Hello, friends! It’s been awhile. I’m not writing much these days, at least not like I used to. I have the creative energy, but most of it is being spent elsewhere—scrapbooking, private journaling, sermons and curriculum for our local church congregation, and other personal projects. I guess it’s more accurate to say I am writing, but not for sharing on the internet.
Some days I feel a bit of angst about that! I still love the art and process of writing essays. At the same time, I’m trying to release the pressure many creative people feel in 2023—the pressure to believe work is valuable and worthwhile inasmuch as it is shared with others. I don’t believe that, really, but I still catch myself thinking it occasionally.
Meanwhile, there are still 100-or-so of you here in this little corner—people who cared enough about my writing to subscribe and trust me with your inbox. So, hello there! This morning, I am sitting in a downtown coffee shop with a muffin and very large medium roast, and inspiration struck. So here I am.
Hi. Good to see you.
Alright, enough throat-clearing.
Last week, I finished re-reading Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women.
I first encountered this story as many people my age did—in the 1994 film with an all-star cast—Winona Ryder, Susan Sarandon, Christian Bale, Claire Danes, young Kirsten Dunst.1 (Seriously! What did we do to deserve such a gift?) I watched it for the first time at a sleepover with my cousin Nicole, huddled in her living room under a blanket fort. I will never forget the way I felt watching Amy March set fire to Jo’s beloved manuscript, and how Jo’s fury burned so hot, I had to look away.
Years later, when Evan and I were first married, I spent many afternoons alone in our little apartment. I had a light course load before my student teaching began, and we had just moved to Orlando where I didn’t yet have friends. Little Women became my preferred company background noise. In the evenings, when Evan would go to put our Netflix mail-order show in the DVD player, he would find the Little Women disc again and laugh, saying, “Did you watch this again?!” Of course I did.
I first read the book as a fifth grader, though my motives were not entirely pure. I wanted to catch my classmates, Jordan Bush and Jonathan Tietz, who were ahead of me in the race for the most Accelerated Reader points. Little Women would award me a whopping 32 points, should I pass the test. That is, I confess, basically the only thing I remember about that first reading experience.
The next came in college, after purchasing a worn, purple paperback from the local library sale. A friend chided me. “It’s nothing but transcendentalist lectures,” she said. “It’s so boring.” Looking back, I know this friend liked to be contrary, and her loss, frankly.
At Christmas 2019, just before the world fell apart, my sisters and I went to the Muvico theater of our childhood to watch Greta Gerwig’s adaptation. I kept my expectations low, because I did not want to know the sting of disappointment. I thought, at the very least, I’ll just spend some time with some of my favorite characters. Well, cut to Jo and Beth at the beach and me utterly weeping into my box of Reeses Pieces. I had to force myself to take deep breaths, to quiet my crying and not disturb an entire theater full of mothers, daughters, and sisters who, in retrospect, would have totally understood. That film is as close to perfection as any will ever be. Maybe one day I’ll be able to better express it’s utter magic.
And of course, any discussion of Little Women is also a discussion of the family to which its author belonged. I’ve had my moments of fascination with the American transcendentalist movement, as well as the history of abolition and women’s suffrage—topics that all circle back, at some point, to the Alcott family. I’ve argued with my husband every single December about whether or not the 1994 movie counts as a Christmas movie (answer: obviously, and even if not, who the heck cares? We’ll watch it anyway). All of this to say, my love for Little Women has only grown and deepened with every passing year.
So, I was eager to jump in this past December when Annie B. Jones announced she’d be hosting a Little Women read-along. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past several years, it’s that reading books is almost always better when done in community—even if that community only exists on the internet. So, I signed up quickly and have been slowly reading one chapter a day (ish) since Christmas Eve.
What a joy it is to return to a beloved story and find it even better with the passage of time. It should be no surprise that reading Little Women in my mid-thirties as a mother of three would be a different experience than reading it at 10 or at 202, but I wasn’t sure just what kind of different I might find. Some books, when revisited, simply don't hold up; they lose a bit of the magic or, worse, fall completely flat. But I found more resonance and depth of meaning in Louisa May Alcott's story this time around than ever before.
Meanwhile, an online debate rages online about the works of Roald Dahl. Dahl published his first piece of writing almost 100 years after Alcott published the first edition of Little Women.
I, like many, have extremely fond memories of reading The BFG and watching Matilda in elementary school. Recently, Dahl’s estate and publishers announced his children’s books have been reviewed and edited by “sensitivity readers.” They were tasked with editing problematic language and updating the books to ensure they endure into the next generation of readers—only to be met with much public outcry. There are accusations of censorship, of course, and I think this is an interesting conversation to be had, especially right now, when some want every title on a kindergarten classroom bookshelf to be rubber stamped by the government.
Not too long ago, I picked up a copy of The Fantastic Mr. Fox from my big Tupperware of middle-grade books. I wondered if it might be a good next read-aloud for our family, so I flipped through, skimming some pages, trying to get a sense of things. But with some disappointment, I kept encountering words like stupid, fat, and ugly; I didn’t get far before deciding to add the book to our Goodwill pile and pick something else from the box. I had forgotten about that experience until I was reading news stories about the Dahl edits.
Here’s the thing about words like stupid, fat, and ugly: Are there more inappropriate words to be found in a book? Yes. Do my children already know these words? Yes. But was I going to read this book aloud to them? No. Not because I don’t want them to know these words, and not even because I don’t want them to use those words. But because in our home, they are taught that these are words to be used carefully, and never when speaking in a negative way about another person. I tossed The Fantastic Mr. Fox because reading it aloud to my kids was going to be an unpleasant experience.
It’s not about the fact that Dahl uses blunt or insensitive language. It’s that in Roald Dahl’s world, “ugly” and “fat” are markers of evil people who are to be despised, while thin and attractive people are to be admired. As a society, we are learning to move away from these worn-out, harmful binaries, and good riddance. Too bad for Roald Dahl that he wasn’t more ahead of the times.3
Does this mean Dahl’s books should be edited before new editions are released? No. But it does mean more and more readers are going to have the experience I had when I cracked open The Fantastic Mr. Fox—that is, they will find it unpleasant to read and overtime, they’ll find other things to read.
In fact, it turns out, these “sensitivity readers” may have done their job, but it appears they were lousy at it.4 So, I imagine that whether bookstore shelves are filled with the earlier, unedited versions or these new cleaned up versions, Roald Dahl books are going to begin their descent into obscurity.
This is the same dynamic at play with Dr. Seuss’ books. More people are becoming aware of Seuss’ horrific racism and as they do, growing increasingly uncomfortable sharing his books with children. Simultaneously, children and the adults who buy them books will continue discovering the wonderful, creative, diverse, and expansive books out there—many of them far more enjoyable to read than any Dr. Seuss book5. (Seriously--Dr. Seuss books are the worst.)
In the church calendar, meanwhile, Lent has begun. In Ash Wednesday services earlier this week, Christians around the world recited a shared refrain: “You are dust, and to dust you will return.” Lent is a season of penitence, confession, and contemplating our mortality. It’s about more than children’s literature, obviously, but not less—and maybe you’ll indulge me as I unpack what Lent might say to us about our middle-grade lit.
In her latest email newsletter, author KC Ireton wrote this: “Lent is a season of stripping down, paring back, pruning. But we do not prune for the sake of pruning, or give something up simply for the sake of giving it up. We prune for the sake of growth. We give something up for the sake of something better. We turn away from some things (and sometimes they are good things) in order to turn to Christ. This is what repentance means: to turn back.”
Now is a time for reflecting on what, exactly, is worth holding on to and what should be released. In its reflections on mortality, Lent invites to consider what will not last—our bodies, our estrangement, our sin, this human age—and also what will endure for all eternity—hope, peace, joy, love, and perhaps even the art that brings those things to life.
In his book Culture Making, Andy Crouch argues that all our best human artifacts will last for eternity, finding their way into God’s new community of creation. He asks, “Will the cultural goods we devote our lives to - the food we cook and consume; the music we purchase and practice; the movies we watch and make; the enterprises we earn our paychecks from and invest our wealth in - be identified as the glory and honor of our cultural tradition? Or will they be remembered as mediocrities at best, dead-ends at worst?” (I love thinking about this, though I confess it’s not easy to parse out.)
It’s hard for many of us as individuals and certainly for society as a whole to feel good about moving on from something once beloved. “Know better, do better” is not a universally-accepted principle. No doubt, those whole love Roald Dahl’s books and the movies that followed do so because they are associated with the joy, wonder, and adventure of childhood. This is true for me, too. I’m not even saying that my children will never read The BFG. But if they don’t? That will be ok, too.
This, too, is a gift and lesson of the Lenten season: We prune to make space for new growth, new life, new creation. More is always coming—we need not worry that there will not be wondrous, delightful literature for our children to discover.
Maybe one day, they’ll crack open a book at 34 and toss it into the donate pile. Dust to dust.
But on another day, they may fall rapturously into a world that has been made only richer and more lovely with the passage of time.
And what a gift that will be.
Amy March is by far the best role of Kirsten Dunst’s entire career; what a high-bar she set. (But don’t come at me, because I’ve never seen Bring it On.)
Now that I’m doing the math, perhaps I should keep this trend going and commit to reading Little Women once in each decade of my life. Care to join me?
Did you know that Dahl’s work has already been edited before? In this opinion piece by Holly Thomas, she points out how the oompa-loompas were updated in 1971 to be “fantasy creatures,” as opposed to how Dahl wrote them—as Africans enslaved by Willy Wonka.
Thomas’ opinion piece, linked above, is the best I read about this. But even her point doesn’t hold up for me. Yes, “fat” should be a neutral descriptor! But that is not how Roald Dahl is using it, and our kids are smart enough to understand that.
Ironically, the Geisel Award is given each year to a book in the style of Dr. Seuss, and it’s a good list to start with to branch out. But here’s another list. And another. And of course, there are also lists of what to read instead of Roald Dahl.
Can't explain how much I love all of this, my friend! Little Women is very possibly my favorite movie of all time. I still remember a time at the cabin in the height of the pandemic when I threw it on just to see if I could feel something anymore. I sobbed hysterically, felt my chest explode, and was warm all over by the end. It just absolutely never fails to restore my faith in life.
I had not heard about the Dahl controversy but I unfortunately don't find your observations surprising. You described it perfectly--if a book promotes outdated biases, even ones "of their time," I just won't be reading that to my kids because WE CAN DO BETTER NOW. This kind of reminds me of how I can't watch How I Met Your Mother anymore. I found the series fairly charming at times, but upon rewatching I realized that Barney constantly, and I mean CONSTANTLY, makes fat-shaming comments. And the worst scenes are when Barney's fatphobic comments are reiterated by other characters; that's the death kiss for me, because one "kooky" character with hateful beliefs is one thing, but the main characters are supposed to know better. When Ted agrees with Barney's blatant objectifications, we see the show's true colors. It's just insane to me that the early 2000s were a time when fatshaming was still widely accepted as funny and accurate. It's a no for me these days. (Not to mention the series finale that completely betrayed fans and The Mother. But I digress!)
Lastly, your mention of the word "Dust" made me wonder if you've ever read His Dark Materials by Pullman. As my preferred source of deep thinking about spirituality, I would be very curious to know your thoughts.
Thank you for sharing your writing, friend. It gives me so much joy. But also, and I'm talking to myself here, don't feel like you need to share it in the moment. I'm trying my best these days to remember that most writing throughout the history of the world was labored over for years without a shred of the instant gratification of clicking "post." That's the good shit, and it's worth holding out for. <3
“More is always coming—we need not worry that there will not be wondrous, delightful literature for our children to discover.” This whole piece was insightful and enjoyable and kind. I love your writing, Lindsey!