July 31, 2014 § 2 Comments
Some time in the mid 1970s, I was on a beach, perhaps Brittas Bay in Wicklow, when a mother threatened one of her children in roughly these words, ‘Get dressed quickly or a lion will come and eat you up.’ It is probably the outlandishness of the lie that has caused it to stick in my mind.
Parents do not tell such lies to children any more. No more than they appear to say things like ‘You are making a show of me.’ or ‘Money does not grow on trees.’ These were some stock phrases that parents used in the 1970s. Now they are not to be heard.
Some years ago my own mother commented on the devotion of today’s parents to their children. In her day, children were seen as so much more of a nuisance. There has been a revolution in the behaviour of parents towards their children, at least, in the case of middle-class parents.
The authoritarian mother or father has been replaced by the indulgent parent. When A S Neill founded Summerhill, a progressive school, one of the problems he had to combat was parents’ inclination to repress their children. A S Neill allowed the children great freedom: they could choose what to do, but they could not run riot, and equally they could choose to do nothing: not even to learn to read, as in the case of one boy who was an illiterate seventeen-year-old when he left the school. (But later when the boy found what he wanted to do, he learnt to read and turned out to be a great success.) Now Summerhill is run by AS Neill’s daughter, Zoë Neill Readhead but her aims have changed. In an article* headed ‘Liberal Summerhill tries discipline’ she says ‘permissive parenting is producing a generation of over-indulged children more attentive to televisions and computers in their rooms than playing with fellow pupils.’
All the same, the parent-children relation is not necessarily just one of over-indulgence, there appears to be a ‘Look at Me’ element to it too. The ‘Me’ being the parent not the child. You hurry into the library wanting to quickly return a book but Father is there, dressed perhaps in long shorts, wearing flip flops or sandals or some other footwear that indicates that he is in no hurry. He is being served by the librarian and is talking to or addressing his son, a toddler: ‘Max would you like to get this out or have we read it already? You loved the one about the bears . . . .’ Little Max, contrary to his father, is not yet articulate; he takes little notice and wanders away. Father may stroll over to him and bring him back to the counter or raise his voice to continue his monologue but one thing is sure: Father will not turn round and see the four people waiting behind him and bestir himself. Father will take his time and, worse still, our time.
We hurry into the bakery, hoping to fly out with our loaf of wholemeal bread but there is no hope. Mother and Nina are there. ‘You like pink don’t you? Do you want the one with the pink icing? Don’t forget this afternoon, we will be going to little Ian’s birthday party. Do you think he will like the toy we got for him?’ The shop assistant is waiting behind the counter, poised to serve. But she must first hear about Nina’s afternoon.
In another shop, mother is clapping her hand against the outstretched hand of a very small child. Too small, we think, to understand this gesture of jubilation. She is talking very loudly. We are bemused. Have we stumbled into a performance of one kind? One we would never have paid for and certainly do not want to see. We want to do what we came in for: get a photograph taken. That’s, after all, what the shop is for. We don’t wish to view a ‘talkie’ tableau vivant, ‘Wonderful Mother interacting with Child’. We can be in a hurry all we like: Mother is not. We must once more be the unwilling witnesses to another performance from a ‘model’ mother. Sometimes we can’t help but feel that there is a hidden camera that mother knows of but we don’t: it is one way of accounting for the performance.
What strikes us about the way these parents relate to their children is its ‘unnaturalness’. We find it hard to believe that they go on like this all the time when they are at home without an audience. However self-absorbed these parents appear, we believe they are very conscious of their audience; and are as much talking to their audience as their child: letting the dull old bystanders know what an exciting life they have, or indeed just showing what wonderful parents they are. Must parents always be imposing themselves on their children? What about the ‘benign neglect’ that Rudolf Steiner went in for.
A few years ago in Lismore, Ireland I was transported back over thirty years when a car pulled up, the door opened and a child ran out to go over to the playground, but mother stayed sitting in the car. She did not get out of the car to be with her daughter in the playground. Before me loomed a seventies-style mother.
That it not to say that we want the cross mother back. No, not at all! But sometimes that old astringency might be a welcome relief. If you want to get a flavour of how parents were in the seventies, you could do no better than to read the children’s picture book, Come Away From The Water, Shirley by John Burningham
*. The Sunday Times, 4 June 2006
The word ‘mother’ is virtually anachronistic, but ‘mum’ and ‘dad’ other than when used as an appellation do not come naturally to me.
July 23, 2014 § Leave a comment
To what extent do our expectations colour our views? I had never read anything by Katherine Paterson until I read The Great Gilly Hopkins last February. Very good, I thought and then started the Bridge to Terabithia with high expectations: the book was a great disappointment to me.
And my disappointment made me judge Bridge to Terabithia too harshly, I realised this when I flicked through it recently. But it is still, a flawed story, and one that leaves too much unexplained. If we cannot understand the characters, we cannot sympathise with them, and so enter fully into the story, as we do in The Great Gilly Hopkins.
We know something about the origin of Bridge to Terabithia. When a friend of Katherine Paterson’s son was fatally struck by lightning, Katherine Paterson was moved to write a story about a friendship between two children which ends when one of them dies.
In Bridge to Terabithia, Leslie Burke and her parents have recently moved from the city to a rural community. The Burkes are well-off educated people who do not fit in. For the rural community, two of the Burkes’ striking oddities are not believing in God, and not owning a television.
The Aarons, their closest neighbours, are not well off, nor are they well-educated, the older sisters are particularly ignorant, and Mr and Mrs Aaron are too busy surviving financially to interest themselves in politics or the environment as Mr and Mrs Burke do. Jess Aaron (Jesse), one boy in the middle of four sisters, is the child closest in age to Leslie. Jess does not need another girl in his life and would have preferred if his new neighbour were a boy.
Mr Aaron too would have preferred a boy for his son. Jess is too unusual for his father; he cannot understand a boy who seeks peace in drawing and who is rather sensitive and solitary.
All the same, after a shaky start, Jess and Leslie soon become firm friends. The story begins well, but the characters do not engage our interest as much as those in The Great Gilly Hopkins. By and large the sharply individualised character is absent from Bridge to Terabithia. Mrs Aaron is no Mrs Trotter; Mr Aaron is no Mr Randolph; Miss Edmunds is no Miss Harris; and Jess is faint in comparison to Gilly. In short, with the exception of Leslie, the characters in Bridge to Terabithia are not very memorable.
In the beginning of the book, Leslie appears strong and independent, an excellent friend for Jess; she is capable of drawing him out. The ‘domestic’ happenings are very good: the children’s evolving friendship, their falling out and making it up with Janice Avery, and their relationship with their own families. These events, I think, contain enough material to fuel the story.
So, for me, the fantasy world of Terabithia disrupts the story. What need had Leslie, independent and resourceful as she was, to create Terbithia (located in a wood near where the children played). Is there something we have failed to understand about Leslie? We have not been told that she regretted leaving the city. There is little reference to her earlier life. We are, I believe, to understand that Leslie was happy to try the rural experiment. Leslie does not strike us as a child prone to take refuge in a fantasy world. She was very interested in the real world. She got on well with her parents and expressed no discontent with her rural life.
Or is the real shortcoming the fact that Terabithia is too sketchy? Leslie is its Queen and Jess its King. Jess, however, struggles with his role as King of Terabithia. And we, readers, struggle too to imagine Terabithia’s fascinations. We can’t help but feel that Katherine Paterson has left much to the reader’s imagination, and readers are not inclined to fill in gaps left by writers.
Although the children go to Terabithia during a spell of heavy rain, the compulsion appears to be Leslie’s. Jess is frightened by the rising river and would prefer to stay away. But he is also frightened of losing face in front of Leslie by appearing cowardly. However, when Jess is at his most reluctant, he is spared from making any decision: Miss Edmunds, out of the blue, takes him to an art gallery. She is a favourite of both children, so we do wonder why Miss Edmunds does not invite Leslie along or explain to Jess why she excludes Leslie
On that very day, Leslie goes or attempts to go to Terabithia and is killed when a rope she swings on snaps. Wouldn’t Leslie have been more likely to stay at home and amuse herself until the weather improved? She had many interests. Her urgent need for Terabithia comes as rather a surprise to us.
At the end of the story, May Belle, a younger sister of Jess’s, is crowned the new Queen of Terabithia. We don’t find this very natural. It is hard to envisage, without the imagination of Leslie, that there could have been any future for Terabithia. In any event, wouldn’t the children have wanted to forget about Terabithia as it was implicated in Leslie’s death?
Symbolism, no doubt, is part of Bridge to Terabithia, but I do not feel capable of interpreting it.
There are many fine things in Bridge to Terabithia but the story lacks a believable chain of cause and effect: particularly at the end when contrivance and coincidence play too large a part. Perhaps Katherine Paterson is compressing too much into those final pages or has failed to fully develop certain strands of the plot.
Terabithia, for some of us, is a spanner in the works of the far more interesting events in the children’s ‘real’ world. Leslie’s death, caused by the snapping of a rotten rope, could easily have been incorporated into a Terabithialess story, and been, I think, a better story. But I have a feeling that if Katherine Paterson had excised Terabithia from the book, she would have lost her Newberry Medal in 1978.