TigerBeatdown started a new series on literature this week – conveniently coinciding with my sudden immersion in the Book Review Blogoshphere. (Did you know there is this MASSIVE BOOX EXPO every year? Where they give away free books by the pound?! Someone explain to me why the fuck I did not get to experience either this book orgy or WisCon? sobosobosb.)
Reading the Rejectionist got me thinking about literary snobbery and my book-addict geek root (Root? What is a root? But I’m a Cheerleader will gladly explain the concept to you at the 5:35 mark.)
Alright Miss Mary, let me think back to my earliest book-related memories. Hmmm…
I remember a teacher suggesting I read a Chapter Book of all godawful things. Little House on the Prairie (why do people always suggest starting with that one? Dumbasses, Little House in the Big Woods is first) to be precise. I was appalled by such a suggestion. I wanted to read more Clifford. Just like my friends. I’M JUST LIKE MY FRIENDS OKAY?! This occurred in kindergarten or first grade. My desire to blend won out over any stupid hippie teacher suggestion that I advance at a faster pace than my peers. Clearly not the school’s fault. (And yes, I later devoured the Little House books – as well as their various sequels and spinoffs. Hmm….and now I see a marked similarity to GarlandGrey’s comments about male authors appropriating and profiting off the genius of women.)
DRAGON!
Looking back on it, Sigmadog is definitely The Root. After he and Sigmalass got married, he would read to me before bed. A chapter a night. We started with The Hobbit before moving on to Narnia. Sometime around The Silver Chair I discovered that reading aloud takes FOREVER (to this day I cannot stand the plodding pace of audiobooks).
Coincidentally around the same time, Sigmadog and Sigmalass laid down a no-TV-until-6:30 rule (but how will I function without the constant stream of televised entertainment?). I finished the rest of the series in a matter of days and needed more. MORE DAMNIT MORE!
(Sigmadog is also the individual responsible for introducing me to the DragonRiders of Pern on my 10th-or-11th birthday. So many dragons, so little time.) Yup, I think we can all agree that Draconismoi has found her root.
From this point forward I couldn’t get my hands on books fast enough. Eventually I was given permission to ride my bike to and from the library so I could get my fill without needing a ride – and thus being forced to adhere to a goddamn TIMETABLE when choosing my weekly reading materials. (MO-THER I cannot possibly be expected to a get a week’s worth of books in a mere hour!)
At first all this reading was blessedly uninhibited. Then. THEN some goddamn interfering teacher or random busybody adult GOT UP IN MY BUSINESS. They had things to say to my mother about my reading:
- She is reading too fast and too much. Obviously she isn’t really reading. Just skimming. Or pretending. Or perhaps actually reading the words without retaining their meaning. You must slow her down. Force her brain to work at a speed and level that we, random faceless strangers, are comfortable with.
- Now that we are dictating the speed at which your child is allowed to process the written word, we must intervene regarding the type and quality of the written words she is processing. It’s all trash! Garbage! If she is going to read, make her READ.
In response to the first critique, I was required to write book reports. For my MOM. HOMEWORK when I wasn’t even in school! HAS THE WORLD GONE MAD? I know the requirement eventually tapered off – though I am unclear as to why. I do, however, recall bitterly writing out one of those goddamned reports, and upon completion, noting that I had written it for the wrong book. I was reading the latest in an ongoing series, but had somehow written the report for a previous offering. Part of me was horrified…..had I just done an extra goddamned report?! (I will forever remember that sick feeling of dread) Luckily for me, mom didn’t notice. She hadn’t read the book in question. Mwahahahahahahahahahaha!
The latter comment, regarding my reading preferences, turned out to be my introduction into the wide world of literary snobbery, genre ghettos and goddamned refusal of oh-so-many educated people to acknowledge the merit of works due to shelving or date of publication.
For some reason, I needed to be reading classics. A new rule was put in place. For every book I picked, I had to pick a book off some fucking list. Pride and Prejudice (“Why thank you Mr. Darcy for condescending to express romantic interest in me despite my status as Trashy McTrashsterstein.” Am I supposed to be surprised she didn’t fall on her back for him?) Jane Eyre (Jesus Christ lady he is your boss AND old enough to be your fucking father. Not to mention he LOCKED HIS WIFE up for years! What the hell does that say about his ability to work through marital disputes?) . Wuthering Heights (This was my first-ever DNF. So fucking boring.)
For some reason, the words of these women were supposed to be better to those of the women I was willingly devouring. Those books – devoid of any kind of feminism little Draconismoi could relate too -were intellectually superior to anything I could want to read. (As an adult I can appreciate the feminist achievements of the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen in their historical contexts. In elementary school, however, I was bored out of my fucking mind.)
Note: If I ever discover the progenitors of either trend, I will inflict unimaginable suffering upon them for VERY NEARLY DESTROYING my passion for books. Good thing I was resilient. Or that my mother noticed they were full of shit. Or some combination thereof.
Hardcore Socio-Political Analysis
To this day I do not comprehend genre snobbery. Some of the most scathing critiques of societal conventions can be found in science fiction. How are the trials of the Bennet sisters more stimulating than those of Offred and her fellow handmaidens? Marion Zimmer Bradley wrote a plethora of fabulous novels that covered the danger of religious zealotry, secret affairs and illegitimate offspring. Why pretend The Scarlet Letter holds a patent on these subjects. It sure as hell doesn’t portray them better than any other writer ever could. Of Mice and Men did not teach me anything more about transcending race and differences – about the the bonds of humanity – than More Than Human.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve read many so-called literary masterpieces (Romeo and Juliet = tripe; The Canturbury Tales = genius). I just refuse to see them as superior to those works consigned to genre ghettos. Nor do I believe I was intellectually stunted by overexposure to such works. Hell, if it weren’t for Ann Rinaldi I wouldn’t have learned about the whitewashing of my history textbooks until college.
In essence, take your literary snobbery and shove it. I wrote my goddamned thesis on the sociopolitical implications of science fiction. I devour urban fantasy by the shelf. I apply the pointed (and poignant) commentaries on human rights that I glean from these fascinating stories to my work as an attorney and activist.
