Our First Burn
In what first seemed like an example of unbridled, ill-considered masochism, I decided in July that I wanted to take James to Burningman.
Solo.
Haleina and our friends opted out of this year’s burn for another travel adventure, and, as Burningman is somewhere on my brain just about nine months of the year, I didn’t want to give it up. I was prepared to call an audible up until the week prior to the event, but rolling alone to the burn was unappealing. Too much time in my own head for my own good.
In the end, taking James was one of the best decisions I have ever made, and the best time I have ever had with my son.
The kid was a champ. He handled the two, six-hour drives (one to Mammoth and one from Mammoth to Gerlach) with ease. He even handled the three-hour wait to get onto the playa, and dutifully and enthusiastically performed his obligatory roll in the dust — despite his first stinging introduction to playa dust in the eyes (something you eventually tolerate but is quite irritating during those first few moments).
Defiance was rare, and meltdowns were nonexistent. Enthusiasm, joy, and curiosity were in excess.
To be sure, this was always going to be HIS burn. I went to Burningman with this intention from the beginning. I planned to be in charge of all the important stuff: safety, food, shelter, sleep schedule, hallucinogens (kidding, mom), and, frankly, bathroom schedule. After that, he was in charge. I was merely the guide. So when he discovered the dozen or so robot statues that encircled the platform that held the Man, I was more than accommodating when he wanted to revisit them every damn day.
Actually, that response was PRECISELY what I had hoped for and actually expected. Burningman, this amazing experimental community, is also an incredible and welcoming playground. He was drawn in. The only difference in his response to the playa and my response to the playa is what catches the eye. Whereas I am interested in the incredible art installations of technology and light and the occasional spontaneous EDM boogie session, he was drawn to robots and swing sets and art cars shaped like cookie monster, and, gloriously for a four-year-old, a car modeled after Gru’s rocket from “Despicable Me.”
Then there were moments when the magic of the playa hit us both equally. Stumbling upon a ball pit playground was a HUGE win for James (and again, a trip I had to make daily), but discovering it was a Buckyball pit in tribute to architect, intellectual and philosopher Buckminster Fuller, complete with chunky glasses and balls printed with his famous quotes was a wonderful surprise. The camp that held dodge ball tournaments on TRAMPOLINES was another win for both of us. I got slaughtered by a group of grade-schoolers and he got to bounce around and throw balls at other kids who were more than patient with this enthusiastic post-toddler who didn’t know or understand the rules of the game. And on our first ride out to the deep playa, finding an artist who erected a full bounce house in the middle of this stark white environment was a glorious moment of play for me, James, and a half-dozen revelers who spent the night dancing to the many music cars that patrol the desert every night.
The playa continues to provide. Hot afternoons surprised us with gifts of ice cream at Pink Heart camp (twice — thanks, John!), snow cones, and cold drinks from random camps and during random rides through the playa. And one afternoon, after waiting in line for ice cream only to come up empty-handed after the last cone was served, a bystander saw the sad look on James’ face and came to the rescue. I was using this as a teaching moment that sometimes we don’t get what we hoped for, but he invited us back to his RV and gave James a scoop from his own private stash of ice cream. Thanks Skip!
But the real magic came during unexpected little moments. Dusty surprises that keep me coming back year after year, despite the expense, the effort, the drive, and the filth.
An enthusiastic four-year-old is, apparently, an irresistible target in a gifting economy, and in six days he acquired more swag than I have in six years. Gifts of pins, buttons, stickers, candy, cookies, hats, toys, Dutch ceramic clogs, spray bottles, sand dollars, and in one surprise gesture that totally won them Burningman, one electronic robot that lit up my son for DAYS. The result of all this gifting was not a spoiled kid. On the contrary, on Thursday, he asked me if he could go into the street outside our camp and hand out his own private supply of lollipops that I had brought just for him. He got the message and embraced it. I’m still choked up thinking about it. People were secretly handing me back the lollipops so he could keep giving them to other people.
On a ride to the deep playa, we came across a tribute to Burningman’s recently departed founder, the late Larry Harvey. His hat was hung on the trash fence. James pointed it out and told me that someone lost their hat. I told him about the hat and about Larry. James asked to return to the hat three times, and for the rest of the trip, he asked me to tell him the story of Larry and Burningman.
We went to center camp every morning and got chocolate milk and coffee. It was our daily ritual. He loved the broken claw game in center camp and the art surrounding the tent. We went riding across the playa every morning, looking at sculptures, riding on swing sets, and discovering new ways to play.
On our second night, he asked if he could ride his own bike. I went to Burningman VERY resistant to this idea. But in true Burner spirit (safety third!), I wrapped both him and his bicycle tightly in LED cord and strapped a headlamp on his helmet. I instructed him to stay right next to me, and we rode off across the playa through the light and sound and chaos, exploring art cars and theme camps. He must have ridden several miles that night, back and forth until he told me he wanted to ride home. He led me all the way across the playa during a strong dust storm, back to our camp without (much) guidance by me. He knew the way, despite the darkness, the distance, the cacophony, the lights, and the dust. He yawned and crawled into bed (after a thorough de-dusting with wet wipes). I have never been so proud.
During our ride that night, we visited Pink Heart camp, Sextant camp with their giant Tesla coils, the Red Nose district and their giant swing set, and then wandered into Deathguild and the infamous Thunderdome. I was a bit hesitant about letting a four-year-old watch a bungee-cord cage match of burners beating each other with foam sticks, but as soon as a Thunderdome guard saw him, he invited him INTO the cage to watch. The benefits of being four cannot be overstated.
I only let him watch for a little while, and then discussed (at length for the rest of the week) that this was just pretend fighting, and you should never hit anyone with sticks. Ever. He still wanted to go back to the Thunderdome every day after, but I figured maybe it was better to stick to swing sets and giant slides.
Near the end of our trip, we discovered the “atomic playground” art installation just before the trash fence. It was a tongue in cheek vision of a robot caused apocalypse with broken playground toys and skeletons. My son LOVES skeletons (and apparently stick fighting and dead legendary burners, so maybe I need to rethink some of my parenting decisions, but that’s another story for another time). We had to ride all the way out there three more times so he could play with skeletons on broken swing sets.
He dressed up in his ninja costume one night, we watched the great train crash and explosion, we got netted by animal control during the bunny march, and, of course, on Saturday, we watched the man burn from our camp’s mobile piano bar. Through the flames of the inferno, James could see one robot statue still standing. The deer skulled robot, “Wendigo.” The robot was modeled after an ancient native American evil spirit, whose description I had to read to James a dozen times during our visits to the robot art that encircled the platform of the man. James recognized him instantly, “Daddy it’s Wendigo!” “He can only be killed by fire because you have to melt his heart.” Wendigo was carved by chainsaw from solid blocks of hardwood, so despite the raging fires consuming all the structures around him, he stood defiant for nearly the entire burn before finally collapsing into the flames. James was amazed.
James told me he didn’t want to leave Burningman. And he also understood that they will build a new man next year. That this was just temporary. That we had to go home, but he could come back and do it all again.
It was undeniably the best time I have ever had with my son. An experience I won’t likely forget, and one of my better decisions. We bonded over something I love. We experienced art and exercise and adventure and community and conversations about gifting and loss. We played and shared ice cream and rolled in the dust. I let him use my camera and take as many pictures as he wanted. I let him control his direction and experience the best I could. He met everyone in our camp, and enthusiastically played with everyone he met. Everyone he met, he called “his friend.”
This experience was special. It was easy. There was none of the drama that comes when he plays his wants and needs off two parents. I went with the expectation that this was going to be his burn, but that wasn’t true. In putting aside my own desires at Burningman, I opened myself up to a bigger experience, and one that will pay greater dividends. It was our burn. Our time together that I’ll remember most. More than the art and the lights and the dust. It will be our conversations from the back of my bike. Our rides in the dust. Our week of play.
Burningman offers an annual lesson that everything is temporary. That includes my son’s health. My son’s childhood. And my ability to share experiences like this with him. It encourages immediacy and self-expression. It celebrates creativity and enthusiasm for life and play. It gets you dirty, uncomfortable, and makes you work. Even if that work is just a long ride through the desert for an ice cream cone. Burningman taught my kid about leaving no trace. Whenever he has seen trash since we left the playa, he identifies it as “moop” (“matter out of place” in Burner speak), and he gone to pick it up. He participated in camp (mostly by squirting friends with a spray bottle, but hey, he is four). He learned to give freely. He made new friends, and was utterly unaware of dad’s silly rainbow skirt, the occasional naked human form, and the wide range of different looking people around him.
I was asked daily by new parents and prospective parents about the experience. I was unsurprised by this as I did the same over the last four years of every parent I encountered on the playa. It’s more work, more planning, and no late nights (or other adult activities). And, I admit, it’s a lot easier to roll through the playa with a kid whose mood isn’t dependent on a rigid schedule. A kid who can’t handle variability might not like the playa life and might just make you miserable. Clearly, Burningman isn’t everyone’s cup of chocolate milk. But when asked what it’s like, bringing MY kid to Burningman, my answer was always the same: It’s amazing.
It’s Burningman.