Why Does a Tomboy Relate to THE HUNDRED DRESSES?

A few weeks ago Veronica Roth said that she was planning to blog about favorite childhood books and invited others to blog with her. While I’ve thought about, discussed, and made notes about books since I last posted here, I (quite obviously) haven’t refined any of my thoughts enough to post them. Happily, her suggestion nudged me in just the right way and I raised my hand to say I’d re-read something, too. There was no backing down, I’d made a commitment on a public forum. Veronica coined the word ‘accountabilibuddies’ for those of us who agreed to post about a favorite childhood book today. Thanks for the nudge, acountabilibuddy!



I’m certain that I first read THE HUNDRED DRESSES in the months before I turned eight and moved for the 9th time. (Yes, nine moves in eight years. That can happen when you’re a military brat.) Though I don’t remember my first read, I have memories of seeing the book in at least two libraries, and reading it in two bedrooms. If those memories are accurate, it helped me get through leaving Churchland Academy in Virginia and starting Peterson Elementary in Alaska.

In brief, Eleanor Estes’s Newbery-honor book (published in 1944) is about the teasing a girl from a poor, immigrant family endures from her schoolmates. Despite the fact she wears the same faded blue dress to school every day, Wanda Petronski claims to have one hundred dresses lined up in her closet. No one believes her, but no one offers her friendship or seeks out the truth about her statement. Only after her family abruptly moves (due to discrimination) do her classmates find out that Wanda is a skilled artist who had drawn a hundred dresses. While her main tormentors, Maddie and Peggy, feel guilty enough to send Wanda a letter, they never apologize. Wanda, however, is gracious enough to gift two of the drawings to the girls whose final response is, “She must have really liked us anyway.”

Why would this story with its heavy-handed moral of acceptance, understanding, and forgiveness join the literary landscape of my childhood? How could this quiet, outdated story have such resonance? And why would tomboy Heather read and re-read a book about dresses?

If I encountered THE HUNDRED DRESSES for the first time today, I would argue that my elementary-school self would not have liked it. It’s didactic. It’s underdeveloped. It’s clearly a girl book. A story about mean girls and dresses? No thanks.

And I’d be wrong. This book was a touchpoint in my childhood. I didn’t need more information about Wanda or her life at home. I filled in those blanks myself because I already kind of knew her.

I connected to the story because the quiet girl in the faded blue dress was familiar. I had learned that misspeaking could haunt you on the playground. I knew what it was to be the weird kid nobody really spoke to. I understood that if you might be moving again anyway, there didn’t seem to be a point to making friends. I had been uncertain of my place in the landscape of the school and neighborhood. I definitely didn’t understand the clique of girls who had the luxury of life-long friendship, but I knew all about being on the outskirts, uncertain about whether those girls were teasing or genuinely offering friendship.

I wasn’t Wanda, but I understood her well. And I still do.

To see or not to see WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE

It’s time for a confession.

I’m not entirely sure I want to see WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE.

There. I’ve said it, it’s out there, and I’ll suffer the consequences. This is not to say I won’t see it (I reserve the right to change my mind) but I’m find I’m waiting for it with apprehension rather than in anticipation.

If you look at my movie-viewing history, you’ll find I’ve avoided many filmed versions of my favorite childhood books. I generally try to come up with some kind of academic, incontrovertible reason for doing so, but more often than not it comes down to fear that my internal vision won’t be reflected on screen.

I skipped the two films of The Chronicles of Narnia because I know what Lucy and Mr. Tumnus and Reepicheep look and sound like and I wasn’t willing to accept any substitute. And I remembered that C.S. Lewis never sold the film rights himself believing that a film wouldn't be able to do the fantastic elements of his books justice. For me, that was reason enough not to see the movies. The author was alive when film was an established medium (unlike, say, Oscar Wilde) and he said no. By not seeing the movie, I was not only stubbornly preserving my childhood vision, I was honoring the wishes of the creator of that world. (Though I do concede that Tilda Swinton was perfectly cast as the White Witch.)

I also said no to THE GOLDEN COMPASS (the text and some themes had to be softened and Lyra didn’t seem spunky enough), TWILIGHT (I am solidly team Jacob, and I do not like that casting), CLOUDY WITH A CHANCE OF MEATBALLS (what’s that scientist doing there?), and a resounding no to A WRINKLE IN TIME (the IT in my imagination is plenty scary, thank you).

There are yeses. HOLES I allowed because I knew that Louis Sachar had written the screenplay. While HARRIET THE SPY wasn’t quite mean enough, I couldn’t resist Eartha Kitt as Agatha K. Plummer. And I was thrilled that Tim Burton returned some of the edge to CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY.

But Aunt Feather, I hear you asking, why no to WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE? You love Spike Jonez (I do), Dave Eggers is brilliant (he is), Sendak gave his seal of approval (he did), and this is one of the most important books of your life (absolutely).

And therein lies the problem.

This is one of the most important books of my entire life. It was regularly checked out of the library throughout my childhood. My folks gave me tickets to see the opera when I was in high school. When I left teaching and bookselling for an office job, I kept a copy of the book at my desk just in case I needed it. Over the years, I developed my own ideas about Max and his mother’s backstory, cemented clear thoughts about the personalities of the Wild Things, and honed specific ways of delivering the dialogue when I read the book aloud. And I’ve had all 300-odd words memorized for as long as I can remember.

Frankly, I’m scared to lose all that. I’m concerned that I’ll move away from my gruff read of “We’ll eat you up—we love you so!” to the soft way that line is delivered in the movie. I worry that the landscape of the island (for that’s where the Wild Things make their home in my mind) will change irreversibly after seeing what Jonez and company have created. Even from the preview, the presence of a desert confuses me beyond measure. There’s no desert where the Wild Things live. And of course I worry that I’ll learn things about Max which will change my relationship with him.

I don’t doubt that Sendak’s story and art have been beautifully expanded upon and built up for the film. I’m sure that the backstory and additional details enrich the world and give it additional depth and heart. And I’m sure that the performances are unparalleled. But I’m not sure that the filmed version will enrich the landscape that I’ve been building since I was a toddler.

Long and short, I’m worried that the magic of the film will tarnish the magic of the book. And when I have a choice, books win.

Facing Fears with THE THREE ROBBERS

There are very few books from my childhood that were ever ‘lost’ to me. I have a half-dozen younger siblings, I taught nursery school, I was a bookseller… when my peers were ‘setting aside childhood things’, I was still encountering them on a daily basis.

But despite this, there are a handful of books which have slipped through the cracks. Some are obscure and long out of print and I’m sure they’ll never surface, some are remembered but I can’t find them (anyone else remember a staple-bound, die-cut Golden Book THE FRIENDLY LION?), and a few I’ve been lucky enough to run across at unexpected times.

Years ago when I was bookselling, I was straightening the shelves in paperback picture books when I came across a book which was just oversized enough to stand out… I pulled it off the shelf and gasped. A dark, almost sinister cover was before me. Three tall black hats, six gleaming eyes, a frightening red axe… I grinned and sighed and felt a rush of glee. I sat on the floor to get reacquainted with Tomi Ungerer’s THE THREE ROBBERS, a friend I’d not seen in decades.

The book follows the exploits of three robbers, cloaked in black, who torment their victims with an axe, a pepper blower, and a blunderbuss. Citizens are terrified—to the point that ‘Women fainted. Brave men ran. Dogs fled.’ Their horrible reign continues until the night they stop a carriage wherein the only thing of value is an orphan. They take Tiffany back to their lair where she convinces them to do some good with their plundered wealth, and they open an orphanage. Over the years, an idyllic town springs up around the orphanage and the citizens erect towers in honor of these unlikely foster parents.

While the story does have a happy ending, the bulk of the tale isn’t comforting. Here is a fierce trio, taking what they want at will and with a measure of violence. They chop up carriage wheels and threaten people. I’m sure my exasperated childhood self exclaimed, ‘They’re even mean to the horses!’ They take a small child because there’s no other treasure to steal.

The illustrations don’t soften the story in any way. They are dark in both mood and appearance. An image early in the story shows the robbers in silhouette, their weapons brandished and threatening against the night sky. Even the final image of the town is heavy with a swath of black and many others are easily 2/3 solid black ink.

Finishing the book as an adult, I was confused. And worried. And concerned. What was I reading? Was this really a childhood favorite? Why did I ever connect with this book? And how could something so scary resonate with me— I’m a chicken who can’t even watch previews for horror movies. I don’t think I wanted to escape my family until my tween years. I doubt harbored a secret wish to be a robber. And yet, this was a book I checked out from the library repeatedly as a child.

The recent Phaidon hardcover edition is open on my desk as I write this and another read still hasn’t helped me understand why I like it so much. Unfortunately, I’m too tied up in the memories to look at the book objectively. I don’t think figuring out the book’s appeal would unlock any mystery of my personality, but I would like to know what the draw was to my five-year-old self. But the confusion my adult self feels wouldn’t keep me from sharing the book. It’s not a title I’d give as a gift to just any kid, but the right child might just find it appealing—and maybe even draw on it to face their real-life fears.


THE THREE ROBBERS by Tomi Ungerer, ISBN 978-07148-4877-8, picture book