Where the Wild Things Went

The sad news today is that Maurice Sendak has died. Back in the mid 1970s--1975 I guess--I took a job as a branch library supervisor at the Regent Park Branch of Regina Public Library. I knew just about zip about children's literature, and hadn't looked at a picture book in who knows how long. So I had to find out from the staff who the kids liked, as I prepared for my first pre-school story and craft hours, and for my first Saturday morning story hours. They showed me a lot--Curious George was a sure winner, if any were in. Among the newer books that came along (ordered by my precessor) was Leo the Late Bloomer. Story of my life.


But one they all loved was Sendak's Where The Wild Things Are. We had many copies. We had to replace worn out copies every couple of years.

The first time I read it, I was tickled at the story of Max, a bad boy punished for being too unruly, sent off to bed where he works out his attitude on a dream island full of monsters who have to learn to live and play by his rules. The monsters were the funniest things I could imagine in a picture book. And the fact that Max was pretty unapologetic didn't hurt, either.

So one afternoon, in came a father with several children. They took off into the children's book section while he sat by the entrance to see what they would pick. And to tell them what they were not allowed to have. A parent's prerogative, I suppose. But I was only maybe 26, covered in hair, beard and attitude, and full of righteous indignation at anything that looked like censorship to me. I was, after all, on the executive of the Saskatchewan Library Association. And one day would chair its (one-person) Intellectual Freedom Committee, and write to local newspapers and speak to regional library boards (well, one of them) on matters of censorship. But my training not to interfere with parents showing an interest in their children's reading held cool until one little boy trotted up with a huge smile and Where the Wild Things Are. Without even looking inside to see what it was about, the dad said a firm "No." Surprised, I asked him why, since the book was a major award winner and truly popular with kids the boy's age.

"Too scary. It'll give him nightmares."

The kid had not looked too frightened when he brought the book up to his dad. And there's a monster on the cover. So I honestly do not think, to this day, that was the issue. But the man had not even looked into the book, so it wasn't the story, either.

I tried. I reaffirmed that the book was hugely popular. That it had won major awards. That it was a story of a little boy learning to control his monsters, to make them his playmates. That had surprisingly little impact on the father in question. Well, none.

I hope the kid got to read the book one day. Maybe he had already heard it at school or at a library story hour. Maybe he took a children's literature course at university, where an older, balding and beardless instructor read it to him and gave him permission to study it for credit.

Then again, maybe the dad had also heard about it, about a boy who gets away with being disobedient and who learns to control the monsters in his mind and life. Maybe it was even on some "books to keep your kids away from" list he had been supplied with. There are such things. Lots of them. Maurice Sendak was on lots of them. Still is. He was on them even before In the Night Kitchen, with its full frontal diaperless male toddler nudity.

Shocking. To some parents out to purify the world. Shocking like Robert Munsch with his illustrated great big fart in Good Families Don't.Which also got onto some "do not let your kids see this book" lists.

Kids, even very little ones, sometimes just have too much maturity for their parents to handle. That's one thing I learned, once I became a dad myself. Physical maturity of the kind that takes your breath away as your watch him climb a shaky chain and log ladder and pull himself up onto a platform a foot or two over his height, to take his turn at the slide--when you were wondering how he got there last time while you were talking to another dad for just a few seconds. Then wish you hadn't found out.

Physical maturity of the kind that takes your breath away as you make his supper in the kitchen under your bedroom, and wonder what is that noise coming from the second floor, thirteen steps straight up over a concrete landing where just two seconds ago he was playing with some toys. And he's not yet two.

And mental maturity (or daring precociousness) of the kind that makes you double take when you see that he is still watching the same song on the Muppet Show tape, a good five minutes after you are sure it had to be over. "Wow, that song's going on a long time," you say. "I pushed it," he explains, prodding the replay button. And he's not yet two.

Good thing there's a long training period before they hit adolescence, and really begin to work on you. Too bad it's not ever long enough.

Tonight, I'm wishing my copy of Where The Wild Things Are were here at home for a sentimental send-off read.  Maybe I'll have to listen to The Troggs instead. Wonder if they're on YouTube? Silly question, really.