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.

Magic Kingdoms, Emerald Cities, and Mormon Temples (oh, my!!!)

A friend of mine (who is pursuing her doctorate in religion at Boston University) recently wrote to me about some Oz-related findings on her research regarding the history of the image of Mormons in popular media. Apparently, after the LDS temple in Washington, D.C. was built, critics made fun of it by comparing it to the Emerald City.

I’m still working on researching this, myself, so I’m not quite sure at this point whether it was a reference to the W.W. Denslow illustrations from the book

or the Art Deco Emerald City from the 1939 MGM film.

Given the preeminence of the film in the public consciousness, though, I’m guessing the critics were referring to the film… but, to my eye, the edifice seems more akin to the book illustrations. Picking up on this critique and using it in an act of anti-Mormon bigotry, someone spray painted "Surrender Dorothy!" on a nearby overpass on the D.C. beltway.

Interestingly, L. Frank Baum's inspiration for the Emerald City came from The White City at the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago (where he was living at the time). Designed to showcase the works of the most prolific American architects of the era, the White City was an amazing architecture achievement, in itself. Sadly, it perished in the Great Chicago Fire. Even so, its influence can be felt in a great number of impressive twentieth-century American architectural structures (but I’ll leave any further discussion of that to those who study architecture).

On a side note, Walt Disney's father worked on the construction of the White City, as well. It was said to have inspired Walt's visions for his theme parks. There is a clear visual link between the White City and the iconic Magic Kingdom castle.

There is also a strong link between Oz and the Magic Kingdom; both of them are quintessentially American utopian visions. The connection, however, goes deeper than this. They share a strange geographical similarity as well. Certainly, there is also a strong resemblance between the map of the Magic Kingdom and the map of Oz. Both of them are kingdoms divided into four separate quarters, in a quincunx formation (sorry, it just isn't everyday one gets to use the word quincunx in a meaningful way), with an elaborate palace in the center of the map.

(Here's another Fun Fact: The Mormons were banned from the World's Parliament of Religions at the 1893 World's Fair by the organizers, who generously offered them a consolation spot... on the Midway.)

For those of you who are teachers, I believe The Wonderful Wizard of Oz can serve as the centerpiece of a language arts course that integrates a great number of subject areas across the curriculum. I’ll delve more deeply into this in future posts, but there are ways to use Oz to integrate history (Chicago World’s Fair, the Great Chicago Fire, westward expansion of the United States in conjunction with rapid urbanization, etc., etc., etc.), science (tornadoes, anyone?), geography (map reading), and now obviously religion and architecture.

Happy to be here!!!

Wow! It has been nearly three years since I've posted anything on this blog... I really dropped the ball on that. Initially, I had intended to use this page as a way to supplement my classroom language arts teaching. However, now I'm thinking it might better serve as a general blog dedicated to children's literature and fantasy worlds.

In that spirit, I have three updates:

• Last fall, I presented a paper to the Georgia Educational Research Association about utopian children's literature and the idea of cognitive mapping. For those of you who don't know, cognitive mapping is the idea that utopian novels are popular forms of social and political philosophy that help readers to orient themselves to current cultural conditions. The paper examined, in particular, Oz, Narnia, and Middle-Earth, discussing differing conceptions of modernism in each. I had a great deal of fun, and I'm hoping to do something bigger with the paper soon. I'll keep you updated.
• Currently, I'm researching and writing a chapter for my book on horror films that take place in educational institutions. I have about four or five films left to watch in my colleges and universities chapter, and I'm looking forward to presenting my findings next week in Charleston at the Southern History of Education Society annual meeting. I hoping to wrap up writing for this entire project in the next couple months, and I'll be looking for a publisher quite soon. Again, I'll keep everyone posted on the successes and failures in this process. (I'm sure excited about it!)
• I recently finished reading this year's Newbery Award winner, Moon over Manifest. I really enjoyed it (especially the last 50 or so pages). I wasn't as enamored with this book as I have been with some of the other recent winners (The Graveyard Book and The Tale of Desperaux come to mind), but it was quite good. Perhaps I'll write more on the subject later.

I know that as a result of letting this blog go for so long, that it'll take a while to start rebuilding some readership. Let me know if you have any suggestions, and thanks for reading!

Emerald City Podcast: Ruth Plumly Thompson vs. The Wicked Witch

In this third episode of the Emerald City podcast, we delve even deeper into the censorship of the Oz books.  In this episode:

• We examine the negative attitudes of powerful children's librarian Anne Carroll Moore toward the works of L. Frank Baum, and her efforts to see that children weren't able to read them. 
•  It also takes a look at the ugly scene that took place at a Jell-O sponsored party between Moore and Oz book writer Ruth Plumly Thompson.  
• Finally, we begin a discussion about Baum's influence in commercializing children's literature, and we begin to talk about the commercial empire of Oz.
  

We have a third example of an over-zealous librarian failing to find the joy in the land of Oz.