I was filled with a sense of bittersweet nostalgia as I read “Dear Enemy” by Jean Webster, a book published in 1915. Written by one of my favorite authors from childhood, it recounted the life of a young college graduate who finds herself in charge of the children of a home for orphans. For a book that was written in the early 1900s, it was surprisingly feminist. I found myself laughing out loud at the snarky comments and sharp arrows that were clearly meant to pierce the thick walls of entrenched patriarchy. But what stayed with me beyond the last page was the exuberant joy that characterized the protagonist and the world she inhabited. In Webster’s world, the clouds made a very brief appearance, only to be chased away by the ever-present rays of sunshine and the laughter of the light-hearted protagonist.
As I continued to devour the book, I found myself wondering wistfully, why wasn’t today’s children’s literature able to capture this sense of pure and effervescent joy?
Unable to find an answer, I fell back into the blissful world that Webster had created for me. I continued to read with a wide smile, and then I encountered this sentence. Sally, the protagonist, writes to her friend about some of the orphans under her care, “Five other children have been sent to their proper institutions. One of them is deaf, one an epileptic, and the other three approaching idiocy. This is an educational institution, and we can’t waste our valuable plant in caring for defectives.”
My smile froze as my brain struggled to process the words I had just encountered. “Proper Institutions,” “deaf,” “idiocy,” “defectives.”
I was thrown out of the past into the present. The world that I had sought to escape into told me loudly that I, and people like me, did not belong, because we were blind, deaf or intellectually disabled.
I continued reading, filled with a sense of dread. As I read, I encountered a world whose fixation on eugenics and notions of genetic purity drove its “perfect” protagonist and her friends to cultivate a dangerous sense of hatred towards individuals with disabilities, particularly those with intellectual disabilities. Sally writes to the doctor in charge of the home about an intellectually disabled 13-year-old orphan, “You know, I’m tempted to ask you to prescribe arsenic for Loretta’s cold. Is it right to let her grow up and found a line of 378 feeble-minded people for society to care for? Oh dear! I do hate to poison the child, but what can I do?”
The naive innocence and helplessness that Sally tries to shield herself behind cannot disguise the venom in her words. Whether she will choose to act on her words or not, in this moment, she clearly articulates her desire not only to create an exclusionary world, but a world in which individuals with disabilities, even children, can be annihilated without a second thought.
I turned away from the last page of the book feeling physically repulsed. How could anyone have the heart to send such dangerous ideas into the world, carefully packaged beneath the sweetly deceptive label of juvenile fiction? How could anyone capture the joy of life so well, speak so powerfully about women’s rights, and yet refuse to recognize the right of people with disabilities even to exist?
For a moment, I looked down at my hands that had clung to the past, to a world that sought to erase my identity. Other books and other authors of the past that had filled me with joy flowed through my mind. They had not sought to end my existence in the same way that Webster wanted to, but in their attempt to create worlds that were gently exclusive, they too had whispered, “You do not belong, because you are blind, a person of color. There is no space for you here.”
I allowed despair to course through my veins.
But then I turned to today’s children’s literature. With a smile, I remembered Rick Riordan, who had chosen to write children’s fantasy from the perspective of a young protagonist who has ADHD and dyslexia. Percy, the protagonist, navigates an imperfect world, a world that forces him to fight monsters, even monsters within himself. But even while naming the darkness, the author gives agency to the protagonist and his friends, creating for them an inclusive space that enables them to determine their own destiny.
My memories took me back also to “Julia and the Shark,” a book that explores the beautiful and complex relationship between a young girl and her mom, who struggles with bipolar disorder. I remembered “Freewater,” a book that celebrates the courageous lives and adventures of Black children who lived during the time of slavery. I held on to these books, and they gave me a sense of peace.
Perhaps today’s children’s literature is not filled with the same effervescent joy of the past. But perhaps that is a good thing. Because the joy in Webster’s books was empty, a mere disguise to mask the prejudice and hatred towards all who were labelled as “other” and “defective.” I am glad that the books of today do much more. I am glad that today’s children’s literature attempts to create inclusive worlds. I am glad that today’s children’s literature celebrates the voices of the marginalized, giving them the space to tell their own stories.
I am glad for the present, in which I too can hope to belong.
Hannah Alice Simon was born and raised in Kerala, India, and moved to the U.S. for college with the dream of thriving in an intellectual environment that celebrates people with disabilities. On campus, you will mostly see her taking the longest routes to classrooms with her loyal cane, Riptide, by her side. She studies psychology and English with minors in musical theatre and theology. You can contact Hannah at hsimon2@nd.edu.
