Two very different ways to look at a controversial children’s classic.
There have been few moments more stunning in my first years as a Dad than
the first time I read the original Curious
George (1941), H.A. Rey’s classic, to my boys. Although I had read the
book with my own parents many decades ago, I remembered George in the same way
that I imagine most folks do—through the entirely unobjectionable PBS show, the many sequels and
spin-off books, the merchandising,
the great book
and toy store in Harvard Square, and so on. So as I read through Rey’s
first book, which begins with a happy-go-lucky George being brutally monkey-napped
away from his jungle home by the Man with the Yellow Hat, includes George being
taken to prison for innocently mis-dialing the fire department, and ends with
the Man dropping him at the zoo (where of course he’ll be happier than he was
in that jungle home), I had to stop reading multiple times to keep from
swearing aloud (which never goes over well during story time).
But since I’m an American Studier, and since the boys had enjoyed it and I
knew I’d be reading it plenty more times, I immediately began thinking about
how I could analyze Rey’s book. The obvious but not at all insignificant
connection is to narratives
of savagery and civilization, and more exactly (given George’s African home
and, y’know, his color) to arguments
that Africans were better off in places like America and Europe, even if they
had been brought there against their will. Such arguments were still
commonplace in Rey’s era—and indeed are still
present in our own—and it’s difficult read the original Curious George and not see them echoed in
George’s arc, and specifically the contrast between his jungle starting point
and his zoo final destination. Rey complicates that arc in one and only one
phrase, and a partial one at that: he notes that George is a bit sad as he is
carried away from his jungle home, but highlights in the same sentence that he
is likewise curious about what’s next. And that’s the last time, as far as we’re
told anyway, that the monkey ever thinks about the place where he had grown up
and was pictured happily swinging as the book opened.
Again, there’s no way around that reading, and I’m not going to argue that
Rey’s book is secretly subversive or anything (although I do my part, calling
the Man George’s “frenemy”
instead of his “friend” every time I read it to the boys). But neither is that
narrative the only part of George’s story, nor, I would argue, the one that
carried into the remainder of the series and the character’s overarching
identity. In those terms I would emphasize instead two more inspiring
qualities: George’s titular curiosity, his ability to approach each aspect of
his evolving experiences with wonder and a desire to learn all he can (a
characteristic which reminds me of another slave turned inspiring figure, Olaudah Equiano); and,
more complicatedly but still impressively, his friendship with the Man. Granted,
the Man initaited that relationship by kidnapping George in a sack. But in
their broader lives together, the two consistently look out for each other,
transcending all the differences in their identities and perspectives to become
model cross-cultural
friends. It’s fair to say that these qualities can positively impact the
kids who encounter them—and can help the parents who read Rey’s book stay sane
while they do so!
Crowd-sourced post this weekend,
Ben
PS. So this is your final chance to share your responses,
nominations, and perspectives for that weekend post!
10/19 Memory Day nominee: John
Woolman!
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