It’s enjoyable to reread classic pieces of literature once every few years to garner a deeper understanding of the work. But it’s not always a Brothers Karamazov kind of day. So sometimes I like to go back to the childhood classics. And by revisiting once beloved texts with a different set of sensibilities, we can decide for ourselves if the things we loved as kids have held up.
Last December, I spent a few days in the feminine utopia of Little Women. This year, I tried Little House on the Prairie, the 1935 children’s book about a pioneer family’s westward expedition. I remembered the elemental aspects of Ma and Pa’s wisdom, a covered wagon, and cornmeal mush, all of which all seemed very reassuring after several long months of working in a brightly lit office cubicle.
I made it through the first fifty pages before I was drop dead bored.
Why? For one, while it’s understandably terrifying for Ma and her young daughters to be brought out West to live with ruffians, a lot of the would-be interesting fears and conflicts in the series are glazed over by lengthy descriptions of domesticity.
On top of that, the offensive warning, “the only good Indian is a dead Indian” recurs throughout, as Ma and Pa converge with the few neighbors they have to strategize a defense against a massacre that never happens.
But as I persisted with the book, I found that the bigotry seemed to play a small role overall. And in between the Indian conflicts, I learned the basic steps to building a log cabin and stringing a beaded necklace.
It’s not that Laura Ingalls Wilder’s writing isn’t appealing; rather, it’s very clear in its detailed portrayal of frontier life. But these stories are simply not meant for adults. Taken as is, Wilder’s rhythmic prose is supposed to be read aloud. And it’s easy to see how kids can feel relief by Pa’s unrelenting motto, “If you do as you are told, you will be safe.”
So I’m willing to forgive all the tedium because Laura Ingalls Wilder knew how to capitalize on a child’s raw place in the world. And it is comforting to read about a family that’s surrounded by danger but is, at the end of the day, ultimately safe.
As for the racism, well, there aren’t many books written over 40 years ago that aren’t considered racist by today’s standards. The pioneers did have to worry about the Native Americans back then; it would be dishonest not to acknowledge that the fear was real at the time.
The fond memories I have of the Little House book remain, no matter how maligned. And maybe Wilder’s simplistic narration of an era so far removed allows us to better comprehend the monotony in our own day-to-day routines. Because sitting in a cubicle isn’t nearly as arduous as churning butter.
