Banned Books
My grandmother believed that as long as my father was reading, he could read whatever he wanted. This is why, when an elementary school teacher "caught" him with an Ian Fleming novel and demanded "Does your mother know about this?" my father thought, "Who do you think bought it for me?"
My parents took a similar approach to my own reading. I was never told there was a book I couldn't read. And I can only remember being forbidden to watch one TV show. (It was "Married ... With Children," and now that I can watch it as an adult, I can't help but think the ban had more to do with the fact that the show just isn't funny than anything else.) As long as I was reading, I could pick out whatever book I wanted.
Now, of course, this philosophy wasn't understood by all. I can still remember being in the local library the summer before fifth grade. I had my summer reading list in front of me and had circled all of the books I was interested in. The one at the top of my list was "Death Be Not Proud." (I thought it sounded very adult.) But, since I was having a hard time with the Dewey Decimal system -- it's something I still struggle with -- I had to ask a librarian for help. I took her my list and asked her to help me find the books.
I knew I was in trouble when she turned away from the adult section of the library and headed towards the brightly-colored, way-too-much-construction-paper-on-the-walls "young adult" section. "Oh, you don't want these books," she said. "I'll find some much better books for you."
Then, she put something called "The Lemon Dog" in my hands. I can rarely recall feeling as powerless as I did in that moment. The cover was illustrated for God's sake, and I hadn't read a book with less than 100 pages an in illustrated cover in over three years. "But ..." I began.
Before I knew it, six more books with illustrated covers were piled in my hands. "Will that be all for today?" she said.
I nodded and went back to find my housekeeper who had driven my sisters and I to the library. "Did you get what you needed?" she asked.
I shook my head and showed her the books the librarian had "helped" me find.
"Are these the books you wanted?"
"No," I said. "Do I look like I want to read "The Lemon Dog"? "The Lemon Dog"?!?! I'm ten, Esther, not stupid."
My housekeeper then took my list from me and marched back to the same librarian. "These aren't the books she wanted to find," she said.
"Oh, well," the librarian said, "I didn't think those were good books for a child her age. I picked out more appropriate titles."
"I think we'll let her decide what she wants to read -- not you," Esther said. "Now what shelf is this one on?"
I walked out of the library that day vindicated and clutching my very own copy of "Death Be Not Proud." (I was also more in love with Esther than ever.)
Admittedly, I'm not a parent, but I still wonder why random adults have such strong opinions about what a child should and shouldn't be reading, watching, doing. I think this is especially true when they're asking for books. I wanted to read, after all, not have the librarian show me the best spot in the library for smoking crack.
And, it's also amazing to me how easy it is for me to feel like that powerless child again whenever someone questions my authority -- you're having another glass of wine? you're buying that? you let your dog do what?. As I near 30, I wonder if this feeling will ever go away, and I'm guessing that, unfortunately, the answer is probably "no."