Brain Pickings

Posts Tagged ‘children’s books’

24 APRIL, 2014

Children’s Endearing Letters to Judy Blume About Being Gay and Her Timeless Advice to Parents

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Warm wisdom from the beloved author to console on one of life’s deepest sources of isolation.

“Dear Judy, please send me the facts of life, in numbered order.” So requested 9-year-old Fern in one of the many gems collected in Letters to Judy (public library) — an infinitely endearing compendium of the missives beloved author Judy Blume received from children, whose classic capacity for asking questions at once simple and profound shines here with soul-expanding luminosity.

Because her young-adult novels have tackled such timelessly tricky subjects as teenage sex (Forever…), sibling rivalry (The Pain and the Great One), divorce (It’s Not the End of the World), masturbation (Deenie), menstruation (Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret), and bullying (Blubber), Blume shares a special bond of emotional intimacy with her young readers, generations of whom have seen in her — and continue to see — a private confidante who approaches with nonjudgmental understanding what no one else seems to understand and everyone else seems to judge.

Sometimes funny, sometimes poignant, always earnest, these letters cover everything from the innocent joys of first love to the despairing anguish of loneliness and loss to the general psychoemotional turbulence of puberty. But one of the most moving sections deals with children’s inquiries about same-sex crushes and homosexuality, following which are Blume’s own wise words on the subject — doubly so for writing in 1985, decades before marriage equality reclaimed the dignity of love.

In one such letter, 13-year-old Margo shares her story, post-scripted with the heartbreaking self-doubt and alienation achingly familiar to those of us who have spent our teenage years with a profound sense of being different:

Dear Judy,

I am a girl in seventh grade and I have a funny feeling about one of my teachers. I am afraid I might be in love with her or something. My friend says she feels that way about her cousin. I’ll bet a lot of girls — and boys — feel this way. Could you please write a book about it?

Thank you.

P.S. You don’t have to. Maybe it is only me who feels this way.

In another, 11-year-old Polly writes with endearing earnestness:

Dear Judy,

I like boys but I think I am gay! Please don’t think I am just thinking that. I do believe I am gay.

Often, too, kids don’t even have the proper vocabulary to articulate their sense of difference or are too timid to try, but get their point across obliquely. Longing for an answer to their inner turmoil, they seek the answer in a book — after all, what is a book for if not, to paraphrase Anne Lamott, to decrease our sense of isolation? Here is 14-year-old Ned, writing with palpable and disarming desperation:

Dear Judy,

I am close to my mother but not my father. However, sex is not an open subject with us. Would you do me a favor and consider writing a book about how homosexuality becomes involved in good friends in grades four through eight. It isn’t something that will stick but it does happen. Thanks.

But one of the most stirring letters comes from a once-child, a now-adult named Joanne, who writes:

Dear Judy,

When I was about twelve I noticed that I was feeling toward girls the way most girls begin feeling about boys. I had no label to put on it and certainly no one to talk to about it. It was tormenting, horrible, and I kept trying to cover it up and hoping one day I would miraculously find a boy I could feel the same way about. I was desperate to find The Boy who would change me and save me from this awful thing. Of course, I never did.

Anyway, for the sake of a lot of young kids out there who think they’re the only ones in the whole world, would you consider writing a book about this.

Blume addresses the central concern that unifies these intimate cries for help with her signature warm wisdom:

Like Joanne, other adults have written sharing their experiences and urging me to write a book about a young person who is gay. A man in his thirties wrote that when he was young, he felt “despairingly lonely.” There was no one he could talk to about his feelings. He searched bookstores, hoping to find a book that would let him know he was all right. Another man wrote poignantly about having denied himself the joy of young romance. He still does not know how to tell his family he is gay. He is afraid they will reject him.

Because I tend to write out of my own experience and feelings I don’t know if I will ever write that book. But others have written about being gay and will again. I hope parents will remember that early same-sex crushes, sexual play and experimentation do not necessarily mean that a person is homosexual. What is most important is to prevent young people from feeling judged or condemned for their feelings and to encourage them to feel good about themselves, no matter what their sexual preference.

Letters to Judy is an immeasurably wonderful read in its entirety. Complement it with this compendium of contemporary writers’ answers to kids’ questions about how life works, including one from yours truly, as well as kids’ amusing and poignant responses to gender politics during the second wave of feminism in the 1970s and 1980s, then treat yourself to this lovely musical homage to Judy Blume by Amanda Palmer and see more children’s correspondence with C.S. Lewis and Albert Einstein.

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23 APRIL, 2014

Upside Down Day: Rare and Wonderful Vintage Children’s Book by the Head of NASA’s Public Affairs Office

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An ode to those times when everything seems backwards.

In 1968, less than a year before the iconic NASA moon landing, a charming children’s book titled Upside Down Day (public library) made its debut. What made it special weren’t just the vibrant illustrations by artist Kelly Oechsli, but that it was written by Julian Scheer — the head of NASA’s Public Affairs Office, responsible for enchanting Americans with the space program. There is something immeasurably wonderful about knowing that the person in charge of tickling the public imagination into embracing the pursuit of space exploration — a pursuit subject to tragic neglect today — was himself an imaginative storyteller who knew how to inhabit that delicate intersection of whimsy and irreverence.

Given Scheer’s background, it is quite likely that the story of a day where nothing works as expected was inspired by and teases children into considering the physics of space, which pays no heed to earthly expectations — from the way gravity warps the notions of up and down to the soundlessness of space, which makes the mooing of cows and the ring of a bell inaudible amid the cosmic ether.

Julian Scheer (left) and Kelly Oechsli

Though the book, sadly, rests in the cemetery of out-of-print vintage gems, I was able to hunt down a copy — here is a peek inside for our shared delight:

Should you be so fortunate to track down a surviving copy, Upside Down Day is a treat well worth the hunt. Complement it with Weight and Weightlessness, another spacetastic illustrated gem from the same era, and the story of how Scheer and his team marketed the moon.

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18 APRIL, 2014

Mr. Bliss: Tolkien’s Little-Known Children’s Book for His Own Kids, Lovingly Handwritten and Illustrated by the Author Himself

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“‘What color?’ said Mr. Binks. ‘Bright yellow,’ said Mr. Bliss, ‘inside and out.'”

J.R.R. Tolkien firmly believed that there is no such thing as writing “for children” and yet, unbeknownst to most, he joined the ranks of famous authors of literature for grown-ups who wrote little-known children’s books — including Mark Twain, Maya Angelou, James Joyce, Aldous Huxley, Virginia Woolf, and Gertrude Stein — and actually penned a book specifically for kids. He wrote Mr. Bliss (public library) for his own two children when they were small — much like the fairy tales E.E. Cummings wrote for his only daughter, Sylvia Plath’s verses for her kids, and the controversial story Faulkner penned for the daughter of the woman he’d later marry. Though it is unclear precisely when Tolkien created Mr. Bliss, the tale was inspired by his first car, which he purchased in 1932. It was published posthumously exactly fifty years later. Tolkien went on to use two of the character names from the book, Gaffer Gamgee and Boffin, in The Lord of the Rings.

The book, affectionately handwritten and illustrated by Tolkien himself — who, also unbeknownst to many, was a dedicated artist — tells the story of Mr. Bliss, a lovable eccentric known for his exceptionally tall hats and his “girabbits,” the giraffe-headed, rabbit-bodied creatures that live in his backyard. One day, Mr. Bliss decides to buy his very first motor car (and to my personal delight, as someone strongly partial to yellow, he proclaims to the salesman that he wants it to be “bright yellow, inside and out.”) But his first drive en route to a friend’s house soon turns into a Rube Goldberg machine of disaster as he collides with nearly everything imaginable, then gets kidnapped by three bears.

The ending, of course, is equal parts joyful and quirky.

As far as lesser-known children’s books by famous authors of “adult” literature go, Mr. Bliss is a winner. Complement it with Tolkien’s gorgeous art, then revisit some more fairly obscure children’s books by Mark Twain, Maya Angelou, James Joyce, Sylvia Plath, Aldous Huxley, William Faulkner, Virginia Woolf, Gertrude Stein, Anne Sexton, T. S. Eliot, and John Updike.

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18 APRIL, 2014

Hope Is a Girl Selling Fruit

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A beautiful illustrated celebration of women’s journey toward creative freedom and mobility.

Amid a children’s book ecosystem marked by a lamentable lack of ethnic diversity and gobsmacking presence of female protagonists in only 31% of books, here comes Hope Is a Girl Selling Fruit (public library) — a heartening antidote from the young artist-storyteller Amrita Das and Tara Books, the remarkable Indian independent publisher who for the past two decades has been giving voice to marginalized storytelling through a commune of artists, writers, and designers collaborating on beautiful books based on Indian folk traditions.

Das’s story is both semi-autobiographical and universal, a celebration of the “sliver of chance” that came her way and catapulted her into a life of creative independence, the same serendipitous happenstance that every so often makes life so strange and wonderful for each of us.

A young girl leaves her tiny village and goes to the town of Chennai to learn art. On the train, she meets another girl from a poor family and in her eyes she sees not only her own story, but the wider story of what it means for a girl to blossom into a woman’s life, free to make her own choices and speak for herself in a culture where women are routinely spoken for.

Das’s gorgeous artwork is based on the Mithila tradition — the same folk art style that gave us the superb Waterlife — but subverts it to unusual ends for a result that is both radical and respectful of its cultural heritage. Sometimes symbolic, sometimes humorous, sometimes imbued with metaphoric commentary on culture, her drawings become succinct visual epiphanies that explore the boundary between the known and the unknown, the given and the earned.

From the tangle of train tracks to the commuter chaos of the city street, Das’s drawings extend beautiful and poignant visual metaphors for the plight of mobility amid social conventions designed to keep women static.

The poor do have pride. They don’t ask, and they have nothing to offer in return.

In an inquiry pursued more directly in the wonderful Drawing from the City, Das also explores what it means to be a young, independent woman in the city. And though the specificity of the narrative weds it to the context of Indian culture, implicit to it is the broader question of what it means to be a member of a marginalized group — any marginalized group — in a mainstream society designed to limit your options and oppress your opportunities for self-actualization.

A girl’s life is hard, especially if you’re cursed to be poor. It’s gone even before you start on it. There’s all the work, but even more than being tied to these endless tasks, it’s the mean and hurtful way people speak to you.

If you dream for a moment, you’re asked why you’re twiddling your thumbs.

You’re not supposed to want anything, let alone allow your heart or your self to travel. No one lets you forget that you’re born a girl, not a boy.

Freedom. What does that word mean to us?

Hope Is a Girl Selling Fruit is impossibly wonderful from cover to cover, both as an aesthetic experience and an emotional journey. For more of Tara’s treasures, see The Night Life of Trees, a breathtaking handmade homage to Indian mythology, Waterlife, a collection of exquisite illustrations of marine creatures inspired by Indian folklore, and I Saw a Peacock with a Fiery Tail, a Victorian “trick-poem” illustrated with stunning die-cut Indian art.

Images courtesy of Tara Books

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