Those I’ve seen/heard
Can’t remember if I’ve said here before, but I’ve long thought that the “point” of the wicked step-mothers in so many stories was to be a warning all around:
I have never heard anyone with an opinion on the matter take my view when comparing these famous cartoons with the “originals.”
I think they’re just fine.
Many are too intense for young children, and I don’t let my kids see those, but that’s because their source material wasn’t cultivated with pre-schoolers in mind. And, yes, I know (perhaps better than many), how far some movies deviate from their stories of origin.
But as stories they are perfectly valid.
The things people complain about: the “weak” role models, the watering down of intense or bloody moments (Hi, you want more violence?), or the “changing” of endings or motivations; these are all things that shouldn’t (in themselves) bother you if they aren’t the only tales you’re consuming.
~
Most of my reason for defending the cartoons isn’t because I like them so much, but because they are merely the next retelling in a centuries-long chain. It has always been the storyteller’s prerogative to take and change and enhance where they find something interesting or perceive a chance to emphasize a message that is important to them.
The difficulty comes when we allow one version to become authoritative.
When my children started treating the Disney Cinderella as “cannon,” I realized I’d neglected their education, and set about rectifying. My girls now proudly own (as in, are familiar with) six versions:
And this has become useful as we interact with peoples of different belief systems. We use it as a contrast between the Bible and “other old stories.” There are (more than!) six different ways to tell “Cinderella,” but there is only one *true* account of Jesus (okay, four, if you want to list Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John), and the Bible is not negotiable.
Stories are good and contain truth, but we can tell them any way we want; we adjust them to suit our preferences. The Bible is Truth, and we adjust our preferences to fit it, not the other way ’round.
~ ~ ~
Marc made an observation about movie adaptations of books that I think is applicable to fairy tales and other stories as well: “Admittedly ego-centric” as the idea is, we approve or call a variant good if we like it.
That simple.
Many fairy tales (Disneyized or not) are rejected outright by some people because those people dislike a message they perceive.
Some tales come down to a surrender of the will to *other,* and even more emphasize a dependence on the help of *other* that many modern minds wish to reject. The insufficiency of self is a scary reality that many who scorn “happily ever after” also reject.
The next time you hear a woman castigated as “weak,” evaluate whether it’s because she is actively incompetent or merely subject to the limitations of individuality that the rest of us are.
Can you hear a personal pet-peeve coming out?
I will admit by their very pervasiveness the Disney version of some stories do feel a bit threatening at times, but on that level I don’t feel they’re very much different from Rugrats or Sponge Bob in popular culture: Yes, it’s frustrating, and I use my influence to shape my children’s perception of them, but so far I can still say I’d rather America’s children have Disney fairy tales then none at all.
For centuries these tales have been basic education about good and evil:
- That good is beautiful (even if the reverse is not necessarily true)
- That evil is to be resisted, even when it’s scary, or painful
- That resistance may have to begin alone, but one is never expected to triumph without some kind of help
- That help always comes
Especially for those individuals who don’t yet have the truth of the gospel, these “lighter shadows among the shade” have the potential both to help develop a conscience and (at times) to point seekers to the deeper truths the stories hint at.
Based on the excellent picture book illustrated by Paul O. Zelinsky
One upon a time a miller found himself face-to-face with the king and was so star-struck he said without thinking, “My beautiful daughter is able to spin straw into gold.”
Well, the king loved gold, and meeting a beautiful girl in the mix was no bad thing, so he ordered the miller to send his daughter to the palace.
Over the next three nights the king proceeded to show her into larger and larger rooms, each more full of straw than the last, with only a spinning wheel to displace a bit of the straw.
Each night, after the girl was shut in, the threat of death hanging over her, a strange little man would dance into the locked room, and ask what the girl was willing to give in exchange for him doing the impossible for her.
The first night the little man accepted her necklace, the second night, her ring, but the third night, with not only death waiting for her if she failed, and life as queen if she succeeded, she had nothing left to offer him.
“Promise me your first-born child as queen,” he said, “and I will spin all this straw for you into gold.”
Feeling she had no choice, and telling herself the king might not marry her after all, the miller’s daughter agreed.
It all fell out as best as could be expected. The straw was spun into gold and the king kept his word, marrying the girl and making her queen.
In one year’s time she gave birth to a little boy. But before that child was three days old a locked door again flew open and the strange little man appeared, demanding his payment.
The queen begged him to have pity, promising to give him anything at all in the kingdom he might desire, but the man asserted there was nothing he wanted so much as the child.
But he seemed to be moved by the young mother’s tears, and relented a little, offering her three days to guess his name and nullify the year-old pact.
The first day she recited all the names she knew. The second day she read off all the names her servants had been able to invent or collect. The little man seemed to take delight in singing out
That is not my name!
After each increasingly desperate suggestion.
It was not until the end of the third day that the fear in the young queen’s heart lifted, for her most faithful servant returned from her searching with a story of seeing a strange little man riding a wooden spoon around a fire, all the while singing about winning a queen’s son because she did not know his name was… Rumpelstiltskin.
When the now-confident queen told him his right name that third night, he flew out the window on his wooden spoon and was never seen again.
Okay, can everyone please answer this one:
What do you think of people adopting an alternate, “performance,” name?
Would you want to know the “real” name at the same time, and/or does that make things cluttered?
I think I mentioned I’m telling stories at a local Renaissance Faire at the end of this month, and I’m making costumes for my kids and me.
I’ve never been to one before. I know some folks are uncomfortable with the idea– because of the potential for weirdness, I guess– but I’m jumping at the chance to do a dress-up day with my family.
It’s a trial-run sort of a faire, the first in town, I understand, and whether it goes anywhere will depend on the reaction to this one. I hope by making stories available I can contribute to its success.
Since “Amy” is such a modern name I was considering taking an alternate name for the faire, and then (as my mind invariably does) I tracked that question into a bigger one: whether to build a storyteller-persona of sorts.
That is, for the many traditional or medieval tales I love I could play at being a teller of the day. It’s a fun thought.
Okay, okay I’ll say the name (it’s probably a bad sign if I can’t even get started.)
Though I have this idea that if I were once convinced in myself this was the way to go, I could “own” it with little difficulty.
Lady Jane.
I wanted to do Byrd Janet.
Janet from my middle name (Jane) and Byrd from the old way of addressing a lady. It would be the same as saying Lady Jane, but somehow my ear likes the other better. This would be due to my familiarity with the rhythm of the name in the story of Tam Lin. (I am currently Miss Amy to children, so it’s not that much of a stretch, in theory.)
But Jay insists I use one of my real names, so Lady Jane is all I could come up with, really. Any other suggestions?
I’m not sure “lady” is even the right thing to call a storyteller, but I could really think of another title. Storyteller Jane?
What do you think of the alternate-name idea?
Could you call me (or hear me refer to myself as) Lady Jane with a straight face?
Would it add to the package or be distracting?
Once there was a delightful little girl whose mother had died.
When her father remarried it was to a woman with two daughters of her own, near his child’s age.
Before long the father, too, died, and the sweet child was left an orphan.
As she grew older and more beautiful her stepmother grew more and more harsh, giving her the hardest chores and making her sleep alone, away from the family.
The girl never complained, even when she had to sleep in the ashes by the kitchen fire to keep warm during the winter. She would awake covered in cinders, without a chance to wash or even a looking glass to know.
Her two step-sisters took their cue from their mother and looked for every opportunity to belittle their unfortunate comrade. It was they who came up with the taunt, “Cinderella,” as a way to address her, not even allowing her to keep the dignity of a true name.
~
Eventually the time came when the prince of the land was seeking a bride, and so held a series of balls. Each night Cinderella’s family refused to take her, but each night she had magical help and was transformed to appear in the eyes of anyone as beautiful as her good spirit.
Her beauty captivated the prince, who would dance with no one else, but always she slipped away before midnight. By the third night the prince recognized the pattern and was too close behind for her to stop when she lost one of her tiny dancing slippers.
The next day the kingdom received word that the Prince would marry whoever fit the little shoe.
The stepmother, seeking vicariously to advance her own position, cut off a piece of her oldest daughter’s heel, so that her foot would fit the little shoe.
Riding away to the palace with the false bride the prince heard,
Turn back, good prince, turn back.
There is blood in the little shoe.
He looked and seeing the mutilation he returned the girl to her mother.
The mother, however, wasted no time but cut off the toe of her other daughter, allowing the slipper to fit. The prince placed this girl on his horse and began to ride away, but again he heard,
Turn back, good prince, turn back.
There is blood in the little shoe.
Having seen the proof with his own eyes the prince returned her as well.
Now Cinderella was able to get at the soe and prove it fit.
As they rode on to the palace the now familiar voice sang out,
Ride on, good prince, Ride on.
The slipper has found its home.
The prince was happy to do so, and took her back to the palace where he married her at once and lived in great contentment.
I’ve used this phrase so many times in the last year and a half, I’ve decided to sit down and make a real list.
The reason for doing it now is at least partly because I’m kicking around the idea of telling stories occasionally in a 4th-6th grade classroom this fall, and I decided I wanted to start with the basics.
It’s inevitable that fewer and fewer people will be hearing these old stories, even those that are referenced continually in literary allusions. I figured I might do what I can to spread (what I consider) this basic literacy of folk and fairy tales.
For your perusing and debating pleasure (in no particular order):
The Canonical Dozen
This was trickier than I thought, and I slowed to a stop after #6. (Meaning I had to get up and actually look at my shelves.)
To understand why I picked these it helps to look at this list from a literary standpoint, rather than what we’ve personally read/heard the most.
Every one of these 12 I have seen referenced or alluded to (in a way that was supposed to be metaphorical or enlightening) in an utterly unrelated setting (e.g. “breadcrumbs” in a variety of roles).
Without these stories, modern readers could actually be missing the point of anything from a textbook anecdote to an AP article in their local paper.
Perhaps for the next several weeks I will break from my initial goal of Tuesday Tales and review these basics, mentioning at that point my favorite version of each.
From Familiar Quotations by John Bartlett, 14th Edition (1968)
“My men, yonder are the Hessians. They were bought for seven pounds and ten pence a man. Are you worth more? Prove it. Tonight the American flag floats from yonder hill or Molly Sparks sleeps a widow!”
— John Sparks (1728-1822), before the battle of Bennington, August 16, 1777
This is my telling of the frame story of the Arabian Nights. It is lifted from my novel (you’d expect there to be storytelling in a storyteller’s novel, right?).
I’ve always loved this story, sometimes more than the other stories it brackets. So here you go.
This story tells of a king gone mad, suspecting all women of being evil.
As he desired the pleasures of marriage without its trials and demands, he married each evening and the next morning caused his bride to be executed.
He killed her, so he reasoned in his twisted mind, before she could destroy or betray him.
It was this tormented soul’s Grand Vizier who had the unhappy task of collecting a new bride each day, knowing he was sending her to her death. And this torture was made all the more painful as he had two beautiful daughters of his own. He felt his terror for them intensify with each morning’s execution.
~
First the daughters of the slaves were taken. When they were gone, the Grand Vizier was forced to collect next from the serving class, then the merchants.
The king’s madness did not abate. If things continued thus, no maiden would remain in the entire city. Families were attempting to flee the country in their efforts to protect their daughters.
Finally Scheherazade, the Vizier’s elder daughter, could stand it no longer.
She battered her father with words: an endless stream of reason from a woman whose mind was set before she had reasons.
Scheherazade wore him down, and with a breaking heart he presented her to his lord and master.
That the vizier would offer his own daughter brought the king enough out of his self-centered madness that the girl was able to attempt her desperate plan.
Scheherazade begged leave to have her young sister spend the night.
Shortly before dawn, as they had arranged between them, the younger sister woke the new queen to ask for a last story in the presence of the great King, her husband.
The elder daughter began a story that twisted and tangled in and out with so many others that the king spared her life that day, then the next, and the next; always promising to execute her the next morning, when the story was finished.
But of course it never was—or when it was, another story just as tantalizing was left at a critical moment that would again allow the young queen a day of amnesty.
Thus the words of a woman held off her master’s madness and her own death for one-thousand-and-one nights, and in the end, they were both free.
Once there were two royal brothers that went out into the world to make their fortunes, but they fell among the wrong friends and so failed miserably.
When their youngest brother found them, they mocked him, saying he was stupid in addition to being young.
“And if such clever fellows as we cannot find our way in the world, what makes you think you can, Blockhead?”
But, knowing that they were preparing again to travel he insisted on accompanying them, despite the abuse they heaped on him.
A few days into their journey the three princes came upon an anthill, and the elder two wanted to kick it apart, for the entertainment of watching the little creatures scurry about, seeking safety for their young.
Blockhead stood between them and the mound, and wouldn’t permit it.
A little ways on they came to a lake with many nesting ducks, and again the elder brothers wanted to destroy a nest for the sport of it, but Blockhead prevented them.
Finally the three came to a bee tree so full of honey it was dripping down the outside of the hollow trunk.
The elder brothers plotted together to burn the tree and steal the honey, but once more Blockhead interrupted their plans.
They eventually came, as all traveling princes must, to an enchanted castle.
It was empty of people, but they found three bedrooms prepared for their arrival and weary as they were they asked no questions but went in and slept.
Before he’d been asleep long the eldest prince was wakened by a strange old man.
“Would you take the chance to free this castle from its enchantment and win a princess?”
Of course he would.
The old man took him out under the trees and told the prince that 2,000 pearls were buried under the old leaves of the forest floor.
If the prince could not find them all by sunrise he would be turned to stone.
The prince then understood why the many stones about him were all human in form.
He began frantically to search, but succeeded in finding no more than 100 pearls before the sun rose, so he was turned to stone.
The next night the same old man woke the second brother, but though he, too, accepted the challenge, the second prince found only 200 of the pearls before the sun rose and he became the next human pillar.
When the third prince learned that a mere three tasks stood between him and the hand of a princess, he readily agreed.
But when he recognized the stone forms of his two missing brothers he began to despair of ever completing the task that they could not.
(Read Part 1 first.)
Count Alaric did not question his wife further about Midsummer’s Eve.
He saw only two possibilities: either she would remember nothing and his questions would distress her, or she would know but continue to tell him nothing, and he could not bear to hear her lie.
He went finally to the wise woman Magda, who had helped his mother before him, and sought her advice. Magda told him to bring her a lock of his wife’s hair.
When he had brought the lock, Magda stood,
holding the hair, like a faint imprisoned moonbeam, in her strong brown hands.
Then she dropped it on the coals of her fire, and it burned with a green flame. With great pity in her face, Magda informed the count he had married one of the fairy folk.
It was her people and their music that continually filled that corner of her mind that never was present with him. It was being away from her people that made her unable to know who she was or whence she had come.
“But then she may someday dance with them and never return,” said Count Alaric. “How may I keep her from always thinking of this other place?”
“There is one way,” replied Magda, “by which a mortal can win one of the fairy people for himself, and that is by offering her a love so perfect that it leaves no room in her mind for memories of any other life.”
“But my love is already perfect,” Count Alaric insisted. “I would fight or live or die for her. There is nothing more I can do.”
“There must be,” Magda pointed out gently, “or she would already be yours.”
So Count Alaric spent the following months being, if possible, even more tender and solicitous to his wife, never letting a day go by without expressing his affection.
And while she always accepted his attentions and tokens with delight, he grew sorrowful as he observed the distant part of her never diminished.
He was careful to conceal his sorrow, however, and settled in his mind as Midsummer again drew near that he would follow his wife to the dancing place and capture her home again.
He would not allow the fairy folk to steal her away.