Since I started this blog, I’ve been avoiding writing about Dr. Suess.

He’s one of the best kid lit author-illustrators of all time, talented and creative with the creatures he dreamed up and the wise and hilarious things they say– words that make perfect sense even though they don’t. I’m not familiar with the history of children’s books, but I feel like Seuss’s rhyming style revolutionized kid lit, inspiring generations to read.

But there’s a big problem in his stories: the girls are missing; they’re so invisible that going into Seussworld becomes creepy, like being transported to a dystopia where females don’t matter at all.

If you think I’m over-reacting, take a look at The 500 Hats of Bartholmew Cubbins. I read it to my kids tonight. It’s such a long book– about 40 pages and atypical Seuss with lots of text. Just one sentence mentions the existence of women: “Lords and ladies stared from the widows of their turrets, wondering what the strange stream of hats could mean.” There is no lady shown in the accompanying picture or in any of the pages of illustrations that follow, including crowd shots of the city of Didd and the people at court. Every single character in this story is male: the king, Bartholomew, the boy in the title, the gaurds, coachmen, noblemen, lords, record keepers, wise men, archers, magicians, the executioner, and the king’s

nephew.

Along with every college student in America, I received Oh, the Places You’ll Go for graduation. I love the book and still read it when I get depressed. But the uplifting tone almost abandons me when I read: “You’re the guy who’ll decide where to go.”

To all those people that say the words don’t matter (we’re talking about writers here— words matter!)  you’d notice, I think you’d care, if you’re about to graduate from college and embark on the professional world and you receive a gift of poetic maxims that’s supposed to inspire and invigorate you, when they, in fact, exclude you. Say you’re a guy, and you get a book that says: “You’re the girl who’ll decide where to go.” Trust me, you’d notice. And all I’m asking is how could a writer as prolific as Dr. Seuss, a guy who probably made up more creatures, at least of the hairy mammal species, than exist on the planet, a writer whose sheer production of stories rivals Joyce Carol Oates, who knows he is teaching and inspiring little kids to read for the first time– how could he exclude girls to the extent he did?

Oh, the Places You’ll Go has a few females, most notably standing on line in the Waiting Place. Possibly a long eye-lashed elephant is feminine. But certainly not the Hakken Kraks howling, the monsters who pop out of manholes, the strange birds who mix up their right foot with their left; not one of the bearded boom band players is a girl.

Horton hatches an Egg features a leading female– a bad mother bird who abandons her egg to vacation off in Florida (typical kid lit bad mom who abandons her child) Horton is a father-son story about the amazing nurturing characteristics of a determined elephant (nevermind that Seuss’s much loved elephants are, in reality, a matriarchal society) Horton reappears, showing his same super-paternal tendancies in a book where he rescues a Who.

A girl character sneaks her way into Seuss stories now and then– there’s Cindy Lu, the Who in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, who catches him stealing her tree. Cat and the Hat has a sister character, though she’s drastically outnumbered  by males: her brother who narrates the story, the pissed off fish, Thing One and Thing Two, and the cat, of course. You do see the missing mother’s shoe.

Dr. Seuss– just like the guys at Pixar and Disney– is so creative in so many ways, why does he become trite and cliche when it comes to gender? Why is it so beyond the male imagination to create a magical world where girls and boys are equally important?

Every parent has a book that drives her crazy, that she hopes and prays her kid will not choose yet again, that she dreads reading. For me this book is Amelia Bedilia. Worse than Eloise, the fairies, even the ponies, AB is so annoying. That’s the point of all the stories, she misunderstands– whether its how to clean a house or play baseball.

Kids do think its funny when grown ups don’t get something obvious. The other day, my brother-in-law came out of the kitchen with a banana on his head, asking my three year old, “Have you seen a banana anywhere?” She was cracking up. The kid could not stop laughing. She thought it was the most hilarious thing she’d ever seen.

If Alice laughed like this when I was reading, I would forgive Amelia for being so irritating. But Alice sits there, totally straight faced– yet intrigued- while Amelia sprinkles face powder all over the sofa after she was told to dust it.

Amelia is so annoying, she doesn’t even fit in my rating system. She’s does nothing for girlpower, but she’s not really stereotyping either. Hate her.

Charlie and Lola

Lola is smart, mischevious, and my kids totally relate to her big issues of refusing to go to bed, go to school, or eat a tomato. The series theme (and book titles) often feature Lola’s passionate complaints about the her life, similar to the Junie B. Jones series, but somehow, instead of coming off as a horrible, intolerable brat as Junie B. does, Lola is appealing. The reason is because readers experience Lola through the eyes of her older brother, Charlie, who loves and admires his troubling sibling.

Each book begins: “I have this little sister, Lola. She is small and very funny.” Though this brother-sister dynamic is sterotypical of kids books– elder brother guides his younger sister, his name always comes first (see my Magic Tree House post) Charlie is an especially kind and perceptive caretaker. He’s such a great older brother that, for the longest time, I assumed he was a girl. I didn’t even wonder. Which is remarkable for me because I’m supposed to be so hyper-sensitive to this stuff.

Charlie looks just like Lola– same shaggy hair, tiny nose (looks like three tiny fingers pointed downwards) and dark, almond eyes. It was my husband who broke the news. After a brief debate and looking carefully at the pictures, I had to concede– Charlie is, in fact, a boy. His jaw is slightly broader than Lola’s, he’s always in pants (Lola’s shown in a dress), he has a best friend named Marv; they play soccer together and walk Marv’s dog. Charlie does nothing in these books explicitly girlie.

Though my husband was right, I have to assume the author, Lauren Child, intended some gender ambiguity with the name choice and giving the two kids such a similar look. Charlie is always pictured in a shirt that reads “Charlie,” I think so kids can tell them apart. If any of you had similar questions about Charlie, let me know.

The collage type illustrations are beautiful and compelling. (Lauren Child also ilustrated a book we have of Pippi Longstocking and wrote and illustarted a version of The Princess and the Pea.) The text in all Child’s books is always visually interesting, in different sizes, bold face and italics, words swirling into loop de loops.

I liked this series so much that I kept buying new books but became disappointed. I think  Child must have sold the series. Later books are more like slogans (recycle!) than stories, include pages of stickers, and large seals on the cover urging readers to watch Charlie and Lola on TV. ***GG***

I have a mixed reaction to Fancy Nancy. What bothers me is obvious– she’s fancy. On the covers, Nancy is always wearing a tiara, high heels or ballet slippers with lacey socks, several beaded necklaces, and multi-colored bows in her hair. The book jackets actually sparkle, showing Nancy surrounded by butterflies or poodles, and the titles, always in pink, purple, or rainbow lettering include: Fancy Nancy and the Posh Puppy, Fancy Nancy, Bonjour Butterfly etc. The covers make this series look like books in drag; they are so crazy girlie in their appearance that if a boy were to venture to pick one up, I could imagine a parent snatching it away in fear, the way I’ve seen them do when their sons reach out to push toy strollers or snap barettes in their hair.

That said, Jane O’Connor, the author, seems to be depicting the princess marketing machine with some irony. In every book, Nancy tries desperately to transform her family into a fancier one. Her mom, dad, and little sister want to appease her, but never pull off the look or lifestyle Nancy is going for: the limo remains the family car, the three star retaurant is actually a diner, Nancy’s fancy shoes make her trip and fall while everyone is watching her.

And here’s the thing about Nancy– I have to agree with some of her choices to enhance her world and make it fancier: words do often sound better in French, a ham sandwich becomes a treat when it comes with a frilly toothpick; sprinkles turn a cup of ice cream into edible art, and “gold” is more poetic than “yellow” (reminding me when I first moved to California, I complained everything looked so brown, and a native corrected me: “We call it golden.”) Nancy’s quest for fanciness illustrates the special skills children have to see beauty and find excitement in the everyday things that grown ups too often experience as  mundane.   ***GG/S*** Read and engage