'The Secret of Happiness' is... Giving the Menacing Man a Voice

A few of my fellow Ph.D. students and I journeyed into the West End on Friday to see the musical adaptation of one of my corpus texts: Jean Webster's Daddy Long Legs. My confession is that the terribly saccharine texts that make up my corpus (with the exception of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, it was the movie adaptation that I loved) were childhood favourites. Anne of Green Gables, Pollyanna, and DLL made my small heart over-brim with glee when I read them, especially DLL because I loved a good romance.

Fast-forward twenty years and I am researching these books with a hint of shame, particularly regarding Webster's classic. The romance I thought so adorable as a child looks a bit creepy through adult eyes.

Brief synopsis:
The orphan Judy is sent to college by an anonymous benefactor who she writes letters to, calling him 'Daddy-Long-Legs' as she has only seen his shadow, which resembles the spider. She occasionally shortens it to 'Daddy,' imagines he is quite old, and develops daughter-like feelings for him through the course of her letter writing, as he is the only 'family' she has. Never once does he respond, though (in his defense for this next bit).

It soon becomes clear that he is reading the letters, because he appears in his real-life form as Jervis Pendleton, the uncle of one of Judy's classmates. They fall in love, and Judy writes him (as 'Daddy') all about it. He also does a bit of interfering because he doesn't want her to go off with boys her own age and develop a more normal relationship (please note some of this summary is coloured with my opinion).

They of course get married. She is not at all perturbed by the fact that he is Daddy and Jervis, though her readers 100 years later might be (are).

So, enter the musical, which has gotten rave reviews, touring 16 American cities only to make its home in London for a span of 6 weeks. I was really excited to go see it, particularly as they have given Jervis a voice. The book is told mostly through Judy's letters to Daddy-Long-Legs, and so we only know her side of the romance, which is what makes Jervis's role so menacing. But the play does a gorgeous job of showing his struggle as well.

They are both on stage together the whole time, but without necessarily interacting. Instead she reads her letters aloud to him as she writes, and he occasionally echoes her using her words from the letters. Then, in moments of moral dilemma, he tries to write her a letter revealing himself as both 'Daddy' and Jervis, singing his frustration about the situation. We see why he steps in as Uncle Jervis, his curiosity about who this orphan is getting the better of him. We see him as jealous lover wanting her to stay away from the college boys. Most importantly, I think, we see his guilt for taking both sides of the coin - both as father-figure and lover. Suddenly transforming what was a delightful storyline with a rather troubling edge into a delightful storyline with a charming romance.

I have never walked away from a musical so light and happy. It reminded me of the feeling I got when I read the book all those many years ago, before I realised how troubling the 'Daddy'/Jervis character was, and it was nice to have that feeling restored. I highly recommend seeing the musical if you can, but, as they say on Reading Rainbow, 'don't take my word for it' - see for yourself it's charm: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZqFg4D7t-I

Subversively Didactic

For my upgrade report I have been nose-deep in Perry Nodelman's The Hidden Adult, as I try to figure out how to define children's literature.  I am sure you have all been there, and perhaps are currently expressing a mixture of sympathetic looks and a few giggles of relief that it's not you.

One thing I have decided on for sure in my quest is that children's literature cannot help but be didactic.  In its very essence, it is an adult's construction of what children should be exposed to, what they find funny, what they are interested in, etc.  Nodelman makes the point that even when children's literature is supposed to be subversive, it remains conservative because of its nature - e.g., the use of classic plot structures or motifs.

Enter Glee.  Maybe you have never heard of this American TV show aimed at teenagers, or you've only had it on in the background when you thought no one was home.  Basically, it's about a show choir at a 'typical' American high school.  The members are all misfits looking for a place to fit in, and they find it in Glee Club.  There have been plenty of 'taboos' explored on this show.  In particular there is a celebration of homosexual and transgender lifestyles that is rare for American television.

I began as an avid fan of the show, but after being disappointed too many times by the needless dramatics between teenagers and the frequently flat plots, I gave up.  This summer in the lull of TV reruns I gave in and caught up on the Glee episodes I have missed.  Perhaps because of reading Nodelman, or because my mind has finally been taken over by children's lit criticism, I suddenly realised that this show that wants so desperately to be innovative and subversive is actually incredibly didactic.  Sure, maybe the lessons are that it's okay for two women to be together romantically and that having sex in high school is fine as long as you and your partner are ready - two decidedly 'un-conservative' positions - , but the way each episode is structured to teach this specific point to viewers - characters begin the episode disagreeing with a position, only to end the episode agreeing that this point, or at least acceptance of others in general, is right - is very conservative, or at least traditional.

I am not saying that Glee is right or wrong in its pronouncements.  I'm just noticing that nothing aimed towards children and young adults seems able to escape the didactic factor.  Not even a groundbreaking, 'subversive' TV show like Glee.

Bibliography

Nodelman, P. (2008). The hidden adult: Defining children's literature. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.
Picture from: Glee's Facebook page

Previously seen on Cambridge Children's Literature blog.

The Long Arm of Elsie Dinsmore

Growing up, I read a lot of books from the past, and most came from the same 'family:' children's fiction aimed towards girls, written sometime between 1860 and 1915 in North America.  I thought nothing of it.  I loved history, and adored the sentimental thrill that each of these books guaranteed, though of course I couldn't have named that at the time.  But I have vivid memories of shivering with delight at the best (read: most sentimental) bits.

One of these books was Elsie Dinsmore.  Written in 1868 by Martha Finsley, it's about an eight year old girl who is a devout Christian living in trying circumstances with extended family who do not care for or about her, nor are they particularly 'religious' people.  And so, Elsie spends most of the book doing one of the following: weeping, reading/quoting Bible verses, visiting the poor and sick (mostly the slaves of her grandfather's plantation), and being treated unjustly (which leads to more weeping and reading/quoting Bible verses).

I adored these books as a child.  I even tried to imitate Elsie in real life.  Recently I tried rereading the first of these books for research, only to find the overt Christian tones so thick and overly sentimentalized that I could not make it past the first chapter.  I put it aside and added it to my mental shelf of crazy books that I will avoid mentioning in polite company.

Then I came home to Florida.  Within three days of working at the local state university, two educated, respectable women - one in her twenties, the other in her fifties - admitted to having read this book of their own free will as children, though each acknowledged how in hindsight Elsie seemed quite over-the-top.  

This may mean nothing to you other than the Bible belt is alive and well.  But I can't help but find it incredibly interesting that to this day, young girls are stumbling across these books in our grandmothers' attics and reading what critics dismiss as religious propaganda.  It makes me wonder what about them captures modern readers' imaginations; what is it that sends that thrill of delight when we're young only to make us groan as adults.  I have no answers, only a deep desire to never read the Elsie books again, accompanied by a sharp protectiveness over a childhood favourite.

Post previously found on Cambridge Children's Literature blog. Picture from: GraceandTruthBooks.com

Orally Speaking

Stories are often their most vibrant when told aloud. Generally children first encounter stories read to them from picturebooks. The traditional fairy tales were passed down orally through older family members and traveling minstrels. Some stories just beg to be read-aloud. 

For book group this week we read and discussed J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit. Though the true origins of the story aren't known for certain, according to Christopher Tolkien's account in the book's preface, what is known is that Tolkien told it out loud to his children. And when you read it, you can hear that - the repetition of phrases throughout the book, the dialogue between characters - The Hobbit almost begs to be read aloud.

When I first came across Tolkien's novel I was eleven. I was homeschooled at the time, and part of the curriculum included 'read-alouds,' for the parent/teacher and child to share. Some of my most favorite memories were created this way. We read Joan Aiken's The Wolves of Willoughby Chase and Barbara Cohen and Bahija Lovejoy's Seven Daughters and Seven Sons. I have never tried to reread any of these books, and maybe that is for the best, because there is something about the way I received them, my mother's voice carrying the stories to me, that makes them so beloved.

My mother also read The Hobbit aloud to me as part of the same program, and I adored it. I loved the adventure, the created world, and the home-body of a hobbit himself. I picked it back up at the beginning of August, fully prepared to revisit a beloved text as preparation for book group. And I couldn't get through the first chapter without falling asleep. Then I found myself having to will myself to even pick the book back up. So I switched and listened to it on audio tape, but the damage was already done. I had already been disenchanted.

Maybe that's just it though. Some stories are meant to be told aloud. 

Image from GoodReads