cousin hang

This weekend, there was lots of action,

and relaxing.

happy. outdoors. (moving image)

colonialism, mama-murder, and other fun topics for toddlers

I only remember snapshots from the Babar books when I was little: a crown, someone floating away on a balloon, nice things like that. So when Lincoln inherited a giant bag of hand-me-down books that included several from the Babar series, I found myself vaguely looking forward to revisiting moments of happy childhood nostalgia. Upon opening the first book of the series with him one evening, my eyes were instantly soothed by the concise beauty of Jean de Brunhoff's watercolors. Oh yes, I remember these. A gently curved trunk here, little pen and ink tears. Lincoln points to one elephant and says "bay-beee." Then he points to another: "Dat Mama." Ooooo. He likes these illustrations too.

On the very next page, when "dat mama" gets shot and killed by mean hunters I blink for a second and look at him. He is gazing deep, mouth open, entranced as always by the magic of Book World. He doesn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation here. He reaches out to turn the page, annoyed by my lingering. I am amused. We follow baby Babar's trail of tears all the way to the set of drawings denoting the most civil of civilization. Oh yes, I remember that suit, rendered in a soothing willowy emerald green. Currently in a major dress-up stage, Lincoln absorbs scenes of this elephant acquiring a new "fine" wardrobe with intense interest.  "Mine hat!" he shouts at one point, "mine coat too!" and then, "Green coat. Green coat, Mama" looking up and touching my face as if to stress its narrative importance. I wonder if he experiences this story as narrative at all, or if he retains only snippets.  I smile at his interpretation of Babar's crisp white spats ("new boots there!") and I wonder what he thinks when Babar must exit the elevator and face the department store's "floorwalker".  Surely something is lost in translation here: from french to english, from one remote historical period to another, from adult experience of the world to a 2 year old's burgeoning imagination of it.

And then it happens. I start to feel funny. "New car!" Lincoln exclaims. Wait. What? Is the Old Lady buying his affection? What are we to take away from this crass celebration of material acquisition? (Interlude: Oh, cute! They do "calisthenics" together.)  Wait, is Babar a kept elephant now? Are we supposed to think he has improved his character by increasing his wardrobe? And why do the clothed cousin-elephants get to ride in the shiny car while the naked elephants are made to run behind, choking on their dust? Something seems off here, but still, at this point I'm willing to just appreciate such quirkiness as an interesting respite from the bulk of childrens-story drivel. And then:  "Woah-man. Dis Woah-man sad," Lincoln says, referring to the jilted, lonely figure of the Old Lady as she watches Babar ride off to return forever to his native lands. Some kissing cousins, a shotgun-esque wedding/coronation, and a blatant apologia for french colonialism later, Babar and his new bride are off to explore (and conquer?) in a hot-air ballon, crowns on display.

Lincoln closes the book, unphased. He doesn't skip a beat: "Nother one, Mama. Nother one." As he gets up to fetch the next book, I am left to compare what I remembered of these pictures and word with the adult reality of them. Is this a serious account, or satire? I don't know. Both maybe. Though I do appreciate the weirdness and uncertainty here,  I'm a little unsettled, even slightly repulsed. I certainly have no way of knowing what kinds of ideas my kid just absorbed from this narrative, or even what kinds of ideas he was meant to absorb.  Hopefully not a lesson in the merits of vanity, or an uncritical picture of idle wealth and mindless consumption, or a vaguely disturbing warning about loved ones abruptly leaving you, or an endorsement of arranged (and rushed) marriage or a heaping spoonful of colonial ideology.

Maybe just vague memories of a crown, and someone floating away on a balloon. Yes, yes. Hopefully that is what he'll remember.

PS-John later informed me that the second book was even stranger, in a disturbingly-racialized renderings-of-cannibals sort of way. He is bemused. I am bemused. We decide that a least until Linc develops some pretty strong critical reading skills, we might just put these little gems away. And I am left wondering if my parents actually read these books to me in all of their weird, unsettling glory, or if they, too, were quietly migrated to the highest shelf on the bookcase, at least for a little while.

under cover

Linc got a new bed today. A brand new mattress-on-the-floor kind of bed.  He'll tell you, if you ask,  that the postman brought it while he was away at school. That is sort of true. He'll also tell you that it is a big bed (also mostly true), and that it is a useful medium for all kinds of fun (true again). Like hiding under the covers and then being found. Or jumping. Or pretending to go "night, night." Or, his personal favorite, a game he calls "read book under there," which he played for nearly an hour straight, right up until dinner.

hamming