Not for kids? (Defending the Use of Fairy Tales)

I have heard (and said myself) that fairy tales were not meant as entertainments for children.

While I still believe most of the content needs to be filtered by discerning parents, as my kids get older (and, remember, they’re not very old yet) I’m finding and thinking that some of the tales aren’t as inappropriate for them as I once thought they would be.

I first started thinking this way when I hung on to Wiley and the Hairy Man despite my mother’s opinion of it. I can see that the book is intense, but I know my kids, and went though it with them until they were acclimated to the story.

More troubling to me are (several) “children’s” movies that are equally or more intense than this story and too often used to “babysit.” That is, entertain a child without the adult’s involvement.

I am not “above” using movies to entertain my children. That’s what they’re there for. That’s why I watch movies. I have a stash that I am comfortable doing this with.

My general complaint with children being left alone with the television is that too many people equate cartoon with child-friendly.

For this reason I won’t let my girls watch certain “childhood standards” and I will continue to delay those while I can.

I like the movies (well enough). I think they’re good storytelling and art and all that, but I don’t think their level of tension is appropriate for preschoolers.

One of the difficulties with movies is that all the images and emotions come rushing at you like wild animals, and there’s no time or context for processing one of them before being attacked or buried by the next one.

When reading stories– even the same ones the movies were made from– I have more control, the children have more context, and (therefore) more safety for the whole exercise.

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Why do it at all if it requires special presentation to be “safe”? Because I enjoy them, for one thing, and I best meet my own expectations of reading aloud frequently if that first criterion is met.

Also because the stories, told in the right way, create opportunities to talk about real issues (this can be good or bad, depending on what issues are brought up).

Did you know the original Snow White (from the German, not Disney) was a child? She first angers her step-mother at the tender age of 7. There is nothing remotely passive or weak (common complaints about the tale) about a 7-year-old being taken somewhere by an adult she trusts, or being told what to do for her own safety (e.g by the dwarfs).

We have used the original Snow White (still edited slightly as we read aloud) to talk about the danger of disobedience; the reasons for adults’ warnings, designed to keep children safe. Continue reading »

King Thrushbeard– a brief commentary

I have read an annotated version of King Thrushbeard that “proves” how misogynist it is, and confirms the story’s purpose in frightening women into subjugation and obedience. And I can see where the annotators get that.

But this story has always appealed to me, and it was only as I was retelling it for Tuesday Tales that I finally understood why.

In it I see a sort of parable.

There is the princess (free to choose, but having no power of her own) who will not accept the young king. He is offering himself to her, even though (apparently) she has no dowry to come with her. He has chosen her for herself.

She thinks she doesn’t need anyone, then learns otherwise when she is cast penniless and unskilled into the world. The king who wanted her humbled himself and became the beggar who won her “by chance,” and lives along side her in poverty, with patience, attempting to teach her skills while at the same time revealing how unfounded all her former prides are.

He provides for her not having to go hungry for long (probably letting the cook know who she is) and shares her public humiliation cleaning up the scraps in the great company.

(Yes, some of this is magnified from the original in my retelling, but that is my prerogative as the teller.)

Mostly I was struck by the image of a great King who humbled himself to live alongside a useless princess so that he could protect her through trials that would make her more fit to be queen.

Let Them be Warriors

I have often felt sorry for modern boys and young men. They have so few chances to kinesthetically apply their problem-solving skills.

So few opportunities to be a hero.

Watching Honey I Shrunk the Kids a few years ago was the first time I really thought about this.

The greasy teenage boy changed from lazy and purposeless into a confident leader. I had to wonder how many of the high school guys I knew could have been marvelous rather than eye-rolling if they’d had the opportunity.

It’s started a new point of interest in my folktale collecting:

I’d really like to find some über-manly tales of knights and princes. The type that dominate the scene, according to the authors compiling books of women-centered folktales.

I guess I haven’t been paying enough attention up till now, because most of the stories I find don’t raise men nearly to the level women reach in their corresponding tales (trickster tales being the exception).

Even Cinderella, Snow White and The Sleeping Beauty— castigated as being about passive women– are still just about the women. I’ve noted before that in these stories the man is merely the accessory. A part of the packaged fantasy played out in the fairy tale.

Granted, I’m familiar with a lot of tales where a youngest son or some poor young man who is all alone is kind to the right person, finds the right friends, follows the advice of the wise man (or woman), and gets the girl, the gold or the kingdom, but they only rarely feel heroic.

Bryan Davis, the author of the Dragons in our Midst series (and another) wrote a fabulous article about the heart of heroism in boys and girls, and how naturally it plays out in line with the roles God ordained: Champion and encourager. Protector and helpmeet.

Read it. It gave me goosebumps (if that’s any additional recommendation).

So far in my brief search I have found two noteworthy books that I expect to buy by the time Elisha is a pre-schooler:

The title story from Lady of the Linden Tree is another good example of what I’m looking for, and is among the half-dozen or so of Picard’s tales I’d love to see in picture book format.

The Black Falcon, changed from its original incarnation in the Decameron, becomes a tale of sacrifice, about loving a person over a possession. The other is about a fierce battle, with honor, faithfulness, and the happy ending.

I’m keeping my eyes open for more like these, because as nice as it is to see the triumph of “the little guy,” I think it’s good, too, to have heroes that are larger than life.

My girls love their picture books with the pages of beautiful ladies and journeys that they can see themselves on. I want to give my son the same opportunity to identify with men of honor and bravery.

Yes, I hope to teach my son gentleness, but I also want to equip him with stories and images he can admire; those showing the proper use of strength and power.

Work is Not Abuse

More and more now, as I tell stories to my children, I find myself changing the Cinderella figure’s relationship with work.

This began more than a year ago, with that bad Hansel and Gretel rewrite we got rid of.

In that version Gretel knew the owner of the cookie house was a witch because she made the children work. My husband was very offended by this, and always changed that line to one emphasizing the importance of doing your share of the work.

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This last Christmas, the girls were given a collection of “Disney Princess” stories.

I actually have very little problem with the Disney versions of things, mainly because I think my kids get enough other tales that these are just additional variants and do not dominate the story landscape.

Snow White was a favorite for a while, but again I was bothered by the idea that having to work hard all day was the worst thing that could happen to you.

When Natasha became excited about having her own little house to take care of someday, “like Snow White,” I said, “Wasn’t it a good thing she had to work for her step-mother in the beginning? That’s how she knew what to do when she finally had her own place.”

Natasha was delighted with the idea, and this observation about the value of practicing work worked its way into every telling, question and response.

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Lately, while I will include work as part of her mistreatment, I try to place the emphasis on this as one way the others were unkind. The complete list included refusing to do their part of the work, not including the poor heroine, and cutting her off from basic comforts and relational encouragement.

Someone will say I’m over analyzing, or working too hard at this, but the shift only takes a few lines, and I’ve always believed a child’s stories do a lot to shape her attitudes, so they deserve a deal of thought.

I really want my children to realize the significance of cutting off someone from relationship, or leaving them to carry the full load alone. These are parts of unkindness, just like cruel words and too-little food.

Work is something they will be doing all their lives, and my goal is to help them understand it as a meaningful, shared necessity.

It is something of value, not necessarily because we enjoy it, but definitely because we benefit from the results, and because it is a gift we can offer to others.

My Favorite Movie-Ending

I don’t know if it’s my favorite-of-all-time, since I haven’t been consciously comparing endings yet (I think I will for a while though, now). Watched the movie tonight for the first time in years, and still liked it. A lot.

Karate Kid II

There’s just something about the the two young people embracing, exhausted, after they’ve literally saved each others’ lives.

About the 5-minute mark in this clip:

It moves beyond the basic (but still good) endings of “victory” or “coupleness” to a relief and gratitude that seems almost sacred.

Make it Better

I once admitted to my mom that I sometime feel I could fix nearly any challenging situation if I could just find the right story to tell the people being the problem.

My difficulty just seems to be finding that perfect story.

She laughed and said it was better than thinking I could fix any problem if I just had a big enough stick.

Know Your Child

Here is a good example of why you need to know your kid.

I found Wiley and the Hairy Man at the library and snagged it because I liked a telling I’d heard once, and wanted to look at the story.

Melody (2 1/2) got a hold of it, and because I didn’t want it to be too terrible too talk about (she might have already looked at the pictures) I decided reluctantly to read it to my girls.

Melody *latched* on to it. She wanted to hear it again and again.

If you’ve never heard of it, it’s about a boy who avoids getting captured by the Hairy Man (a wicked-looking snatcher) by using his wits and following his mother’s advice.

You may guess already these are themes I like my children to absorb.

In addition, the Hairy Man is twice gotten rid of by the arrival of Wiley’s hound dogs. And Melody and I will nod together that everybody is afraid of something– even scary somebodies.

One evening I had just finished telling someone why I choose to read that story to my kids when my mother, skimming the book said, “That’s a pretty creepy thing in there. That one ought to go back [to the library].”

I don’t think I contradict my mom that much (we agree on so much to begin with), but to this opinion I just said, “No, I have my uses for it,” and felt a sudden thrill at knowing both my own purposes and my daughter well enough to be confident I was making the right decision.

The Story Cocoon

I’ve been within the membrane of a story since the movie ended yesterday evening.

Part of the longevity has to do with the type of movie (Amazing Grace), of course. But more even than that, I attribute the strength of the membrane to a post-story silence that I observed yesterday, maybe for the first time.

When telling stories– especially heavy, significant stories, and especially to an older audience– one recommendation is to take an entire five-minutes for silence after the story, before talking about it or starting a new one.

On our way to the car, and our first two minutes there, I effervesced my first impressions, and how the the woman’s role coalesced cleanly with three other sources (I may essay about later) that were on my mind recently.

This talk had made me turn off the radio (I refuse to compete with talk radio) so when we made a stop for Jay partway home, I waited in a quiet car.

There is a line in The Magician’s Nephew about the place you could almost feel the trees growing, and that was the curious sensation I felt while Jay was gone: a sense of growing and solidifying. Foundation stones, or roots of Story were growing both down and out, connecting something in my core to something in my story cocoon.

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Do you know what I mean by a story cocoon, or a story membrane?

It’s not just the ability to get lost in a story, but the presence and weight of when you’re there. It’s the extra atmospheric pressure of another world, and the iridescent bubble that hasn’t quite popped, even when the story’s ended.

It’s the slowness you feel as you’re leaving a dark theater, or closing a book, while your mind works to order the myriad of sensations you’ve just received and reconcile them to your understanding of the world as it is. (Sometimes it succeeds, sometimes it doesn’t.)

And it’s that feeling of a story sticking with you, affecting you.

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The idea about this first came when I was reading The Thirteenth Tale, and while it applies to books as much as to movies, I think we experience it with movies more.

I’m beginning to think that this is the strongest argument for Charlotte Mason‘s directive to read slowly. More slowly and in smaller sections than you can based simply on your ability or interest, in order to allow the content to infuse your thinking and, basically, last long enough to truly affect you.

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The question, of course, remains as to how much you want a story to affect you. Good/effective writing or storytelling will create a stronger cocoon that’s harder to escape from, and this is why I always want to be so careful what I expose myself to. After all, innocence is not just for kids.

The Heaviness of Other Worlds

Once when Melody was only a few months old, Jay and I reluctantly left off our first watching of Seabiscuit as soon as she fell asleep. In a moment of selfishness (or opportunism) the next morning, I finished it while Jay was at work.

I found the ending very moving, and felt full under the spell and weight of the story, even without having seen the whole thing at once.

I was agitated. Keyed up.

Not feeling the energy to do anything else, I took the second movie I’d begun the day before, and put it back to see if there was more.

Just as Jay had arrived home from work the night before, I was nearing the end of the new Oklahoma! and turned it off. The cast was in the midst of the Title finale. That song was the last in the 50s version of the movie I watched once with my Grandma. It had bored me to pieces then. (This version is *much* better, though kicked up to a stronger PG-13 in my estimation.)

This next morning I was curious to see if that really was the end. The move had never seemed done at that point, loose ends still dangling.

Well, it wasn’t done.

For the next 25 minutes or so I was dragged through a shiveree, a knife-fight and trial (with accompanying emotional angst) before the incongruously tidy finish.

That hour was one of the most intense and disturbing of my life. Seriously. I had buried myself in the most intense parts of two other worlds with out the diluting time between.

The atmospheric pressure was too heavy; the membrane doubled, too thick and confining. And I had no idea how to process.

I continued shaking my head like a dizzy cat most of the remainder of the day (a friend came for lunch, and this was nearly all I could talk about).

Maybe it was the bends— a theoretically preventable malady that takes thought or planning to avoid.

I know I’ve been very careful not to do that to myself again.

A Plea to Leave the Stories Alone

Someone gave my kids a 3-pack of cheap paperback picture books for Christmas last year.

I have nothing against paperback books in general, and I’m not trying to say this person was cheap. I mean the quality of the books and the content itself was cheap.

Maybe the best way to say it is that these are the types of children’s books that are easy to write (ouch.) or, maybe worse, the type of book that’s only worth reading (or listening to) when very young.

I like what C.S. Lewis says in a number of different ways, and that, essentially, is that a children’s book only worth reading as a child is not really worth reading at all.

One of these books was a softened version of Hansel and Gretel. There were a number of changes made to make it more child-friendly, and what good I felt the original story could communicate was removed altogether.

The wicked step-mother and the hunger were entirely removed. The children were not abandoned by an endlessly (emotionally) battered father, but were simply lost. Hansel was not resourceful and protective of himself and his sister, merely curious or careless, letting the crumbs fall– and foolish too, imagining they would be there in the morning. (The original, you remember, had him using stones at first.)

When we got to the the witch was where my husband began to object. He has different ideas than me (our kids get a double wammy) of what wrecks a children’s story– traditional or otherwise.

Gretel knew the old woman was a witch because she made the children work ever so hard, carrying water and firewood. Whenever Jay was compelled to read the story (because we kept forgetting to make it disappear) he changed the wording to say the children were very good to help such an old woman with her heavy chores.

In the end, again, it isn’t the children’s cleverness or resourcefulness that “saves” them, but luck and the witch’s own clumsiness. And they find treasure somewhere as the house burns down around them and they bring it out with them. (Jay’s retelling always had the father scolding the children for not leaving the burning building at once).

I don’t even remember the original story having treasure at the end.

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I like retellings, Just not when they change the essence of the story.

I like “age appropriate” versions of traditional tales. My 4-year-old doesn’t need to know yet that Snow White’s stepmother, the queen, wanted to eat her liver and lungs. It is enough that she wanted her dead.

My 2-year-old doesn’t need to know that a woman is being accused of eating her own children. That will not add anything to the story for her.

The stories were originally entertainment for adults, and it is only natural that some things should be softened or omitted when they are used as entertainment for children. But that doesn’t mean they should be changed to be “safe” by “modern” standards.

Continue reading »