Enid Blyton and corporal punishment

Although I blogged about how dated Enid Blyton was last year, my son is now finally of an age to be read those sorts of books. We started on a Roald Dahl, and today moved onto my old favourite, Dame Slap. I loved Dame Slap as a child. The adventures and hi jinks! The elves! The eponymous Dame Slap! What wasn't to like?

It was a shame that I hadn't actually re-read the book myself since the late 1980s. so had forgotten about all of the corporal punishment within the book. Which is daft, really. It's called Dame Slap, not Dame Hugs and Kisses. Or Dame Time Out. I'd forgotten that, not only did Dame Slap slap, but that she used other instruments to hit the children as well. Like a hard-soled slipper. 

Cue some very awkward questions from a perplexed four year old. "Mum, do people hit children?" "Mum, do people hit children WITH STICKS?" "Why?" "Why?" "WHY?" And eventually, "I don't like that hitting book."

I suppose that served me right. I'd still like to read some other Enid Blyton book's to my kids once they are older, but might have to put Dame Slap away for another few years. Or, another thirty. And hope that in thirty years time, the idea of corporal punishment will be even more perplexing and foreign to the reader as it is now, as even more time passes from when such things were commonplace. 

When history feels more historical than before

While writing this blog, I have thought a lot about how things have changed since 1945. The answer: so much has changed, especially regarding parenting advice, that I have been thinking about it for over a year and still only written about a third of the blog entries I have in mind about the topic. Shame I keep letting life, work, children, and reading trashy magazines get in the way, eh? 

1945 was 60 years ago; 35 years before I was born. It was 8 years before my mum was born, and ever since my last remaining grandparent died in 2006, I have to think really hard about whether or not I even know anyone who remembers 1945 anymore. I used to know a number of people who were around then: my granddad, my great Aunt, lovely Betty who I used to tutor Italian to every Friday morning for three years. My grandmother's brother, who died recently, the last of that generation to go.  Other old people, and people who didn't even seem so old but were still born before 1945. 

Time moves on though, and now all of those people are gone. When I was a teenager first learning about World War Two, it was something that I was only one step removed from: my Grandfather had fought, my grandmothers had lived through it. I knew plenty people who remembered the War, talked about it, and were deeply affected by it. I once met four Auschwitz survivors, and when studying World War Two for my postgraduate degree, I found six people to interview about their first-hand experiences. 

I was talking to my son about war and soldiers recently; the 100 year anniversary of the ANZAC landings brought the issue of war to the fore. In a very sanitized way, I told him about my Grandfather who fought, and when the war was. I then realised that, for him, World War Two will be what the Boer War was for me: something from a far distant time, not something my grandparents lived through, an event which also stamped its mark on the Baby Boomer generation - my parents - in a myriad of ways. And for many of my age, the Boer War is lumped with the Napoleonic Wars, the 100 Years War and the War of the Roses: conflicts that simply happened long ago in some indeterminate point in the past. Nothing that is even moderately relevant to them.

Suddenly, the original publication of Modern Mothercraft in 1945 felt even further ago than it used to. I suppose that's what motivates me to keep blogging - to keep the past alive, and to think about and reflect on what life was like then. So, now I've resolved to put down the trashy magazines and get back to it. After all, that time is only going to feel more distant and alien with every day that passes, and I hate the idea of all of those people that I knew that lived in 1945 being consigned to the distant past as well. 

Enid Blyton: to read to my kids or not to read to my kids?

When I was young, I loved reading Enid Blyton books. There were adventures up trees and on flying chairs, boarding schools, circuses and mysteries.  There were also villains with names that perfectly captured the eight year-old imagination, like Dame Slap. A dame, I used to think, that slapped! Was there ever a more fitting name? No, I decided. Unless you counted the aptly-named Big Ears. I thought she was pretty clever, that Enid Blyton. 

This Enid euphoria lasted until late last year when I went to buy my seven year-old niece a book for Christmas, and decided that my favourite book at that age would be perfect: The Adventures of the Wishing Chair. I bought the book, took it home, and sat down for a nostalgic read. At first, I thought I'd seen a typo. Surely the character I remembered as "the pixie" wasn't called Chinky? I double checked. Yup. Chinky. My liberal politically-correct heart almost palpitated right there and then.

Closer analysis has since shown that Chinky is the tip of the racist, sexist, and corporal-punishment-promoting iceberg. The question therefore remains: to read Enid, or not to read Enid to my kids?

The case for Enid 

I loved the books and read dozens. I would also like to think that I'm a reasonable, tolerant, feminist who appreciates that 'golliwog' is an insult, girls aren't inferior, and Dame Slap really ought to have adopted better teaching methods. So, I haven't become a sexist bigot that hits poor school mice with my giant slippers.

I can only think of one incident where Enid Blyton books caused me a spot of bother: I was 17 the first time I ever went to the UK, and had once read an Enid Blyton book about a girl who had an entire shilling and spent in on sweets with disastrous-yet-ultimately-educational consequences. I don't remember the book, or the protagonist, but remembered the shilling. In fact, it never occurred to me that the British didn't use the shilling any more. Cue a very awkward conversation with a shop assistant when I tried to buy a coke at Heathrow and asked if it was 75p, did that make it 4 shillings?

The case against Enid

Dick and Fanny! I think the names speak for themselves.  Not to mention bullies, children being hit, evil gypsies, use of the "N" word, and incredibly pompous, condescending behaviour. And meanness about only children. And in this enlightened day and age, stories about golliwogs and a character called Chinky really is quite uncool.

Although, as an aside, I understand that some of the names in the books have been changed to less snigger-worthy names. I'm not sure if this makes much difference, though. I may have been in the dark about the shillings, but even I knew that Dick and Fanny were names to be laughed at behind your hand rather than taken seriously. Or used for your future children.

So, what to do?

There's no doubting that the books are dated, but as my reading of Mothercraft on this blog has shown, lots of things from that era have changed. Like, trying to get babies to use a potty from a month old, and putting your kids in the sun for hours. Just because we know better now doesn't mean we have to pretend that other points of view never existed. If we do that, how can we ever learn from the past? 

I've decided to still read some of the books to my kids, and my niece still received her copy of the Wishing Chair. I've just decided that when they are old enough to read these books, I'll do my best to be alongside them to explain the content. For example, that some of the language is dated, and that time has moved on. In fact, being a history nerd, these books could be a great platform for some learning. I'll also make sure I point out that the shilling stopped being used in Britain in 1971. Just in case.