlessness of children comes from their innocence. Children, by definition, haven't experienced enough of the world yet to see the value of other people's feelings; they are too innocent to have hearts.

In the story, children are the only ones who can fly. Perhaps it is the heart that weighs everyone else down. In this regard, Peter Pan is no different from any other child; what really sets him apart is that he is magical. For him, there is no difference between make-believe and reality. He can gorge on an imaginary dinner and grow plumper, but he doesn't seem to grasp that the Lost Boys can't. His inability to conceptualize their different perspectives is why he treats them so callously. It isn't just Peter who acts like this; it's all children to some extent.

Human children are born with the early seeds of empathy. At only days of age, they can mirror facial expressions and react to other humans' discomfort by crying. They naturally feel for those around them, but empathy—the ability to not just recognize someone else's feelings but to understand them and apply them to yourself—has to be taught. It is not quick to learn; people continue to refine their sense of empathy well past adolescence and even into adulthood.

In an article for Psych Central about empathy development in young children, Dr. Lawrence Kutner poses a situation: A preschooler complains about having a stomach ache. One of their classmates comes over and comforts them, while another comes over and punches them in the gut. Both children, Dr. Kutner says, are demonstrating empathy; they recognize the other child's pain, and it makes them unhappy. However, the child who responded with violence simply doesn't understand how to resolve that unhappiness.

Peter and the Lost Boys have never had responsible adults around them to teach them to respect others' feelings. Without that guiding influence, they are unmoored. Motherhood is a major theme in the original work. Peter initially tries to kidnap Wendy to be a mother for him and the Lost Boys—someone to take care of them and tell them stories. How nice that would be for them! There is a passage where two of the Lost Boys, who have never even experienced a mother's love, muse idly about how they do quite like a mother's love, as if it's just some disposable thing you can have when the mood strikes you.

There is an aloofness about unconditional love; they just don't seem to understand it at all. Here they are, having vanished from home for months, and Wendy is the only one ever to spare a single thought for how their parents must be feeling. Thus, children are ever ready, writes Barrie, "when novelty knocks to desert their dearest ones." We skip like the most heartless things in the world, which is what children are—but so attractive. We have an entirely selfish time, and then, when we have need of special attention, we nobly return for it, confident that we shall be embraced.

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Growing up isn't about age; it's about learning to care and connect with others.

Mother's love is often treated as if it's just some disposable thing that one can have when the mood strikes. There is an apparent aloofness about unconditional love that many just don't seem to understand at all. Here they are, having vanished from home for months, and Wendy is the only one ever to spare a single thought for how their parents must be feeling. As Barry writes, "thus children are ever ready when novelty knocks to desert their dearest ones." We skip like the most heartless things in the world, which is what children are—yet they are so attractive. We have an entirely selfish time, and then, when we need special attention, we nobly return for it, confident that we shall be embraced instead of smacked.

It is not until they hear about what happened to Peter that they realize they might not be able to return home, prompting them to take it seriously. However, Barry won't let us forget how selfish the children are being; he calls them "rubbishy children" and "brats." He even declares Mrs. Darling his favorite character, more than Peter or Wendy. It would serve them right, he says, if their plans for a grand welcome home were dashed by their parents being away in the countryside. This, Barry writes, would be the moral lesson they had been in need of ever since we met them. Yet, they do not receive that lesson; they prance right home and are welcomed with open arms, just as they expected. The children are allowed to go off and be heartless creatures, insulated from any repercussions by the patient safety net of parental love.

Even the Lost Boys are allowed to return. The Darlings, despite hardly being able to afford to feed the kids they already have, decide to adopt all of them. If anything, the children now know that it is okay to be careless and to take advantage of the ones who love you most because children are innocent and must be protected—even if it means they never grow a heart. Wendy is even allowed to go back to Neverland to help Peter with his spring cleaning once a year. In the end, none of the kids regret the selfishness of their actions, except strangely, Peter.

Initially, Peter has a plan to keep Wendy from leaving; he'll close and bar the windows to make it look like her mother didn't want her home, just like what happened to him when he was a baby. But as he flies to the window to do so, he sees Mrs. Darling sitting in the nursery, crying. Quietly at first, he feels angry; after all, he wants Wendy, and they can't both have her. Like the child who punches the classmate with the stomach ache, he recognizes that someone else's distress is making him uncomfortable and wants to lash out at the problem. However, his anger soon fades, and in an impossibly selfless act, he abandons his plan. He will allow Wendy, possibly the only person he's ever cared about, to leave him.

In a quiet moment after the other Lost Boys are adopted, he finds himself alone with Wendy and Mrs. Darling, who offers to adopt him too. But he refuses; he doesn't want to go to school, grow a beard, or work in an office. He never wants to grow up; he wants to run and play and have fun in Neverland forever. He chooses to live in the moment, constantly forgetting his life a few days prior with a rotating cast of playmates he never has to grow a true attachment to. As he leaves, he turns and looks at the family together, basking in their love for each other. Barry writes, "he had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know," but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be forever barred.

Peter would never grow old, but that's okay because growing up doesn't mean getting old; it means growing a heart. By the story's end, perhaps he is the only one who does. Growing up can mean a lot of different things: growing a heart, yes, but also learning how to navigate your world and getting a proper education. As you can imagine, not having a childhood means I didn't have a great opportunity for schooling. Everything I've learned, I've pretty much had to bootstrap from the internet. I'm sure a lot of you can relate; it's not easy.

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Anyway, that's all for this one. Thanks for watching, and keep making stuff up. I'll see you next week. Bye!