The Red-Headed Stepchild of Literature

When I tell people that I have a Master’s degree in children’s literature, I generally receive one of two reactions. Either the person in question says, “Oh! How cool! Kiddie lit!” or they eye me suspiciously, think a moment, and ask, “What are you going to do with that exactly?”

Both responses are somewhat unsatisfactory given the nature of the work I have done and that which I continue to do. Despite general assumptions, children’s literature in the elementary classroom and the college or university classroom could not be more different. There is a belief that if one has an interest in children’s literature, one must have a deep interest in children. It is true to an extent but often not in the ways people assume. My mentor, one of the finest rising stars in children’s literature scholarship, is childless—as are a number of other scholars I know. Not to mention, Dr. Seuss. How’s that for irony? Many children’s literature scholars have never conducted a story time, few want to teach children, and we all detest the term “kiddie lit.”

My interest in children’s literature is firmly rooted in a love of childhood reading, and it slowly grew over time into scholarly pursuits. When I started graduate school I really had no idea what my specialty would be. I considered contemporary American lit, maybe Tolkien-era English lit, or composition and rhetoric; each seemed a responsible choice with a teaching career in mind. Alas, I was unable to resist the pull of children’s and adolescent literature for the simple fact that reading was something of a passion from the moment I learned to do it, and children’s literature in itself—as well as the pastime of reading—bring back joyful memories.

Unlike many readers, I cannot say that I was a stellar reader from the start. Given a distinct streak of perfectionism that runs through my character, I hated failing at reading in those early moments. I detested the struggle. Sounding out words seemed like a gargantuan waste of time; I only wanted to show off my skills once I perfected them. I’m not sure what everyone else learned on, but students in my school were expected to digest boring tales about lions and skunks who were friends and watched sunsets. I cannot recall the name of the series of reading books, but they were nothing short of awful. Fortunately, I had a fine kindergarten teacher who read books aloud to the class. Beverly Cleary’s Ramona books and picture books such as Barbara Cooney’s Miss Rumphius were standard story time fare. Each and every story gave me hope that another magical book was waiting around the corner for me to read on my own  Finally, after what seemed like ages, I refined my reading skills and the hunt for other childhood treasures really began. The passion for great children’s reading just happened to follow me into adulthood.

I found out early on in my graduate career that the study of children’s literature is an ideological battlefield. Whether one reads the Brothers Grimm, Lois Lowry’s contemporary classic The Giver, or the penultimate adolescent novel The Catcher in the Rye, the works suggest complex questions that require deep thought and intense study to answer. In the case of The Giver, the child reader enters a world of eerie likeness; a society built on security and stability but lacking individuality. Lowry’s ultimate message seems to be that one should express his or her individuality to find true happiness, but young readers will likely be prompted to weigh the pros and cons of stability versus individuality. It is a wonderful book—from a teacher’s point of view—for playing devil’s advocate. The questions and answers seem simple at first, but when children dig in, there are some interesting contradictions at work.  Ultimately, these three pieces, and countless others, provoke scholars to classify, qualify, and argue the meanings and trends inherent in literature for children and adolescents.

While the child and his or her perception of literature is often at the center of scholarly study in the field, just as often children’s literature scholars confront the assumptions and perceptions of adults. Many colleges and universities lump their children’s literature programs in with education courses, where the professors are not teaching children. I’ve had the good fortune to team teach and guest lecture in a number of children’s literature survey courses for undergraduates. Droves of 18 and 19-year-olds, a decent smattering of middle-aged men and women, and the occasional elderly student have passed through the doors of my classrooms. Most of them want to teach. They perceive a child’s story in a very different way than a child, and therein lies the core of the volatility and controversy that consistently hover around children’s stories—they are written by adults with agendas that inevitably bleed through the surface of a text. At the core of all human creations lies conflict, innuendo, and ideology. Children’s tales are no exception.

One of my favorite conflict-filled books to teach is The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein. While most assume that picture books tell a straightforward story meant to teach a solid, moral lesson, the contradictions in children’s texts are innumerable. In the case of The Giving Tree, a beautiful tree wants to make the young boy playing in her branches happy for the duration of his lifetime. Even when the boy grows up, loses interest, and generally mistreats the tree, the Giving Tree still longs to fulfill the boy’s needs. As they both age, the tree continually gives more of herself until nothing remains of her former majesty; just a stump on which the boy—finally a man of advanced age—can sit.

From a parent’s perspective, it can be a story about giving, sharing, and helping provide for the well-being of others. It is important to share, to be empathetic, and to nourish those we love. On the other hand, from a children’s literature professor’s point of view, there are a mountain of contradictory and somewhat troubling messages at hand. From a feminist perspective in particular, why should the feminine tree—the mother—give until she is dried up, used up, and mutilated?

Many students find this type of questioning deeply troubling. It’s just a picture book after all. It is only meant to teach a wholesome lesson. To those of us manning the helm of the college children’s literature classroom these are the types of questions involved in our study. We zero in repeatedly on those troubling, niggling little bits that give the books away as not only teaching tools, but imperfect products of human creativity that harbor an agenda—consciously or subconsciously—and often fall short of a “perfect” message. I often try to remind my students that it is not a bad thing to see a book differently than a child would. After all, adults are supposed to filter messages, talk life lessons over with children, and ultimately guide them in their learning. If a parent or teacher sees a different lesson in a book than that which occupies the facade of a children’s story, it can be a teachable moment waiting to happen or it can be brushed over in favor of the most wholesome and ideologically sound message.

In my experience the teaching and study of children’s literature is a never-ending maze. Analysis brings about all sorts of interesting questions, and the biggest job for a scholar is to creatively qualify and track the questions and answers associated with children’s literature to add to a bank of knowledge. To the outside world I suppose we could just be trouble makers, over-thinkers, and boat rockers. I have to say, I get intense satisfaction from being a bad girl and troublemaker. If I make someone think deeply along the way, it is a huge bonus.


Andi is a recovering university academic employed by the North Carolina community college system as an English instructor. While she decided to forego a Ph.D. and career as a professor, she fills in all the free time her current position affords her with editing literary publications, reviewing, freelancing, and blogging at Estella’s Revenge. Her work can be found in the journal, Multi-Ethnic Literature of the United States (MELUS), and Altar magazine as well as online in various venues such as PopMatters.com. She is a member of the National Book Critics Circle (NBCC), and writes fiction. Her turn-ons include new books and gelato, while her turn-offs are reality television and washing dishes. She can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it