CHAPTER 8
According to Webster’s eleventh edition, genre is “a category of artistic, musical, or literary composition categorized by a particular style, form, or content.” A genre is a classification within which there are prescribed or common elements that invite expectation on the part of the reader or viewer. Genres are imbued with ideologies and particular ingredients that are open to reconstruction and reinterpretation over time, that is, socially co-constructed by the author and reader.
A generic scheme invites a literary study with much emphasis on the structure of the story (also known as story grammar). Aesthetic quality, plot and character construction, setting, voice, and style constitute the primary elements of such criticism. In many ways, the genre shapes the readers’ expectations for the text. Therefore, it is reasonable to look at how genres have been socially constructed, how these constructions shape what gets told, and in what manner. Each genre contains “categories set up by the interaction of textual features and reading practices which shape and limit the meanings readers can make with a text” (Moon, 1999: 81).
According to Nina Mikkelsen (2000: 45), “We must know about genres because they account for the way the world organizes literature.” While genres are not institutions, Vincent Leitch (1991: 85) argues that “there are, of course, relations between genres and institutions, as, for example, the epic and the state, the drama and the church, the essay and the school, but such … institutions often employ and frequently regulate particular genres.” Genres are social constructs, which get their definitions from institutions of teaching and learning, publishing, and book buying and borrowing.
Most children’s literature courses and many textbooks are organized by genre. That is, the literature is divided into such categories as poetry, picture books, nonfiction (e.g., biography, journals, diaries, collaborative autobiography, and all informational books), realistic fiction, historical fiction, chapter books, science fiction, fantasy, and what some people call traditional literature (e.g., folktales, fairy tales, and myths). There is an almost endless list of sub-categories that may be considered, depending on the scope and intent of the course.
In many introductory or survey courses the genres are defined and exemplary titles are studied and discussed, but rarely are the genres challenged as to their efficacy and inherent ideologies. Terry Eagleton (1976), raising the issue of genre and ideology, is of the opinion that,
In selecting a form, then, the writer finds this choice already ideologically circumscribed. He may combine and transmute forms available to him from a literary tradition, but these forms themselves, as well as his permutation of them, are ideologically significant. The languages and devices a writer finds to hand are already saturated with certain ideological modes of perception….
(Eagleton, 1976: 26–27)
Terry Threadgold (1989) asserts “to make genre, discourse and story ‘visible’ by teaching them is potentially to provide the means if not the certainty of subversion and change” (Threadgold, 1989: 107). Genres are a system of control over the writer and reader. According to Robert Hodge (1990),
The classifications of texts are also classifications of people—readers and writers—and of what they write or read about and what they should think and mean. Clearly the concept of genre is crucial in understanding how literature is implicated in basic systems of social control.
(Hodge, 1990: 21)
Any genre can contain or be a mixture of several genres, thereby forming hybrids. Each genre is a tapestry of discourses, woven with discursive threads. When we think of a particular genre we see the world through a particular prism. A “humor” classification will cue us to respond differently from a “horror” piece. And “science fiction” will help us to provide a different context than “historical fiction”. Our expectations and responses can be shaped according to the genre clues that are emitted by the text. Genre organizes our perceptions and confirms our literary expectations.
Who or what, therefore, is in control of the text? Where does the source of the meaning lie? Is it the genre, the author-writer, or the reader? How do social and political practices and conditions influence the text? Roland Barthes (1977) and Michel Foucault (1984) contend that the author has little to do with the ultimate meaning of the text. Barthes believes in the reader’s power, and Foucault in what is generated socially through the “author-function.” Foucault brashly raises the possibility that “We can easily imagine a culture where discourse would circulate without any need for an author” (Foucault, 1984: 468) and where no one would worry about the identity of the true author or the authenticity of that person. Rather, the questions would be directed toward the process of the text and the “modes of existence of the discourse” (Foucault, 1984: 468).
The deconstruction and reconstruction of genres unmask power and speculate on their redistribution. Conventions, social agreements, and expectations influence what gets said and not said. Genres are one way to control human discourse and manage ideology; they are the material representation of ideology. But genres can be sites of resistance and struggle as authors experiment with genre blurring and hybridization. Thomas Beebe (1994) maintains: “If genre is a form of ideology, then the struggle against or the deviations from genre are ideological struggles” (Beebe, 1994: 19). Eagleton adds, “significant developments in literary form … result from significant changes in ideology” (Eagleton: 1976: 24–25).
Not only do authors use genre to reach and influence particular audiences, but also publishers make decisions based on their perceptions of who will constitute a market for their products. Sometimes publishers will even change the tenor of a book by refusing to buy a work unless it meets the classification of the popular trend at the time, for example, memoir rather than fiction.
Rather than supporting literary study organized narrowly by genre, we invite the reader to look at genres differently. It is artificial and potentially damaging to classify literature and make those classifications so rigid as to have particular expectations and meanings solely constructed by the classification. It is as erroneous to do this to literature, as it would be to people. It does not allow for individual differences or for deeper meanings to emerge. To analyze the impact of genre on both the writer and the reader it is imperative to look at how each genre has been socially constructed and how these conventions shape what gets told and how.
We have selected a few genres to explore and deconstruct in order to apply our theoretical scaffolding. We begin with poetry because it seems the most unlikely of genres to make political statements to children. Rhyme, rhythm, and space constraints would appear, at first glance, to be insurmountable obstacles. We end with traditional literature (folk and fairy tales) because, by definition, especially when it comes from the oral tradition, it is inherently socially shaped, but its translation sometimes works to the detriment of authenticity and respectful portrayal of its culture of origin.
Poetry
Poetry and picture books are the least restrictive genres in terms of content, and the most structured in terms of format. Poetry is usually the medium of emotion rather than fact. It may be light or heavy, but the language must be condensed and distilled to its barest possible essence. One of the attractive features of poetry is that even though there are many prescribed forms and formats, very often poets break the rules and strike out for themselves in new directions.
Poetry runs the gamut from songs and rhyming verse to narrative, and even epic formats. The definition of poetry is elusive and there is as much argument about the topic as there is over “What is art?” Some poetry is lighthearted and nonsensical, or it may convey the deepest emotions. It has frequently been relegated to the status of the elite and obscure. Some teachers and librarians have withheld it from children whose skills are deemed to be “inadequate” because of its sometimes-abstract symbolism, and ostensibly limited range of interest.
That situation has changed radically in the past ten to fifteen years. Many teachers now read aloud a wide range of poetry to their students and encourage them to savor the poetry with all of their senses. Poetry, more than any other genre, requires young readers to pay attention to language. It invites thought as well as emotion, and analysis as well as synthesis (Hunt 1992: 131). Because today’s authors are increasingly pushing against boundaries of audience and form we are seeing poetry that expresses deep and complex emotions and takes into consideration such issues as class, gender, ethnicity, and culture. Poetry invites the reader to become a poet and to create many questions about the meaning and intent of the work. Contemporary poets tend to propel readers beyond their own situations and cultures so that their worlds are expanded and made fluid.
Naomi Shihab Nye, reflecting on the mystery of the disappearing honeybee and lightening bug in her book of poems titled Honeybee, comments on the importance of making contact with people across our nation as well as across the world, especially through the medium of blogs and the internet. “… nothing is random. No one alone” (Nye, 2008: 11). Nye is interested in everything about all people, and her poetry and anthologies reflect that interest. She has spoken out on the importance of addressing political issues as well as other social concerns in poetry as well as in life. She treasures and reflects her Palestinian heritage (her father is Palestinian; her mother is German American) and she continuously explores other heritages and points of view.
The late June Jordan tackled politics head-on in the workshops she led for young aspiring poets and activists. Her work is described in a manual, entitled, June Jordan’s Poetry for the People: A Revolutionary Blueprint, edited by Lauren Muller and the Poetry for the People Collective. The project “… rests upon a belief that the art of telling the truth is a necessary and healthy way to create powerful, and positive connections among people who, otherwise, remain (unknown and unaware) strangers” (Muller, 1995: 16).
A number of authors such as Sharon Creech, Karen Hesse, Juan Felipe Herrera, Pamela Porter, Cynthia Rylant, Mel Glenn, Virginia Euwer Wolff, and Jacqueline Woodson have pushed the boundaries of the genre of poetry to tell stories in the format of a hybrid novel.
The genre of the novel implies more explicit detail about plot, character development and interaction, description of the setting, and literary elements such as foreshadowing and rise and fall of the action. It usually requires a climax. Poetry demands a filling in of detail and mood on the part of the reader plus an understanding of the characters’ feelings and thoughts as well as interpretations of symbolic language and its implications.
The elements in a novel are usually linear. In a poem there is no requirement for chronological or sequential reporting. Some critics complain that the quality of the poetry is not as exacting as it should be in these hybrid poetic novels, while others extol the imagery and emotion of the poetic impact. Joy Alexander (2005) proposes that the verse novel is typically constructed from a first person perspective and possesses cinematic qualities, with a succession of scenes presented to the reader, constructing reading as an “intimate conversation or even as eavesdropping” (Alexander, 2005: 270).
In Herrera’s young adult novel, CrashBoomLove: A Novel in Verse (as noted on page 72), is a series of poems that takes the reader into the life of sixteen-year-old César García. César’s father has deserted him and his mother, his “friends” too often lead him into trouble, and school is a mixed bag. Herrera, a noted poet, demonstrates here that poetry is not necessarily lyrical or disconnected from reality. The poetic genre heightens the impact of César’s struggles as a Mexican American teenager in a hostile school situation, a context that is new for him. The free verse amplifies his peripheral status within this school community.
In an interview for the teacher’s edition of Out of the Dust, Karen Hesse reveals that she selected free verse as her medium “because of the spare understatement needed to tell the story.” She comments that she had written in the genre of poetry before she wrote historical fiction. But she found poetry such an all-consuming genre that she only felt able to tackle it when her growing daughters were no longer in constant need of her attention. She notes that “Billie Jo tells her story from a heart that doesn’t waste a single beat, from a mouth that doesn’t waste a single word.” The story grows as the main character does. In journal format, each entry is dated; each stands on its own as a poem. The tension and emotions build, and even through the tragedy that occurs (Both Billie Jo and her father feel responsible for the mother’s death.) and the hard, hard life she and her dad endure in the dustbowl, Billie Jo forgives, is forgiven, and survives.
The expectation of the genre of poetry is that symbols are used to take the place of phrases and sentences, language is allusive, and emotions appear to reign over logic. To go beyond the conventional there must be room for experimentation and deviation from the expected. Because of the sparseness of the language, there will be many things left unsaid, inviting the audience to fill in the gaps. Karen Hesse posits:
If a writer included everything, the reader would be excluded from the creative process. The books most beloved by readers, I think, are ones that provide enough detail to anchor the story in the reader’s mind and heart, but leave room enough for the reader to bring his or her self into the created reality. If the author gets the balance just right, readers are not shut out of the story by too much detail, nor are they left dangling because there is too little to bind them to the fiction. How is it that literature from other cultures, other historical periods, other worlds even, can be universal enough to resonate with the contemporary reader? The answer grows organically out of what the author omitted and what the author included.
(Personal correspondence, July 17, 2001)
In response to the question, “What makes you decide to put what you’re writing into the genre of poetry?” Jane Yolen says, “I don’t. What I want to say chooses its form. But the condensed lyrical line has great power for me and so much of what I do comes out a poem.” Her Owl Moon is an excellent example of the aptness of the combined poetic and picture book genres. The book provides a picture of the idyllic outing that a young girl and her father share while they are hoping to see and hear owls as they walk through the woods. A sense of respect pervades the entire piece: respect for nature, and for the opportunity for the father and his daughter to be together, sharing this very special experience. Without belaboring the issue, some young readers may acknowledge surprise that it is a father and daughter going on this outing, rather than a father and son. Gender roles are certainly not the focal point of the book, but provide another element of respect to consider.
Lee Bennett Hopkins is very careful to be inclusive in the content, potential audiences, and creators of the poetry in his numerous anthologies. Lee stays in touch with poets around the country who write for his compilations, sometimes on a given theme. They write about contemporary pleasures and problems, dysfunctional families, social mores, death, divorce, lifestyles, and whatever else children need help with.
Hopkins points out that poetry reflects society through the ages. Master poets like Walt Whitman and Carl Sandburg have written on these topics that remain as fresh today as when they were written. He includes these and other well established as well as new poets in his collection, Hand in Hand: An American History Through Poetry, published by Simon and Schuster. The book presents different points of view on U.S. history, and includes perspectives not always found in history books. For example, Sandburg’s poem from “The People, Yes,” ends with a child asking, “Suppose they’ll give a war and nobody will come?” (Hopkins, 1994: 96). The poet invites children to question the decisions adults have made about waging war.
Another of the poems in this consistently provocative collection is by Myra Cohn Livingston, entitled “Paul Revere Speaks.” In it, Revere acknowledges his many accomplishments that contributed to the war effort, but in the end, he proudly recounts his prowess as a silversmith, and concludes: “There are some things a man needs to be remembered by that only his hands can make” (Hopkins, 1994: 30).
Sometimes a nation’s political climate is so pro-war that it takes courage to make a statement indicating that there are some contributions more glorious than adding to the war effort. Sometimes it is the poet whose lone voice helps to change attitudes in times of war. Hopkins believes that the genre of poetry lends itself to this kind of influence. It is his hope that teachers and librarians will integrate poetry into every area of the curriculum.
On the other hand, this collection of poetry also supports some of the established ideologies about the sanctity of history even when it was neither noble nor democratic. Felicia Dorothea Hemans’ poem, “The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers,” not only omits the role of women in this enterprise, but also neglects any mention of the Indigenous population that already inhabited the land. And of course there is no mention of the prejudice the Pilgrims held against people who did not practice their religion in the same way the Pilgrims did.
One of the attractive elements of this book is the inclusion of so many points of view. Although some of the poems omit any mention of the effect of colonization on the Native Americans, Hopkins points out in his preface to the third section of the book, “Midst the need to grow there was bloodshed between frontiersmen [sic] and the Native Americans who rightfully fought for their land—a land they possessed long before ‘white men’ decided it was theirs” (Hopkins, 1994: 38).
Arnold Adoff has, for years, produced books of poetry that include African American and biracial children’s experiences and feelings. His Black is Brown is Tan, first published in 1973, and reprinted in 2002, mirrors his (and his wife, the late Virginia Hamilton’s) own children’s lives with their combined maternal African American and Native American and their paternal Jewish American heritages. Adoff has collected anthologies of poetry written by people of color since the late 1960s. In his preface to the first edition of The Poetry of Black America: Anthology of the 20th Century (1973), he explains that one of the reasons he decided to compile this anthology was “To go beyond the racist textbooks and anthologies that were on the shelves and in the bookstores” (Adoff, 1973: xvi). This groundbreaking anthology, with an introduction by Gwendolyn Brooks, contains the works of Black poets from the nineteenth century to the present time. It remains an important comprehensive collection and model for anthologists seeking to provide an in-depth view of the history and development of Black poetry.
In the opinion of Peter Hunt (1992), poetry, out of all the genres, is the one that challenges our notion of comprehension. No single meaning is intended in a poem. Words, phrases, images, ideas, all convey different shades of meaning and a range of feelings. Poetry requires a careful consideration of each word, syllable, line break, and image. It makes us confront our notions of language and meaning. A well-crafted poem helps readers to examine and value the construction as well as the language of written literature.
Critical multicultural analysis requires that readers come to a genre informed about its conventions and ready to see how the form shapes the message, how the content fits the form, and how the individual author uses form and content to communicate his or her ideological position. The relationship of reader to author becomes more intimate because the thinking and feeling of the poet are conveyed directly, not implied as in some of the other genres. David Swanger (1999), in looking at a poem for its subversion of dominant paradigms, persuades us that it provides “a broadening of vision, a reinvention of the world, an invitation to the imagination” (Swanger, 1999: 16).
The Picture Book
One book that reflects Swanger’s conviction is Drummer Hoff, adapted from a folk tale by Barbara Emberley, illustrated by her husband, Ed Emberley, who won the 1968 Caldecott Medal for the book’s woodcut-illustrations. This hybrid, an excellent example of the blending of genres, can be classified as picture book, poetry, and allegory. It can be read as rhythmic verse, like a Mother Goose rhyme, with no obvious moral message. But if one looks closely and listens carefully, the picture of war emerges as a bloody, mutilating, and futile experience.
It is the story of a drummer in a nameless war. (The book was first published during the time of the Vietnam War.) Simple rhyming rhythmic text takes the reader through the measures necessary for firing a cannon. Various members of the military from General Border down to Private Parriage perform these preparations. It is explicit in the illustrations, though never mentioned in the text, that each one of them is maimed in some way, clearly as a result of injuries sustained in battle.
In the grand climax, Drummer Hoff, who still has all of his limbs intact and appears to be the youngest and the healthiest of the group, fires off the cannon. Leaving the actual firing in the hands of the lowliest member of the troop signifies the opposite of what one might expect in the order of rank. The resultant massive explosion of sound and color then leads to a last page showing the rusted and disabled cannon overgrown with flowers, leaves, and grasses, without even one person in sight.
These illustrations, following one upon the other, may evoke conflicting responses. On the one hand, the explosion of sound and color is exhilarating, and might indicate a triumphant, and even positive, feeling about the effects of the explosion. On the other hand, the cannon eventually rusts away and is buried by flowers in a field empty of people or the instruments of war. Although the ending is ambiguous for some people, a good argument can be made for the conclusion that war is futile.
This is a book that invites discussion with its many details that can be interpreted in several ways. The assumptions that picture books are exclusively for the very young, that bright primary colors signal lighthearted action, and that simple repetitive language cannot convey deep messages are certainly laid to rest here.
John Stephens (1992) helps us to see that intertextuality figures strongly in the reading of picture books. As readers, we come to a text with different social backgrounds, experiences, and abilities. We are familiar, in varying degrees, depending on our heritage, class, religion, and education, with different biblical and mythological stories, genre conventions, images, and historical and cultural information. We connect our understanding to what we read, and are able, in varying degrees, to draw inferences, clarify, and make sense not only of the texts, but also, the world.
While it is vital that this intertextuality takes place in any reading in order for the reader to exercise critical analysis, it is imperative in picture books. Picture books, by their very nature, provide dual sources of information and emotional response, so that the visual image is as important as (and sometimes more important than) the text.
Several scholars (Bader, 1976; Nikolajeva & Scott, 2001; Nodelman, 1988) have written guides to picture books, but William Moebius (1986) has provided us with a particularly provocative guide to picture codes. He comments on the frequency of the “phenomenon of intertextuality in picture books” (Moebius, 1986: 147) and helps us as readers to see how important it is to view the position, size, appearance, and location, among others, as traits of pictures that convey information, provide context, and shape our responses. It is also important to acknowledge that the relationship between the pictures and the text can make a difference on the impact of the book.
In his introduction to Reading Contemporary Picturebooks: Picturing Text, David Lewis (2001) raises the question of what constitutes text: “… if we speak of ‘the text’ of a picturebook, do we mean the words or words-and-pictures together?” For example, as we mentioned before, in The Christmas Gift, by Francisco Jiménez, the words describe the Mexican American migrant mother and child “looking for food in the trash behind grocery stores.”
The illustration depicts the mother and son behind a grocery store collecting bruised and discarded produce, while in front of the market a White woman selects choice fruit for purchase. The text lets the reader into the lives of the main characters, while the illustrations, although they are somewhat sanitized and pretty, show the socioeconomic divide for this family. A fence, starkly in the center of the page, heightens this divide.
Pictures and words may complement each other, add different features, supplement information, or, on some occasions provide surprises that amount to contradictions. These conditions shape the relationship between the reader and the text as well. The more visually literate the reader becomes, the greater will be the amount of understanding and appreciation of the text as a whole.
In general, picture books contain a minimum amount of text and are designed for the youngest readers, sometimes for the child who has not yet begun to read independently. As John Stephens (1992) maintains, “Picture books can… never be said to exist without either a socializing or educational intention, or else without a specific orientation towards the reality constructed by the society that produces them” (Stephens, 1992: 158).
Children are never too young to be influenced by ideology. Too often it is implied, and conveys the existing norms with such subtlety that it becomes internalized without question. Stephens reminds us “In order to make sense to its viewers, a picture book will be grounded in some version of consensus reality and use conventional codes of representation” (Stephens, 1992: 158). We advocate that children become visually as well as textually literate as early in their lives as possible, aware of the conventions and of how those conventions are attached to ideologies.
Sometimes the story is not as important as the elements of the presentation forming the substance of the book. That is the case in the Caldecott Award winning Joseph Had a Little Overcoat, by Simms Taback. Taken from an old Yiddish folksong, it details the sequential progression of how Joseph, a farmer who is handy with a sewing machine, recycles an old overcoat. People, especially those who have grown up in poverty or in working class families, resonate to the moral that one of the greatest sins is wastefulness and that it takes stamina and ingenuity to “make do” in this world. The illustrations demonstrate the richness of Joseph’s background alongside the real poverty in this small village in Poland. What Joseph wears and eats, as well as his community gatherings and celebrations portray his everyday existence.
He is also connected to the Yiddish cultural scene in the diaspora, examples of which appear in his home in numerous detail: clippings are displayed from two actual Yiddish newspapers of the era, as well as books, posters, and other artifacts that contain strands of cultural information. Allusions to authors Sholem Aleichem and I.L. Peretz, Sigmund Freud, and the philosopher Mendele Mocher S’forim, catch the readers’ attention, as do a fiddler on the roof, snatches of the Yiddish alphabet, and occasional Yiddish words. Wise sayings are posted on the walls and photos of famous Yiddish performers are evident. Each page yields a cornucopia of references to rural community life, the influence of the U.S. Yiddish diaspora, and the intellectual, social, political, economic, and emotional content of Joseph’s life.
This is a book aimed at an audience of more than young children. For readers to reap the benefits of all that is included here a knowledgeable cultural and historical guide would be needed in order to understand the settings and details of this complex textual weave. Someone who grew up in a family of Jews, imbued with Yiddish theater and music, and passionate about improving the plight of the working class would probably identify with and resonate to the many artifacts depicted on every page. The myriad photos of unnamed people include, for those in the know, Jewish entertainers, writers, leaders, and, one suspects, family members.
Two newspapers, The Jewish Daily Forward and The Morning Freiheit, appear several times. How many people know that these two newspapers were political rivals, with both of them espousing decidedly left-of-center political perspectives? Mendele Mocher S’forim, the philosopher whose book is pictured here, is one who deplored superstitious naive beliefs and practices. The song, “Tumbalalaika,” takes up a double page spread and is clearly an important part of a joyful celebration: it is a Yiddish song combining the mundane with the metaphysical. (Some of the riddles in the song are: “What is higher than a house? What is faster than a mouse? What is deeper than a well? What is more bitter than gall?” And the answers are, “A roof is higher than a house; a cat is faster than a mouse; love is deeper than a well; death is more bitter than gall.”)
What is not obviously here is the threat of pogroms (the organized murderous raids that decimated Jewish villages); the wrenching oppression and grinding poverty of the Jews and other peasants; the separation of families due to forced conscription into the Russian and Polish armies, and also as a result of emigration; and the political challenges to the dominance of the religion that were important factors in Russia and Poland at that time.
While these historical conflicts may not be deemed developmentally appropriate for young children, they do form an important rounding out of an accurate picture of Jewish life in the early 20th century. They figure largely in the stories of Tevye Milchiker by Sholem Aleichem which were later adapted into the play Fiddler on the Roof. These stories are alluded to several times in the illustrations for Joseph Had a Little Overcoat.
The same tale is told in Something from Nothing, written and illustrated by Phoebe Gilman. The story is identical to Joseph Had a Little Overcoat, except for a few minor elements: the setting is a small town, or shtetl, not a rural community, and much more information is provided about Joseph’s family. In this book, Joseph is a little boy, and it is his grandfather, a tailor, who keeps recycling what was initially a baby blanket. The details of daily living, including practicing the religion, are depicted in the illustrations. There is no mention of the diaspora here, nor is there a hint of external oppression. The illustrations do provide subtle evidence, however, of the difficulties of daily life.
What can readers do if there is no informed guide to go beyond the words and pictures of the book? How can adults and children explore further what the cultural artifacts convey that are depicted in the text? How can adults help children to organize the information into a meaningful order? (Stephens, 1992: 85). How can they do this, especially when their prior knowledge does not possess what the text requires?
In Joseph Had a Little Overcoat, if the readers’ experience does not include knowledge of Yiddish culture of the early twentieth century, where do they go to draw on intertextual knowledge? If their communities provide materials for cultural research, then they may be able to access information via established routes that are readily available. Interviewing people who have expertise, conducting library research, and exploring electronic search engines provide texts that interested readers may consult, especially if they have had the experience upon which they can build of organizing quests for information. Care must be taken to avoid the pitfalls that Stephens points out, of accepting, without critical analysis, the information acquired (Stephens, 1992: 85–86).
Currently, there are many picture books in circulation that an older audience would appreciate, and, indeed, which might be too sophisticated or challenging for younger children. Terrible Things, by Eve Bunting, is one such book. It is subtitled An Allegory of the Holocaust and it calls to mind the comments by Martin Neimöller, a Lutheran minister in the time of the Nazi domination, who regretted deeply not intervening earlier in the Hitler reign. Harry W. Mazal is the creator of the Mazal Library, one of the largest private collections in the world of Holocaust related materials including books, ephemera, microfilms, video-films, photographs, and the like with over 20,000 catalogued items. According to Mazal, Martin Niemöller said:
When Hitler attacked the Jews I was not a Jew, therefore I was not concerned. And when Hitler attacked the Catholics, I was not a Catholic, and therefore, I was not concerned. And when Hitler attacked the unions and the industrialists, I was not a member of the unions and I was not concerned. Then Hitler attacked me and the Protestant church—and there was nobody left to be concerned.
(Congressional Record, 14, October 1968: 31636)
Mazal states, “Although there are some variations that have been published on that famous quotation, the words shown above are the exact ones that Niemöller spoke in Congress.”
The pictures in Terrible Things are black, white, and shades of gray pencil drawings of dark clouds and furry woodland animals. The Terrible Things (we never see what they really are) carry off each of the animal groups, for example, things with feathers, things with bushy tails, things with quills. We feel, along with little rabbit, a mounting sense of confusion and dread. Little Rabbit is enjoined from asking questions; his family just wants to stay out of any conflict with the Terrible Things. Of course, in the end, the Terrible Things capture the only remaining creatures, the White Rabbits, and there is no one to protect them. Only Little Rabbit remains, and he vows that he will warn the rest of the world that they must stand up to the Terrible Things and protect each other.
Allegory is a difficult genre to master. Too often it is cloyingly cute or simplistic, trivializing the large theme it is trying to present. That is not the case here. Terrible Things works very well to stimulate readers’ questions and comparisons with real-world events.
For some young readers (and, indeed, for some older ones) there may not be the necessary information in their background to support a truly intertextual reading. Some knowledge of the Holocaust, and perhaps an acquaintance with Niemöller’s message, would help make the text more broadly understandable. On the other hand, perhaps simply having had experience with bullying, harassment, bigoted language, or behavior might be sufficient to make the text meaningful. It could be accessible to young readers if an adult were there to guide the reading and support the reader. But it is certainly not too “easy” a book, even for adults.
The Summer My Father Was Ten, by Pat Brisson, a hybrid of memoir, realistic fiction, and picture book, is another book whose message about the exercise of power is so integrated into the plot that it never descends into tract, but always retains the quality of story. Here, a background containing an understanding of working class conditions and values, for example, work ethic, appreciating the fruits of one’s labor, taking responsibility for one’s actions, respect for elders, and immigrants’ experience would help provide a context for the reader.
The young narrator brings to life the story that her father has told her year after year about the terrible mistake he made the summer when he was ten years old. Her dad and his friends were playing with a softball that landed in a garden that his elderly neighbor had lovingly and painstakingly grown and nurtured. In the process of retrieving the softball, without taking time to think about what they were doing, impulsively, the boys began throwing ripe tomatoes and anything else they could snatch from the earth, and eventually destroyed the garden. Too late, when the elderly man appeared and accosted them, her father came to his senses, and was horrified and ashamed. The next summer, and subsequently every summer of his life, he atoned for his behavior by creating a garden, first in partnership with his elderly neighbor, then on his own, and eventually with his daughter.
Subtly woven into this well-told story is a sense of the elderly man’s isolation in a community where his language and origin are foreign, plus a view of a working class neighborhood in which few people have the time or impetus to care about a vacant lot. Although there seem to be no people of color in the neighborhood, cultural differences are implied and could provide discussion points for students.
The Other Side, by Jacqueline Woodson, is a picture book combined with enough text to also label it realistic or social justice fiction. Clover lives in a house on one side of a fence that divides the entire town. White people live on the other side, and both mothers warn their daughters not to climb over the fence because “It’s not safe.”
Eventually, the White girl who lives in the house on the other side of the fence moves from being called “that girl” to being acknowledged by her name, “Annie.” Clover and Annie progress from behaving as wary strangers to becoming friends. Both girls are courageous. They are growing beyond their experience, and perhaps, beyond their fears. Both take risks; Clover is comfortably situated with her Black friends but there is the implied possibility of their rejecting her because of her friendship with the White girl. Annie is vested in her White privilege, but takes risks because of her wish to have a friend.
Through what the characters say and do not say, and what they do and do not do, the author and illustrator invite us to unpack the course of events and ask some questions about the implications of the situation. The title itself bears examination. Who is “the other?” “The other side” implies more than one opinion/view/judgment/attitude/truth. What are the “sides” here? What other metaphorical fences or walls exist today?
In looking more closely at the story, if Annie were not such a loner, would she and Clover have become friends? What would have happened if the author had placed Clover in the position of having to choose between her long-time Black friends and her new White friend? What if the author and illustrator had depicted Annie as also having some White friends? Would she have invited Clover to play? If Clover were alone would she have been the one who initiated the friendship?
Why is it that only Clover’s mom sees and condones the friendship? Where is Annie’s mom, and what is she thinking? Why is it that Annie crosses the fence, but the Black children never do? When does the story take place? According to the illustrations, the story is set in the 1950s. This was entirely the choice of the artist. The author has stated that she imagined it as a contemporary story. How far have we come as a society since the pictured setting of the book? What difference would it have made on the impact of the book if the illustrations depicted a contemporary twenty-first century setting?
The fence itself is an indicator of social division and domination. The acceptance of the fence and its implications of “never the twain shall meet” signals collusion on the parts of the families living on either side of the fence. The girls’ resistance (albeit tentative) provides hope for eventual agency, not only for the children, but also even perhaps for their families. How far the resistance and agency can extend is up to the reader and society.
These musings are meant to interrogate the possibilities beyond those already presented in Woodson’s constructive and hopeful book. We recommend that readers acknowledge the author’s stance and go on to form their own opinion. We suggest, as part of a critical multicultural analysis, that questions may be raised apart from, as well as stemming from what the author and illustrator have indicated in their text and pictures. This approach requires an informed social imagination on the part of readers and a willingness to inquire further into culture and history on their own. In this deceptively simple book it may be that different perspectives can be confronted as part of an understanding of the dynamics of interracial relationships and progress.
No Bad News by the African-American psychologist, Kenneth Cole, traces the development of Marcus, a young boy whose mother has determined that it is time that he walk by himself through his urban neighborhood to the barbershop to receive his usual haircut. The photography of John Ruebartsch illustrates this book. They are in black and white when they depict the boy’s journey to the barbershop, and they are negative and frightening, even including an encounter with an angry teenager who knocks Marcus to the ground.
The community of people at the barbershop reassures Marcus about the good things going on in his neighborhood, and sure enough, on his way home, Marcus sees good things happening. He observes a loving family walking down the street, a gardener, music being played, all portrayed in color. And he is an active part of the good things.
Rather than assuming that “photos never lie” the author and illustrator demonstrate that the process of writing and illustrating is one of selection and decision making, analogous to the power of action and creation in everyday life. The subject matter and how to represent and interpret it are in the hands and minds of the author, illustrator, and reader.
Postmodern Picturebook
Bette P. Goldstone (2004) makes an excellent case for identifying the postmodern picture book as a new subgenre. She outlines and comments on a set of specific features that are calculated to surprise the reader, as well as to empower the reader to make new connections among the real world, the text, and the image. Goldstone summarizes the essential components of postmodern thought including nonlinearity where the reader cannot expect all of the components to be included or to be presented in logical order. Most postmodern picture books scoff at reality and tease both the reader and the subject matter. In fact, postmodern picture books most often contradict themselves on purpose. There is rarely a hierarchy of power or structure. Very often the attitude of the author and the invitation to the reader mock what has up to now been considered sacrosanct.
David Wiesner’s retelling of the classic folktale, The Three Pigs, demonstrates the quintessential postmodern picture book. It begins in a conventional manner for two pages. Then instead of the wolf eating the little pig that had built his house of straw, the wolf’s huffing and puffing blows the little pig off the page and out of the story. The text reads “… and ate the pig up” but the picture shows an empty handed and confused wolf. The same pattern is repeated with the second little pig and again there is a decided contradiction between the words and the images.
During the course of the story, the pigs naughtily disassemble the book, folding some of the pages into a paper airplane which they gleefully ride through the air into total white space after which they enter a different nursery rhyme, “Hey Diddle Diddle.” They take a little side trip into a fairy tale replete with a dragon and a would-be dragon slayer. From the pigs’ perspective, it is the dragon who needs rescuing, and again text and image contradict each other. With the help of the fiddler cat, the pigs and the dragon join blissfully and live in the now reconstituted house made of bricks.
Much that is unconventional and surprising about this book has to do with the blasting of expectations and overturning of conventional reading patterns. Almost every page invites readers to question and to join in the sometimes subversive fun. The absurd wins out over the commonplace.
Realistic Fiction
Fiction that reflects the feelings and concerns of contemporary young readers has gained popularity in the past 40 years. The burgeoning of realistic fiction can also be connected to developments in multicultural education because of its goal to acknowledge and affirm all children within the domain of the school and society. It is particularly in this genre that the metaphors of mirrors, windows, and doors have been applied. Children as individual readers need to see themselves and their issues and problems represented in books in order to feel validated. They also need to be introduced to the feelings and experiences of others in order to react empathically and humanely. They require models of behavior and response in order to function as productive citizens of a global society.
Fiction can run the gamut from the realistic or problem novel, through the historical, to the comic. For younger readers fiction is often in the form of chapter books, which tend to recount stories with a child as the main character, going through the ordinary episodes of typical childhood. For the older reader the situations become more problematic and even traumatic. There is no topic that is currently off limits, especially in young adult fiction. Authors often conduct a considerable amount of research in order to present an issue such as illness, abuse, or death in a way that satisfies psychological as well as societal criteria. Although by definition fiction is created rather than reported, it must always have the ring of truth and, when dealing with history, should not violate readers’ knowledge of the past.
It was not until 1967, with the publication of the then seventeen-year-old S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders that the genre of the realistic young adult novel became established. Alleen Pace Nilson and Kenneth L. Donelson (2001) call this book, along with several others, “ground-breaking, preparing readers for the iconoclastic, taboo-breaking novels of today” (Nilson & Donelson, 2001: 74). The Outsiders deals with class warfare, gangs, and poverty, and does not end happily, although there is some hope that one of the protagonists, Pony Boy, will survive and overcome the tragedies, mostly because he will write about his experiences. Sociopolitical constraints figure strongly in the novel.
Current young adult novels carry on the tradition set by S.E. Hinton. In The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian Sherman Alexie offers readers a wide range of emotions and a tragic/comic perspective not only of the fourteen-year-old protagonist, but also of life on the Spokane Native American reservation. Junior is the unlikely hero. He understands all too well the implications of issues such as alcoholism and racism coupled with poverty and death as they affect his people and himself. He manages to overcome significant physical disability as well as ostracism both from his friends and enemies.
The humor is often raunchy but never out of place. Even the most flawed characters are portrayed with some redeeming understanding. Forney’s comic art enhances the reading experience. Junior’s survival is truly heroic, but not unrealistic. The story follows Junior (aka, Arnold Spirit) in his struggles to secure a good education for himself. He and his family live on the Spokane reservation. He knows that in order to have a life for himself, away from alcohol and violence, he must leave the reservation. He does this reluctantly and only partially: daily he commutes the long distance (22 miles) from the reservation to Reardon, the all White neighboring community, and comes home at the end of the school day. Sometimes he has to walk, sometimes his father manages, despite being drunk, to drive him, and sometimes he catches rides with various drivers.
Despite his disabilities, Junior is a talented cartoonist and more intelligent than most of his peers. He is also exceptional at selectively making friends. Alexie tells the story of the reservation community, as well as Junior and his family, lovingly and respectfully.
John Stephens (1999) argues that one way to challenge the social authority of realistic narrative is by locating how the narrative form summons the reader to consider the text in close relationship with the real world. In many ways, realistic fiction persuades the reader to ignore the workings of language, blurring the line between reality and fiction. Stephens further states that “debates about realism are always actually debates about how we understand language to operate, and how the world is” (Stephens, 1992: 193).
Historical Fiction
Sometimes historical fiction provides more truth (as opposed to a collection of facts) than a work of nonfiction about the same era. In historical fiction history serves to authenticate the fictional past that the book is trying to create. A critical multicultural analysis of this genre opens up a space for the reader to have a dialogue with the past. Readers may look at how history is portrayed and may use the events depicted to excuse discriminatory behavior. (A person might justify this attitude by saying, “We can’t criticize the behavior because that’s the way it really was then.”)
Mildred Taylor’s Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry and the other books in the series depicting the Logan family convey the strength of this African American family in the midst of bigotry and their struggle for survival in Mississippi in the mid-1930s. Cassie, age 9, is the narrator, and we get to know her well. We also gather insight into the rest of the family as well as members of the community, White and Black. The problems of a widespread racist society are addressed within the context of the plot. Every episode is believable. Although it is clear that the White people are the oppressors, the Black families are not unrealistically saintly, nor are any of the characters two dimensional.
Fact cloaked in fiction, when it is well done, leaves more of a lasting understanding than raw information, and promotes an internalizing of the situation. Any history, even when it is in the format of historical text, takes a stand, offers a perspective and particular decisions were made in its construction of the past.
Although racism or other oppression might have been endemic, and even tolerable to some members of a society, it is the responsibility of the author to communicate that evil never was and never will be right. Just because something happened does not mean it is acceptable. It is always possible for one or more of the characters, or for the author, to make a comment, react appropriately, or raise a question, so that contemporary readers are informed about the moral dilemma or the social injustice.
In Walking to the Bus-Rider Blues, by Harriette Gillem Robinet, the author draws upon her own lived experience, as well as the experience and history of her community. In her books, history is not simply a backdrop, but there is engagement with the historical moment. She personalizes the history, while at the same time, going beyond just the personal. The main characters are full-bodied and complex. We meet Alfa (the young narrator), Zinnia, Big Mama, the storekeeper, and the White police officer. Robinet provides a historical context for the resistance activities of this African-American community in Montgomery, Alabama. Towards the end of the book, the plot gets cluttered, but does not get in the way of the reader getting to know the community and its circumstances, and the interesting ramifications of the bus boycott for the Black community.
It was dangerous for Alfa to navigate the streets: bullies beat and rob him. It took longer on foot to get from one place to another. The author certainly intends to show the class stratification of the community: one of the thieves fits all the stereotypes, but comes from the middle class. It is an interesting comment on class, because the thieves, in both of the cases where the working class could be implicated, turned out to be from the middle and upper classes. With this window into class relations, the author brings the reader up close to the complexity of race relations.
Nonfiction
Eagleton (1996) claims that the distinction between “fact and fiction” is futile (Eagleton, 1996: 1–2). In The Ideology of Form: The Nonfiction Novel, Phyllis Frus McCord (1986) maintains that the distinction between literary and nonliterary texts has great consequence:
The works that are defined as nonliterary, nonfictional, or “other” narratives, then are regarded as “true,” factual or objective, and we fail to consider their fictional, ideological nature—that is, the structures they too impose on their materials and the “reality” they create rather than merely reflect.
(McCord, 1986: 60)
Implied in nonfiction is that there is a reality out there that can be captured in language and that language is stable. The authority of the nonfiction book is dependent on the agreement among the participants, the writer, and the reader. Along with the reading of these nonfiction texts it is important for readers to look at the context of the society in which the books are situated and to query what the prevailing power base is, as revealed in the texts.
Biography
Like poetry and picture books, nonfiction also has few limitations in terms of content. Ostensibly, the primary ingredient is fact. Of course the author’s perception of what constitutes fact is critical here. Perhaps even more important is what the author excludes as well as what he or she includes. For example, in a biography of Rosa Parks, depending on the author’s perspective, the reader may or may not learn that Ms. Parks was a political activist for much of her adult life. She was ideal for the NAACP to focus on in their massive movement of protest. Her characteristics and impeccable background served well to provide the ideal situation from which Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and other leaders could rally people from many communities. Thus they were able to organize a bus boycott and to bring the issues of racism to the attention of the world.
Often photos, rather than drawings, are used to convey a sense of authenticity, enhance the written information, and add visual documentation. Sometimes illustrations and text combined are designed to prevent the reader from questioning the representation. The reader needs to be on guard, particularly when the material is presented as a matter of fact. In fact, the selection of photographs as well as angles, details, and poses, all contribute to constructing a perspective as forcefully as a sketch or a painting might. However, just like any other form of illustration, photography is socially constructed and subjective.
Sometimes, particularly in biographies, journals, and autobiographies, it is clear that the author’s point of view is slanted because of the effusive language and decidedly admiring tone, as well as the omission of anything controversial. In addition, biographical writing tends to extract the famous people from their communities so that they become larger than life. Wherever possible several biographies may be used to compare and contrast the different perspectives on a historical figure.
Biographies, like other genres, may distort reality and require analysis. Oftentimes, the people and life work highlighted are rendered separate or isolated from the collective currents of participation that supported the people in their activism (Kozol, 1975; Kohl, 1995). How do these life stories contribute to our understanding of people, their communities, and society? What do different biographers foreground and background in their construction of the same life story? How does this affect the ideologies imbued in the biography?
Certainly, in children’s literature, it is satisfying to the reader to have the young protagonist emerge triumphantly as a result of his or her own talents. How can the social order then be reconstructed so that this is possible in fact, and not only because of the remarkable talents and energy of the individual?
Biographies of famous people often extol their talents without revealing anything about their flaws or foibles. Sometimes a third-person account omits the entire context of the person’s community or larger universe. Such is the case with Helen Keller. As James Loewen (1994) protests, in Lies My Teacher Told Me, “Keller, who struggled so valiantly to learn to speak, has been made mute by history…. The truth is that Helen Keller was a radical socialist … Keller learned how the social class system controls people’s opportunities in life …” (Loewen, 1994: 10–12). Loewen is concerned that children do not learn about Keller beyond her disabilities. Fortunately, the biography, Helen Keller: Rebellious Spirit, by Laurie Lawlor, makes clear that Helen’s adult life was spent in the pursuit of causes such as world peace, better conditions for poor people, access to treatment for blind and other disabled people, the rights of children, and suffrage for women.
The personal perspective of memoir, autobiography, and biography need not conflict with a historical perspective. Informational books can contribute vastly to the store of knowledge young people need to become informed citizens. Diaries, photobiographies (such as Russell Freedman’s award-winning book, Lincoln: A Photobiography), and the best of the nonfiction books are based on rigorous research. This involves consulting multiple scholarly sources including personal contacts with knowledgeable people. It requires investigating many perspectives and an openness to conveying facts that do not mask serious problems or controversial stances.
Any biography that presents the noted subject as a saint, omniscient, or independent of his or her community or family is seriously compromising the effectiveness of the book. Any author who chooses to write about the people of another country without indicating the political, social, and economic conditions of that country is not doing justice to the person or to the context, and is presenting a misleading picture.
Personal stories told in an intimate and heartfelt manner make the truth of the situation all the more compelling. These stories may take the form of oral history, which can offer people a way to talk back at the historical record. Or they may take the form of narrative, of memoir, or of reconstructed personal memories.
Leon’s Story, by Leon Walter Tillage, as we considered it in Chapter 1, is an oral history told to and set into print by a sympathetic member of the school community in which Tillage works. Bowman’s Store, by Joseph Bruchac, is a personal autobiographical exploration, a retracing of his past. The Circuit and Breaking Through, by Francisco Jiménez, as we analyzed in Chapter 6, are reconstructed memoirs. All of these stirring works provide us with stories of those who might otherwise have been left out of the official record. Leon, of African American heritage, was a sharecropper’s son in the depths of the Great Depression, in the heart of a land menaced by the Ku Klux Klan.
Francisco is a child of Mexican migrant workers. Although his nemesis is the grinding poverty common to all who crossed the border to work the land, not the active life-threatening hatred of the nightriders, both he and Leon experience abuse and oppression, yet both emerge with feelings of self-pride and determination to overcome social oppression.
Joseph Bruchac’s family who do not identify themselves as such, but who are, in part, of Abenacki heritage, are working class, but are not physically assaulted. Like the other two, his story conveys openness of narrative, and the same sort of personal triumph at having survived and surmounted the odds.
It is important for young readers to have access to these books. They are not only inspiring, they are also an invitation to think and talk about what is usually left out of history and children’s literature in terms of underserved and under-recognized groups and individuals. In all three of these well crafted, stirring autobiographies the protagonists focus on their own struggles and individual actions coupled with the loving support of their families.
In none of these books is there a hint of bitterness or complaint about racism or the structure of a society that permits and even embraces racist behavior and attitude. It seems as if the assumptions underlying the books accept as a given that economic injustice and racism exist and must be overcome by dint of personal effort. But the books also contain unmistakable evidence of the invidious oppression of the racism and classism endemic to the country.
They invite the reader to question why there were not more allies to intervene when injustices were being perpetrated. They also make clear, if in indirect ways, that injustice was not fought vigorously by members of the middle class, or by representatives of the government. They subtly call attention to the perception of many middle class members of the privileged majority that people of color are “good” when they accept blame or responsibility for their condition, and when they pull themselves up by their bootstraps, and are grateful for the opportunity to do so.
Sometimes an autobiography can help young readers to understand world events by personalizing and epitomizing the global situation and presenting it in the context of one person’s experience. Such is the impact of Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl. The enormity of the Holocaust is difficult to grasp. The actuality of one young girl’s ordeal is much more palpable. This book has done more to open a period of history to young readers than multiple textbooks could ever accomplish.
Fantasy
Historical fiction and nonfiction raise the expectation on the part of the reader that the text is based on fact. Fantasy often disguises itself as unrelated to fact, lowering the reader’s guard and inserting “information and values” that the reader internalizes. This is especially true if the fantasy is packaged aesthetically, enticingly, and cleverly.
Fantasy, according to Ruth Nadelman Lynn (1983: 1) is “a broad term used to describe books in which magic causes impossible, and often wondrous, events to occur.” Fantasy can be set in the real world that we inhabit or it can occur in a place or time invented by the author and governed by its own rules and values. Stephens (1999: 288) explains that, “In so far as fantasy writing comments on contemporary social practice, it does so by indirections, parallels, figures, even allegory.” The author’s deft touch is crucial in making the audience suspend disbelief. It must be totally credible for the events to happen in the context of the imagined setting.
Hybrids of fairy tales (a ubiquitous cousin to fantasy) and picture books abound, with each genre retaining its own special characteristics. Picture books rarely stand alone as genres. They are connected to other genres, depending on the perspectives of the artist and writer, and are shaped by discourses imbedded within the storylines.
Fantasy is not lack of truth. In order for it to work, it has to have a connection for the reader to a deep reality. We also have to remember that fantasy is not context free and that class, gender, and race figure as largely in a work of fantasy as in any other genre.
Genres carry with them certain characteristics. For example, fantasy often includes the creation of a new world that goes beyond ordinary earthly bounds, introducing characters with greater than human abilities. Usually magic plays an important part in the accomplishment of the hero’s quest. Perhaps in response to the restrictions and narrow impositions that require rigid adherence to the rules of any genre, authors choose to go beyond a prescribed template.
For example, the Harry Potter books contain fantasy, myth, adventure story, and social narratives. Issues of class and values (e.g., competition, tenderness, honor, and devotion to or flouting “the rules”) are raised. Members of the faculty of the Hogwarts School represent different ways of looking at behavior, history, and social responsibility. The Harry Potter series is not unique in this. Other fantasies, such as Philip Pullman’s Golden Compass, Susan Cooper’s The Dark Is Rising, Lloyd Alexander’s Chronicles of Prydain, and other series do the same.
Time Travel
Time travel, a possible sub-genre of historical fiction because of content and format, is also a sub-genre of fantasy since it is generally agreed that people cannot as yet travel back or forward in time. Time travel stories are not bound to everyday behaviors that are taken for granted in historical novels. These texts encourage a dual perspective: the time traveler to the time past or future, and the contemporary reader. The Devil’s Arithmetic, by Jane Yolen, weds historical fiction to time travel when Hannah is transported to Lublin, Poland in the year 1942. She then suffers, with her family, the horrors of the ensuing Holocaust. The combination of fantasy and reality makes this book a vivid portrait through the eyes of a young girl, a book that resists classification as a single genre.
Science Fiction
Science fiction is aligned with some time travel stories as well as with fantasy. In this genre, authors may exhibit their sometimes uncanny sense of scientific possibilities, while at the same time retaining their imaginative creations.
The category of dystopias falls under the genre of science fiction. It includes constructing a utopia, usually assumed to be far in the future, aimed at remedying the ills of our modern day world and relying heavily on scientific innovations to carry out the workings of the new world. The Giver, by Lois Lowry, winner of the 1994 Newbery Medal, describes a society carefully designed to eliminate gender role discrimination, racism, over population, war, pain, violence, competition, and excesses of strong emotion and bad individual decisions. This society is managed by a group of elders with the aid of scientifically designed medications, clear rules, constant vigilance, and frequent publicly broadcast communication. The community is insulated against such distractions as color (everything in this world looks gray). Readers are invited to determine for themselves how important individual decision making is in their lives and what the cost is of loss of freedom.
Jonas, the protagonist in the story, has been assigned the position of “receiver”, which sets him apart from his peers and imposes upon him all of the community’s history and memories and sets him in opposition to the careful workings of the society. The ambiguous ending provides more fodder for discussion. Does sameness of color eliminate racism? Can forced pre-selection of occupations in the community balance gender roles? Does sameness eliminate competition? Does lack of pain and strong emotion prevent violence? Young readers can benefit from conversations about this utopia turned into dystopia. Science fiction is frequently merged with other genres such as fantasy and horror. Increasingly, social and ethical issues are raised in works of science fiction.
Traditional Literature
Traditional literature, including fairy tales, nursery rhymes, ballads, fables, folktales, legends, and myths might fall into the realm of fantasy if they were not transmitted orally across generations. They originated with the folk of all continents and formed a communications system among and within peoples long before the advent of print. They reflected values, morés, acceptable behavior, the consequences of behavior, the battle between good and evil, and the assumptions of responsible citizenry. Depending on when the folkloric collectors captured them and set them down in print, the tales reflected ongoing evolution in the society. They were originally intended for all of the members of a community, no matter what the age of the inhabitant.
Here again is the question of the author and his or her importance. Who are the authors of these tales? Is it the collectors? What about the minstrels and bards who circulated them? Also consider the folk people who transmitted them from generation to generation. And don’t neglect the contemporary retellers who set them down in print. How can the reader discern who the writer is? What responsibility does the reader have to interpret and reconstruct the tales according to social and ethical precepts? What values are being conveyed implicitly and explicitly?
The process of creating traditional literature is ongoing. While it is interesting to trace the history of different tales, it must be understood that there is little evidence of the very beginnings of most of the folk tales. Even literary tales, invented by a writer such as Hans Christian Andersen, probably came from other older folk tales. What matters is not so much the history, but the development of the tale as well as the contemporary retellings and reconstructions. As we will demonstrate in our analysis of Cinderella tales in the next chapter, even the narrowly defined discourse of Cinderella varies widely, according to the intentions of its retellers.
Traditional literature may be among the last of the literary types that retain some “purity” of genre. Although publishers have produced lavish picture books of the European fairy and folk tales, and although there are contemporary retellings, fractured versions, and restructurings of the “classic” tales, nevertheless, the structures of the tales largely prevail. There is the youngest brother, the kind and innocent simpleton, who wins the hand of the princess. There is the beautiful young woman who is rescued by and marries the prince, and there is the wicked stepmother/witch who symbolizes evil incarnate. These tales, even now, take the opportunity to reinforce the values of the society, which is providing the tale, not only to children, but to all of the members of the community.
In Don’t Bet on the Prince, Jack Zipes (1986) urges us to design a sociopsychological theory that will help us grasp how fairy tales function within a socialization process. He says that to talk about fairy tales today is “to talk about power, violence, alienation, social conditions, child-rearing, and sex roles” (Zipes, 1986: 2). We would add sociopolitical understanding to that list.
The point here is that fantasy can convey and inculcate values and ideologies, very often in a more captivating way than stark reality. To prove that point, think about what springs to mind immediately when you are asked, “What does a princess look like? How about a prince? Tell us about stepmothers.” In our many years’ experience of working with teachers, young students, and librarians, we have had consistent responses to these questions: Princesses usually are described as blonde and blue-eyed; princes are tall, dark and handsome; and stepmothers are wicked and ugly. When we ask, “Do you really believe this?” some nod, some shake their heads “no”, but they do not appear shocked when we say, “yes, you do.”
This activity has particular personal application to Masha. She explains:
My mother died when I was 17. She was my best friend and I was heart broken. When my father remarried almost 2 years later, it was to a woman who was loving and funny and bright and competent. She was sensitive to my feelings and my needs, and she lovingly cared for my two sisters and me. When I talk about her I refer to her as my second mother. I cannot force myself to say she is my “stepmother.” I’m an adult and I know the difference between fantasy and reality. And to this day I cannot call her my stepmother. What is the source of this resistance?
Tzvetan Todorov (2000) links genre to human discourse, and reveals that old genres are imbedded in new ones. He maintains that genres are the product of infinite transformations, that is, utterances that go through significant modifications over time, shaping readers’ expectations and serving as models for writers to emulate. Genres are intertextual (drawn from literary and nonliterary sources), heteroglot (many languages, many voices), polygeneric (multiple genres, hybrids, amalgamations, layers), discursive (have sociopolitical, historical values and assumptions imbedded in them), ideological (imbued with particular worldviews or preconceptions), and dynamic (everchanging). Genres exist in relation to other genres, as Todorov (2000) and Bakhtin (1986) remind us. They are social constructs, historical evidence, and “cultural archives” (Leitch, 1991).
Each genre requires awareness on the part of the reader, a scaffold that critical multicultural analysis offers the reader to go beyond the form dedicated by tradition. It is this lens that we will use in our consideration of Cinderella in the next chapter.
Classroom Applications
· Genres shape reading expectations. In small groups, invite children to generate lists of the expectations they hold for the genres they are familiar with. Experiment with ways of challenging these expectations.
· Analyze the photographs and illustrations represented in books. How do the images, along with the text, offer positions of power to view the story from?
Recommendations for Classroom Research
· Which genres are present and absent from your curriculum and classroom library? Why?
· What factors contribute to the formation and longevity of a genre?
Suggestions for Further Reading
Bang, Molly. (2000). Picture this: How pictures work. New York: SeaStar Books.
Hunt, Peter. (Ed.). (1992). Literature for children: Contemporary criticism. New York: Routledge.
Nikolajeva, Maria & Scott, Carole. (2001). How picture books work. New York: Garland Publishing.
Nodelman, Perry & Reimer, Mavis. (2003). The pleasures of children’s literature (3rd ed.). Boston: Allyn and Bacon.
Stephens, John. (1992). Language and ideology in children’s fiction. New York: Longman.
Zipes, Jack. (2006). Why fairy tales stick: The evolution and relevance of a genre. New York: Routledge.
References
Children’s Literature
· Adoff, Arnold. (1973b). Black is brown is tan. Illustrated by Emily Arnold McCully. New York: HarperCollins Publishers.
· Adoff, Arnold. (Ed.). (1973a). The poetry of Black America: Anthology of the 20th century. New York: Harper & Row.
· Alexander, Lloyd. (1999). The book of three. New York: Holt.
· Alexie, Sherman. (2007) The absolutely true diary of a part-time Indian. Illustrated by Ellen Forney. New York: Little, Brown and Company.
· Brisson, Pat. (1998). The summer my father was ten. Illustrated by Andrea Shine. Honesdale, PA: Boyds Mills Press.
· Bruchac, Joseph. (2001) Bowman’s Store. New York: Lee and Low Books
· Bunting, Eve. (1989). Terrible things: An allegory of the Holocaust. Illustrated Stephen Gammell. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society.
· Cole, Kenneth. (2001). No bad news. Photography by John Ruebartsch. Morton Grove, IL: Albert Whitman & Co.
· Cooper, Susan. (1973). The dark is rising. Illustrated by Alan E. Cober. New York: Atheneum.
· Emberley, Barbara. (1967). Drummer Hoff. Illustrated by Ed Emberley. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall.
· Frank, Anne. (1952). Diary of a young girl (trans. By B. M. Mooyaart-Doubleday). Garden City, NY: Doubleday.
· Freedman, Russell. (1987). Lincoln: A photobiography. New York: Clarion Books.
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