Some Thoughts on Dr. Seuss, Or Everyone Believes in Cancel Culture

There will probably never be another Naked Gun movie.  It isn’t because Leslie Nielsen is dead or because O.J. Simpson is too busy.

Even if he weren’t behind bars, I’m guessing we wouldn’t be getting a sequel to Ghost Dad from Bill Cosby.

After 2009, Phil Spector was never going to produce another record, even if he hadn’t been convicted.  It wasn’t because his work is no good.

Harvey Weinstein has produced his last film and won his last Oscar.

The Dixie Chicks are now just The Chicks.  I guess the death threats have stopped, since they’re able to show their faces in public now.  It takes a long time for those “woke” right wingers to forgive you for saying you’re ashamed you and George W. are both from Texas.

I’ve always appreciated Anita Sarkeesian’s feminist commentary on video games and film.  Is she able to give speeches again, or are the bomb threats and rape threats and death threats continuing?  I’m glad she hasn’t backed down.  It would be sad if right-wing Twitter canceled her.

You ever talk to a Vietnam veteran about Jane Fonda?  Whew!  I have.  “Traitor” and “Aid and Comfort to the Enemy” were the words I remember.  I’ve never seen such a desire to have someone canceled, like literally canceled from the planet Earth.

I’m disappointed I’ll never see Peewee Herman have another children’s show.  Exposing yourself in an adult theatre isn’t my chosen vice, but children sure found him entertaining. (The third movie was better than Big Top Peewee, for sure.  Good to have you back!)   Eddie Murphy still makes children’s movies, too.  Kobe Bryant won an Academy Award for his animated film.  Go figure.

I saw a Kevin Sorbo movie in theaters not so long ago… my bad birthday movie in 2014, if I’m not mistaken.  For some reason, Kirk Cameron is still making movies, and some people must still be watching them.  It’s good to see Tim Allen still going strong.  Who thought Mel Gibson would be back?  Eastwood still does decent work, when he’s not talking to an empty chair.

It’s too bad that Roseanne and Gina Carano couldn’t stay off social media or didn’t hire a publicist to handle their social media for them.  It’s a shame they didn’t listen to their employer when they were told to tone it down.

Where’s Colin Kaepernick playing football these days?  I can’t believe the way that a few angry tweets going after someone for their political beliefs can just ruin someone’s career.  It’s that cancel culture social media mob.  That’s what it is.

I heard Morrissey on the radio yesterday.  I’ve heard Ted Nugent and Johnny Rotten this week.  I never stopped hearing Michael Jackson… or Chuck Berry… or David Bowie.  I’ve heard Spector records on the radio, too.  I’d imagine the hip-hop stations are still playing Kanye and R. Kelly, but I wouldn’t know about that.

I remember, back in the day, a conservative neighbor telling me he just couldn’t bring himself to go see Meet the Fockers.  I guess that Robert de Niro just isn’t a good actor… no, it’s definitely not that. It must have been something Barbara Streisand said.  On the other hand, I’ve seen all of The Expendables films.

When COVID’s over and the comedy clubs re-open, do you suppose there will be a long line of conservatives lining up to see Kathy Griffin?  Are they looking forward to the new Alec Baldwin movies, now that he’s probably done playing Trump on SNL?  Probably not, but it’s not because he’s a bad actor.  As they said in Team America: World Police, “You can’t out-act Alec Baldwin!”  (It seems Team America survived canceling.  That one’s actually a little odd.)

I don’t pleasure myself in front of my co-workers.  If I did, I wouldn’t expect to be in my career very long.  I’m sure I’d be fired, and, if I weren’t, I’m sure nobody would want to work with me.  I’m not sure why Louis C.K. thought his results would be different.  I’m glad they weren’t.

I remember evangelicals holding Harry Potter book burning parties in church parking lots, and now J.K. Rowling is in hot water with a different crowd.

Don’t get me started on Joss Whedon…

 

I’m trying to be a little glib here, and these issues are emotional charged and complex.  I had an Edward Scissorhands poster in my bedroom for years with the tagline “The story of an uncommonly gentle man.” Unfortunately, Johnny Depp is not that. When you sue for defamation of character for being called a “wifebeater,” and there is a finding of fact that the term is precisely what a reasonable person would use to describe you, that it is “substantially true,” you are certainly not an uncommonly gentle man.  Am I going to stop watching Depp-Burton movies?  Never.  They are a part of who I am in ways that would take years for me to unpack.  Am I itching to go out and see a brand new Johnny Depp movie?  That question is a lot harder.  I’d have to think about it.  I used to see every new Depp movie, and there are several now I just haven’t taken the time to seek out.  So, given that even the biggest fans of his work are dubious, if you’re a movie studio looking to maximize profits, I’d imagine you’d have to think long and hard about casting him.  

Since I’m being a little confessional here, I’m sad to say, I love the movies of Woody Allen and Roman Polanski.  Woody Allen has completed filming at least one movie. It’s sitting in the can, but I suspect will never be distributed someplace I’d be able to see it.  I also suspect that Roman Polanski will never work in Hollywood again.  Still, I think I’ll keep my copies of Annie Hall and Rosemary’s Baby.  The two of them aren’t good men, but those are good movies.  I could try to condemn or defend the men here (or at least their work), but that’s the not point.  The point is that the market has decided the fate of their careers, even if the justice system didn’t.  Distribution companies decide which films they want to market.  I’d imagine that Allen and Polanski films are a tough sell with the art house cinema crowd who would be the target demographic.  With little profit to be made and quite a lot of risk, there’s no incentive.  It’s not like they can force you to go watch Woody Allen.

That’s doubly true for The Mandalorian.  Yes, there’s a group of people who called for Carano’s ouster, and you might think that they’ve overreacted.  That group is probably smaller than you’d think.  On the other hand, with Game of Thrones, The Mandalorian, and Wonder Woman 1984 to his credit, Pedro Pascal is a star on the rise.  He has a trans sister and is Chilean-American.  He’s under no obligation to work with Carano or anyone else he finds offensive.  I don’t know if he’s said anything publicly about the situation, and I don’t really care.  If he walks, Disney’s got a much bigger problem.  That show depends upon quality guest stars and co-stars: Mark Hamill, Carl Weathers, Nick Nolte, Bryce Dallas Howard, Tracey Ullman, Werner Herzog… If that stream dries up, again, they’ve got a bigger problem than a handful of angry people on Twitter.  So, if you’re Disney and looking to maintain the quality of your series and maximize profits, you warn her about the stuff she’s posting.  If she doesn’t stop, you cut her loose.  

Are there “cancel culture” attacks that go too far?  Sure, but they tend not to work.  I doubt that Glenfiddich even noticed that Trump went after them and called for his supporters to organize a boycott when a Scottish farmer refused to sell his property to Trump for a golf course.  If the attack is stupid, it tends to gain no traction.  When I see someone riding around on a Harley, should I assume they’re liberal?  That canceling didn’t seem to work either.  You might respond by pointing out that Carano’s sins weren’t “that” bad, and you might be right.  Neither, however, was her punishment.  She lost one acting gig.  Like I said, Sorbo and Cameron are still working, and she will be too.  Nerd culture has a strong right-wing contingent (e.g., Sarkeesian’s experience during Gamergate mentioned above).  Carano’ll be able to sell autographed photos of herself at fan conventions for the rest of her life.  The flip side of that is that I believe the attacks on Kaepernick were at least as petty.  He’s not playing football, but he’s doing just fine.  When you’re going to complain about someone getting canceled, I think it’s important to take a deep breath and keep things in perspective.

As several examples above illustrate, you can also come back from cancelation. I love John Lennon’s work. Like Depp, he was a wifebeater.  He sang about it openly.  From Rubber Soul’s “Run for Your Life”: “I’d rather see you dead, little girl, than to be with another man.”  From Sgt. Pepper’s “Getting Better”: “I used to be cruel to my woman.  I beat her and kept her apart from the things that she loved.”  From “Jealous Guy”: “I began to lose control.  I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry that I made you cry… I’m just a jealous guy.”  In at least one aspect of his life, Lennon was not a good person.  However, he was ashamed of it.  He sought counseling for it.  He denounced his past behaviors. He spent years working for women’s rights and to protect other women from the type of behavior he perpetrated. It doesn’t mean we should just ignore what he did and pretend it didn’t happen.  He wouldn’t want that anyway.  It does make it, though, so I can listen to the Beatles without a feeling of guilt.  If Depp wanted to work his way back, it would take work, but he could do it.  He could come out and say, “I do terrible things when I am on drugs, and I don’t want to do those things.”  He could get drug treatment and counseling, donate to help battered women and fight for women’s causes.  There might be a few holdouts, but most people would take him off “the list.”  Nearly anyone on this list (with the exceptions of Weinstein, Cosby, and OJ, probably) could follow this same pattern. 

Yes, I know this is a children’s literature blog, and I’ve only touched on a few points about children’s literature.  Really, this is about Dr. Seuss.  Dr. Seuss is not just a giant in the field.  He is the giant in the field.  He falls just behind Michael Jackson as the highest grossing deceased artist.  (It’s just easier to cancel Woody Allen than Michael Jackson, I guess, even for the same alleged offenses.)  With respect to Seuss, nobody has ever been able to write literature as compelling with just a handful of sight words.  It’s powerful stuff that fundamentally changed the way we teach children to read.  Seuss can’t be canceled.  I don’t mean that he won’t be canceled.  He can’t be canceled.  His contribution to children’s literacy is so completely embedded in the field that you couldn’t possibly disentangle it.  The man invented the “I Can Read” book.  Children will be reading his works for at least the next century.  The estate of Dr. Seuss is charged with making sure that happens, keeping his work fresh, relevant, and meaningful to children and promoting it in ways that ensure its success.  When they announced this week that they were no longer going to be publishing six of his titles, that is precisely what they were doing.  They brought together the team and consulted with them, and they decided what they thought was best for their business and best for the children.  Perhaps you don’t agree.  Perhaps you think McElligot’s Pool is an integral part of childhood.  Great.  Go to a used bookstore and pick up one of the millions of copies that are already out there, but the estate of Dr. Seuss is under no obligation to sell you one themselves.

Until a couple weeks ago, you weren’t able to see the last couple seasons of The Muppet Show, unless you traveled to an archive somewhere.  Nobody is a bigger lover of the work of Jim Henson than I.  Disney+ added nearly all of the episodes of the show, and they added a disclaimer before select episodes that some of the portrayals in the show might be considered offensive. Some of his work did trade in stereotypes.  It was a different era.  Standards and attitudes are different.  If Henson were alive today, I suspect that his gentleness and kindness would win out.  He wouldn’t want to hurt someone. The fact of the matter is that Disney made more of Henson’s work available, and people still whined about how they were trying to “cancel” him.  Maybe some parents want to know if an upcoming episode contains something that they might want to contextualize for their kids.  If you aren’t one of those parents, then just ignore the disclaimer.

It is true that Mel Brooks’s Blazing Saddles wouldn’t be the same movie if it were made today.  It’s also true that Black Panther wouldn’t have been made at all in the 1970s.  Things change.  In the grand scheme of things, though, we’ve been “un-canceling” a lot more people recently than we’ve canceled.

This blog post isn’t intended as a bunch of “whatabout-ism.”  It isn’t that in the slightest. The big point is that the overwhelming likelihood is that of the dozens of people I listed, there are probably some that you would never support and whose work you would never pay to see. There are also probably some of the people on this “cancel” list who you wish weren’t on there.  That’s the point.  Everyone believes in cancel culture.  If you disagree with something someone said or did enough, you aren’t going to be a patron of their art.  It’s not a character flaw on your part.  I might even say it’s a virtue.  Maybe you draw the line in a different place than other people, but you’ve got a line.  If you were being honest, it’s likely that you don’t draw the line someplace drastically different from most people.  You probably just draw it on a different side of the center line.  (Getting mad and refusing to buy a toy for being called “Potato Head” is just as much of a cancel as getting mad at a toy for being called “Mr. Potato Head…)

Whenever I hear someone complain about “cancel culture,” they usually try to sound like they’re the line of defense, protecting our freedoms.  My time is in short supply, and I am careful with my money.  I value the freedom to decide to whom I am willing to give them.  When cancel culture critics speak, it’s always with the same sanctimony they accuse others of having.  All the critiques they throw out there can easily be tossed back.  They should get off social media and just let people live their lives.  They need to stop dictating who I’m supposed to watch or read or listen to.  They can live and let live.  They can let companies decide what will make the most money and increase their market share.  If Disney and Seuss want to sell family-friendly products, then they get to decide what it means to be family friendly.  If you don’t like their definition, you don’t have to give them your money.  It’s called canceling, and everyone believes in it.  Some of us just have the courage to admit it.   

Last Thoughts on Caroll Spinney

I was four and a half years old during Thanksgiving weekend of 1983. At the time, much of my world revolved around Sesame Street. My Bert and Ernie dolls were my constant companions, and I watched the program voraciously. It was an integral part of my life. The passage of time was measured in episodes.

“Mom, when is dad going to get home.”

“Two and a half hours.”

“How long is that?”

“Two Sesame Streets and a Mr. Rogers.”

“Oh.” [That's a huge stretch of time...]

So, it was that I happened to be in the heart of that preschool target Sesame Street demographic in the Fall of 1983. Mr. Hooper had died in late 1982, and the producers of Sesame Street had a decision to make. How do you continue the show after the death of one of the major (human) characters? Instead of ignoring Mr. Hooper's absence or pretending that he moved away, they decided to tackle the difficult issue directly. The episode itself is daring television, unlike anything that had been produced for children before and, really, since. Much has been written about this episode (including little bits that I have published elsewhere), and I don't mean for this post to turn into an analysis of the episode. You can view the segment here. If you haven't seen it (or if you haven't seen it in a while), it is well worth the time.

I think it suffices to say that I, like many children of my generation, learned about death along with Big Bird. Yes, my own grandfather had died in 1981. I only have the most faintly glimmering memories of him. In many ways, my first skills for coping with the loss of a loved one were learned as I struggled to understand along with Big Bird. It was a hard lesson, and, to this day, I'm not sure there is a better explanation for why people have to die than Gordon's: “Because... just because.”

The past couple of weeks have been very difficult. Caroll Spinney died. I use that word very deliberately. If you watch the video of Big Bird learning about death, it's important to note that the writers were very careful not to say that he “passed away” or “was lost.” This was no Bambi “Your-Mother-Can't-Be-With-You-Anymore” moment. Mr. Hooper was dead, and now Caroll Spinney is dead, too. 

It's hard to write this. I had allowed my blog to go defunct, one of my last posts being on the death of Maurice Sendak, a very, very different figure in the world of children's culture than Caroll Spinney. I am hazarding to bring back the blog with this entry, hoping that it doesn't just become some macabre momento mori on the death of artists who worked for children. However, for the moment, I am using this little piece of webspace to work through my feelings.

Part of the weight I have carried this week has been on behalf of my younger daughter. Just as Sesame Street has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, so, too, has it been for her. This is my tenth year in the Atlanta area, and she just turned twelve. She has literally grown up at the Center for Puppetry Arts. It is where her budding artistic aspirations (especially as it relates to puppetry) have been fostered, deeply steeped in the creations of Jim Henson.

One of my favorite photos from her childhood is this picture of us standing in the entry of the Center next to Big Bird. For years, this was my go-to choice for profile pictures. Initially, it was my little piece of online protest immediately after the Obama-Romney debate in which Romney declared that he “loves Big Bird” but would cut funding to PBS (but I don't want to get too political right now) .

So, it is through this artistic home that my daughter has grown to see herself as part of a community of puppeteers, attending puppet camps and high art puppet performances, watching and re-watching the Muppet movies and workshopping her own puppets. Caroll Spinney meant a lot to me, but I have seen the ways in which his work has become a part of who she is, as well. One of her most prized possessions is a poster of Oscar the Grouch, signed by Spinney, telling her to “SCRAM!” in his own whimsical, yet meticulous, handwriting.

That autograph she obtained back in 2015 when we had the pleasure to meet Spinney at a convention. Usually, it is difficult to get a sense of what kind of person someone is in that sort of environment. Fans are jostling each other, and handlers are trying to get people through lines as quickly as possible. With Caroll Spinney, though, there was a patience and grace with which he handled himself. Yes, he had a lifetime of experience catering to young Big Bird and Oscar fans and clearly knew how to treat children with a dignity, respect, and uncommon gentleness. It was more than that. There was this spark in the man, and you could see even from a few brief minutes together how Henson knew that this was the man with just the blend of special characteristics to bring his vision of Sesame Street to life.

Floating in the puppeteering world, we had a sense that Spinney did not have much longer with us. He had stopped making public appearances and had retired to spend time with his family. Obviously, there was still a sting to the news. Seeing Sesame Street lauded at the Kennedy Center Honors this week helped a lot. They spoke of the show in grandiose terms, especially about the way it improved the academic achievements of American preschoolers (including and especially those skills in communities of color who had never seen themselves represented on children's television). I loved, though, that the comments also focused on how the program promoted important social skills. I'm paraphrasing here, but the show inspired children to understand those things that all people share, while valuing those things that make us different. In short, Caroll Spinney taught us our letters and numbers, certainly, but, much more importantly, he taught us to be good people.

For my family, the Kennedy Center program gave us the chance to see fleeting television shots of the puppeteers backstage—people my daughter knows (with varying degrees of familiarity) and loves. She got to see Leslie Carrara-Rudolph performing Abby Cadabby and Peter Linz with Ernie.

We got to see the people who knew Caroll best, smiling, playing, and living... while remembering what he meant to them. It's odd how choked up you can get seeing little yellow feathers pinned to puppets' lapels.

I know it must have been difficult, so soon after his death, but they steeled themselves, went out there, and honored their friend as best they could. Of course, they had a good model:

I might only have gotten to spend a few fleeting minutes with Caroll in person, but I spent an hour of my childhood every day with him. So, I, too, am approaching Spinney's death the way he taught me... on my own time, in my own way, treasuring what he was to me, and remembering the kind of person he wanted me to be in this world. 

Atlanta might not have a Sesame Street, but it does have a Spring Street. Last week, when I discovered that the Center for Puppetry Arts had a makeshift memorial to Spinney out in front of the building for mourners to bring flowers (and yellow feathers) to pay their respects, I knew I needed to go.  My daughter and I headed to 1404 Spring Street, said our final goodbyes to Mr. Spinney, and tried to sweep the clouds away. 

As we walked away, I whispered between tears a quiet thank you to the man. My daughter slipped her hand into mine.

“I'm glad I got the chance to meet him.”

“Me, too.”

“I mean, I'm glad I got to meet him when I was old enough to know how important it would be to me to have met him.”

Yeah, I think I understand...

A Century of Cleary

I know that it has been a long time since I've written a blog entry, and I am sorry for that. I've missed these informal chats about children's literature.

I couldn't let today go by without some acknowledgement of its significance. 100 years ago today, Beverly Cleary was born. It's really hard to imagine the world of children's literature without her. If she had only written the adventures of Ralph S. Mouse, she would have made a significant contribution to the world of children's literature.

In actuality, though, Ms. Cleary's genius was not her adroit treatment of anthropomorphic mice. It was her ability to understand what it felt like to be a child that defined her impact on children's culture. The spirited heroine, defying expectations and staking her own claim to adventure, has been a staple of children's literature for more than a century and a half. Whether Alice Liddell, Dorothy Gale, Wendy Darling, or Lucy Pevensie, there has been no shortage of adventurous young women in children's literature. Ramona Quimby was something entirely different. It is easy enough to project a childlike sense of wonder onto other heroines in children's literature. However, there was no need to project childlike sensibilities onto Ramona. For adult readers, she reminds us of what it feels like to be a child; for readers who are children, she simply is a real child.

This is one of the truly strange aspects of children's literature, generally. For most other oppressed groups, the literature of that group is produced by members of the group itself. Children's books are written by adults. Adult sensibilities are enthroned in the books. Even when children's literature avoids the moralistic and openly pedagogical, children's books authors often have a difficult time divesting themselves of their adult perspectives.

Beverly Cleary has this uncanny ability to view the world as a child. Being a child is not easy. Adults don't understand your problems. They dismiss your feelings as being “childish.” They fail to see your perspective as legitimate, and they see your protestations as, somehow, cute.

Re-reading Cleary's book as an adult serves as a sort of wake up call. When Ramona laments that Mrs. Kemp doesn't like her, because adults are supposed to like all children, she is letting adults know that children are more observant and sensitive than we credit them as being. This isn't Ramona's failing; it's ours. When her father jokes that he doesn't know any “Nosmo King,” it should be obvious that we don't place enough respect on the perspectives, feelings, and thoughts of the children in our lives. They care about the adults in their lives, even if we don't care enough to see that. When Howie's uncle teases her and finds humor in her remonstrations, we remember the frustrations of being a child who has to deal with adults who just can't seem to get it. At times, we were all like Ramona learning the national anthem, wondering what a “dawnzer” is and why is sheds a “lee light.” The world is a mysterious, confusing place, and it is made all the more frustrating when those around us act as though they understand it, as we struggle.

I have, in the past couple years, had the privilege of watching a child pick up Cleary's books. There is something magical about the experience. You are simultaneously reminded of what it felt like to be Ramona, and comforted by the idea that Ramona is still there to show children that someone understands them. There is someone who remembers what it feels like to be a child and is working to let children know that their perspectives matter. Ramona can be angry. She can throw a tantrum. She can let the adults in her life know she isn't being treated fairly. She can think like a child, and, more importantly, she can remind adults that, in certain ways, that is a superior way of engaging with the world. It doesn't dismiss the view of the child as being ignorant or (perhaps more perniciously) as innocent. Ramona isn't innocent. She is a person making her way through the world. She gets angry. She speaks up for herself and others. She cares deeply about her family and friends, and she refuses to be quiet about their welfare. She is a perfect role model for children; she shows them the ways in which they are entitled to engage the adult world. She is the perfect role model for adults; she shows them the legitimacy of the child's feelings and encourages them to remember what it felt like to be a child.

I feel incredibly fortunate. I got to grow up in a literary landscape in which Beverly Cleary featured prominently. Moreover, I got to raise my own children in a world with that tiny literary glimmer that legitimized their perspective and encouraged them to voice their frustrations. On her 100^th birthday, I only wish we could have another century with Ms. Cleary. If I can't have that, I'll just be thankful that there is at least one adult out there in the world who remembers what it's like to be a child and is willing to speak for and to them. 

I will always feel the inner need to Drop Everything And Read.

Also, Ramona was right. The first bite of an apple is always the best bite. 

A World Without Sendak

Whenever a celebrity dies, there seems to be this tendency to aggrandize his or her accomplishments... even those artists who had long since fallen into obscurity. People seem to come out of the woodwork to proclaim the virtues of deceased. I've never really been one for that sort of thing... but today I find myself mourning the loss of a true giant. It is impossible, I think, to overstate the importance of the work of Maurice Sendak.

For many, many years, the technology of printing books made the idea of a children's picture book an artist's dream. Certainly, Tenniel's illustrations in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass are among the most famous in all of children's literature. Denslow's illustrations for The Wonderful Wizard of Oz incorporated the use of color in new and interesting ways, but it wasn't until the twentieth century that publishers even had the ability to produce a “real” picture book. Children's books inherited a tradition of using illustrations to support text—and the idea that the illustrations could themselves serve a truly narrative function was one that developed slowly... but much more quickly after Sendak's groundbreaking work.

Those who have been following my blog (and my professional work) know that children's literature has long been the object of derision by literary critics and scholars. Children's picture books, with their simple storylines and basic vocabulary, had a difficult time winning over adult audiences—who tended to dismiss the entire enterprise as “kid's stuff.” The first chapter of Beverly Lyon Clark's Kiddie Lit: The Cultural Construction of Children's Literature in America contains an excellent discussion of the cultural prejudice against works of literature for children (and the prejudices faced by children in general). The fact of the matter remains, though, that early-twentieth century children's picture books did tend to lack narrative complexity, and the illustrations peppering the texts tended to be superfluous to (and not very integrated with) the storytelling.

Kudos should go to Dr. Seuss and “The Cat in the Hat” (1957) for refusing to talk down to children and giving them a narrative in which the words and illustrations were weighted equally... but even Seuss's work relies heavily on the lyrics to tell the story. It wasn't really until Sendak published “Where the Wild Things Are” in 1963 that the narrative art of the children's book was definitively established. (And, guess what? Adults still disliked it.)

The prose in “Where the Wild Things Are” is used incredibly sparingly. In fact, the whole tale is comprised of 338 words. Sendak used 338 words to craft one of the most enduring works of fiction in the English language! Sendak's diction is impeccable, wasting not single one of those words.

One is propelled through those words, though, by the pictures. Max puts on his wolf suit to make mischief “of one kind”...

“and another.” Notice here, how (perhaps for the first time in all of children's literature) the picture is more (or at least as) central to the storytelling experience as the words. What kind of mischief does Max create? Sendak's economy of words forces the child to read the illustration in addition to the text. (The detailed and engaging pictures practically beg to be scrutinized in all their beautiful detail, anyway.)

We are sixteen pages into the book before we've gotten to the end of the second sentence. There is a tension built on each page as it ends mid-sentence. The reader is drawn deeper and deeper into the story, turning page after page, pulled into vivid illustration after illustration.

What is also fascinating is the interplay between text and illustration. When Max was in his room, we were able to see how the forest “grew-- and grew-- and grew.” 

 The words and pictures refer to one another in a way that had not been fully explored in a children's picture book before. A far cry from the traditional picture-to-help-the-reader-visualize-the-scene, Sendak's words and pictures mutually supported one another. The minimalism of the words, combined with the denseness of the drawings, created a new type of reading experience.

Moreover, the use of negative space in the illustrations also helps forge this experience. The first illustration, a small rectangle surrounded by the large white space of the paper, is replaced by a slightly larger rectangle and slightly less white space. As each page is turned, we experience more drawing and less empty space, being slowly pulled into Max's imagined world—the forest grows and grows, until eventually there is no space on the page for words at all. We have a multi-page wild rumpus—in which all of the narrative is presented through the pictures. Eventually, though, the pictures start getting smaller and smaller, until we are back inside Max's room.

In sum, Sendak's work in “Where the Wild Things Are” was the genesis of a new form of narrative art. The innovative use of picture and language demonstrated to a whole generation of picture book artists what could be done with the medium—how a sequence of pictures could be used, not to illustrate a story, but to tell one. This is something nobody (not Tenniel, not Denslow, nor even Seuss) had done before. For this reason, “Where the Wild Things Are” is, indisputably one of the most important works of literature (for children or adults) of the twentieth century.

The relationship between the illustrations and text was not the only way in which “Where the Wild Things Are” broke new ground. I attended a fascinating paper at this year's annual meeting of the Popular Culture Association (Ammanda Moore's “Stirring the Embers of Childhood: The Effects of Romanticism on the Children's Literature of Today”) that traced thread of 19^th century romanticism from the poems of Wordsworth to those of Dr. Seuss. In fact, Romantic notions of the innocence of childhood have proven shockingly long-lasting. The concept of the perfect, innocent, even angelic, child pervades modern American culture—including and especially popular media (with the notable exception of the horror genre in which evil children are the rule, rather than the exception).

Sendak's work, however, never seemed to gel around this Romantic notion of childhood. Max, certainly, is not the image of innocence. He chases his dog, threateningly waving a fork. We get the sense that he wasn't exactly lying when he told his mother, “I'll eat you up!”  He becomes the king of the “wild” things. Darkness underlies much of Max's character—and this is a darkness that seems to resonate with the child readers. Not surprisingly, this was also a source of severe criticism of Sendak's work (by adults, of course).

I had a rough day with my youngest daughter today... It started out wonderfully, but as the day dragged on—and she grew more and more tired, she became an increasingly wild thing. So, we pulled out our well-loved copy of “Where the Wild Things Are” and had a bedtime story. It is a story that understands what it is actually like to be a child. It is a story that acknowledges that children create mischief, that they have dark thoughts and feelings, that they don't have the moral development to prevent themselves from acting on those impulses. It is a story that allows the child to fantasize about the logical conclusions of those feelings and work through them. Finally, it is a story that lets children know that their parents will always love them for the people they are, not the people we Romantically wish they were. My daughter learned that no matter what she does, there will always be dinner waiting for her when she's ready return to her loving home (and it'll still be hot)—or she would have learned that if she had been awake to hear the ending.

Maurice Sendak's death today hit me rather hard. Tonight's Sendak bedtime story was judiciously selected given the significance and the unique needs of the day. Last night's selection, “Bumble-Ardy” (another book fully aware of the darkness of childhood) was coincidental. After finishing it last night, I remember thinking, “I wonder what other amazing work Sendak has left in him.” As it turns out, we will now never know... and the world is a darker place for it.

I've concentrated in this post on “Where the Wild Things Are.” In part, this is because the work is his masterpiece. I could easily have lauded the importance of In the Night Kitchen (a prime example of adults simply not seeing Sendak's work through a child's eyes). Mickey's naked nighttime romp still lands the book on the most frequently banned books list (#24 over the last decade): http://www.ala.org/advocacy/banned/frequentlychallenged/challengedbydecade/2000_2009

Nearly fifty years after “Where the Wild Things Are” adults still just don't seem to get it... Also, the book's place in the history of comic books/graphic novels remains strikingly unexplored; I get this sense that some of the negative reception is (still!) a result of lingering prejudices against that medium. I would love to see more work on the book's role in legitimizing comics as an at form.

I could also have selected Outside Over There, the Little Bear books, or even Sendak's behind-the-scenes work with Sesame Street and the Children's Television Workshop. Sendak has enriched the lives of children in immeasurable ways—both directly and indirectly—and he will be missed.

A colleague of mine forwarded this link to a recent NPR interview with Sendak:

http://www.npr.org/2011/09/20/140435330/this-pig-wants-to-party-maurice-sendaks-latest

While most of this post has intellectualized my feelings about Mr. Sendak, I am covering up a great sense of loss. Sendak seemed prophetic about the end of his life and career:

"I have nothing now but praise for my life. I'm not unhappy. I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can't stop them. They leave me and I love them more. ... What I dread is the isolation. ... There are so many beautiful things in the world which I will have to leave when I die, but I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready."

It is bittersweet to know that you were ready, Mr. Sendak, but I wasn't ready. You died, and I couldn't stop you. I will miss you.

Violence and Children’s Literature: The Case of The Hunger Games

I am a pacifist, and, as such, I am very sensitive to images of violence. This blog has heretofore been used exclusively to discuss issues surrounding L. Frank Baum and the Oz series. Baum, too, was highly sensitive to images of violence in children’s literature, on the one hand, lauding fairy tales for fostering imagination in children, but deriding them, on the other hand, for their (often graphic) depictions of violence. Reading the works of the Grimm brothers, one is struck by the overt discussions of bloody violence (Rapunzel’s beau being blinded by thorns in the eyes stands out in my mind). It was with this in mind that Baum wrote in the introduction to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz that his book would dispense “with all the horrible and blood-curdling incidents devised by their authors to point a fearsome moral to each tale.” Baum was, by and large, true to his vision of pleasing, relatively violence-free storytelling—the general scariness of the film version of the Wicked Witch aside.

Arguably, fairy tales were never initially intended to serve as children’s literature, but that doesn’t imply that children’s literature hasn’t (from its inception) been a violent literary landscape. The German tales of Shock-headed Peter (Der Struwwelpeter [1845]) were filled with harrowing punishments for children’s misbehavior. Even Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is filled with jokes about the death of children: falling off houses, drowning in pools of their own tears, or being decapitated (“Off with her head!”). Watership Down is a violent little book. Without belaboring the point too much, nineteenth century children’s literature is frequently extremely violent.

This, of course, begs the question: how should we feel about exposing children to violent tales? Should we take the Baum approach? Or is there reason to believe that violence in children’s literature is acceptable (or perhaps even beneficial)?

In the wake of The Graveyard Book winning the Newbery Medal, Neil Gaiman appeared on The Colbert Report in which he had to address that very question. Gaiman’s book is a wonderful case-in-point. The book begins with the bloody murder of a toddler’s entire family and his escape to a nearby graveyard. I’ve included a link to the interview here, if you wish to see it for yourself, but Gaiman brings up exactly the same argument. The main conflict in The Tale of Peter Rabbit is Peter’s attempts to stay out of one of Mr. McGreggor’s meat pies. Even literature for very young children is replete with allusions to (if not descriptions of) many violent acts.

http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/221843/march-16-2009/neil-gaiman

I am currently working pretty heavily on finishing my book about horror films that take place in educational institutions. One of the central issues of the work concerns how school violence is depicted on film. I have been surprised (after having seen dozens and dozens of horror films) that despite the gory, bloody violence, they tend to be much more responsible in their depictions of violence than their action counterparts. The victims of the violence in horror films are terrified, their family and friends mourn for them; the horror film frequently focuses on the effects of violence in a way that action films simply don’t. For a vivid example, compare The Last House on the Left with Death Wish. Both films feature a man who pursues vigilante justice after his daughter is brutally attacked—but one glorifies the vigilantism and the other uses it to explore how that response causes a man to lose his humanity. In the end, The Last House on the Left is far more brutally violent and difficult to watch, but the points that the film makes about that violence create a far more valuable film than Death Wish (a film which I see as unabashedly counterproductive to any reasonable discussion of societal violence). The broader point I am trying to make with respect to children’s literature is a related one. I am not especially concerned with whether a text for children is violent, but how that text is violent.

I have a four-year old. We talk regularly about what are inappropriate forms of touching. Frequently, my wife will come into the room to see what all the screaming is about when my daughter and I are practicing how we would scream if someone touched us in our private areas. The easiest way to create a child who will become a victim of violence is not to talk about violence. In this respect, it is imperative that we expose children to violent literature.

It can’t be just any violent literature, though. I was a child of the 1980s. As such, I was exposed to more than my fair share of G.I. Joe Cartoons.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gc8mVs2H4Vc

The problem with most violent texts for children is that they don’t treat violence responsibly. They create false good/evil dichotomies and they depict the use of violence as acceptable, if your cause is just… and they don’t encourage anyone to question whether their cause is just. Whether it is the preponderance of comic book superhero tales, Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, G.I. Joe, etc., etc., our children are bombarded with exactly the sort of violent tale they should NOT be watching. In fact, our children would benefit much more from seeing disturbing images of violence. Popular children’s culture creates a climate in which violence is rarely, if ever, disturbing. But, the fact of the matter is, we should want our children to be disturbed by violent images. We shouldn’t be speaking out against texts for children that present violence as scary, dangerous, and detrimental, because that is exactly the attitude toward violence we should be hoping to create in our children. We should be speaking out against those texts for children that show violence without showing its ugly effects.

With this in mind, I am having a daddy-daughter date with my eleven-year old tomorrow. She and I read The Hunger Games together, and she and I are going to see the movie together. Judging from the books, this will be a film containing graphic depictions of violent acts against children, perpetrated by children. The thing is, Katniss is an unwilling participant in the violence. She carries the deaths of her friends around with her for the rest of her life. We see how his own violent past drove Haymitch to substance abuse and mental illness. Yes, the premise of the film, teenaged children being forced to fight to the death for television entertainment, is shocking. It should be shocking! If it weren’t shocking, that would be the problem, because then we wouldn’t be thinking about the violence or its effects at all. (Plus, it isn’t really any more shocking than 1954’s Lord of the Flies, so we’ve had a few years to get used to the idea that this might be appropriate material for young adults.)

I love L. Frank Baum’s stories. Oz is a safe fairyland in which not-so-dangerous adventures occur, odd and magical creatures are met, and everything turns out wonderfully in the end. I’m sure some of my pacifist attitudes were shaped by my childhood love of the books. More of them, however, were a result of that hollow feeling I get in the pit of my stomach when I see an image of violence against an innocent…

Katniss Everdeen is not a superhero. She is a normal, teenage girl who loves her family and would do anything for them. Her story demonstrates the kind of change that can result from one average girl having the courage to stand up for what it right. Tomorrow, I am taking my daughter to what will likely be a disturbingly violent film. I am doing it because I want her to become the type of person who believes in doing the right thing, speaking and acting out against violence whenever she sees it, and who will have the tools to fix the world that we adults broke.