If we were fortunate enough to have access to books in our childhood, there’s a strongly likelihood we encountered picture books about animals—possibly of the talking variety. From Clifford the Big Red Dog (who, let’s be real, no landlord would ever tolerate) to the Very Hungry Caterpillar who, fortunately, had no access to Taco Bell, most of our children’s books were bright and cute. When we reached a higher reading level, many of us graduated to Harry Potter and The Chronicles of Narnia to learn about all the magic the world has to offer. Don’t get me wrong: children’s early chapter books aren’t all about friendship and soul-bonds between ponies and rich girls. Especially nowadays, many address relevant social issues such as LGBT+ topics and immigration to address the lived experience of a diverse breadth of childhoods.
While browsing at BookCon, I happened upon Attic Books, a business selling journals made from vintage books. I purchased an honest-to-god stackload, and, when I looked through some of the book pages left inside, I realized that children encountered a different kind of magic in the 70s. While we were waiting for our Hogwarts letters, readers of Don’t Call Me Orphan by Michael Leach were pining for their first pack of Camels.
Image Via CBS NEWS
Remember how the Boxcar Children rubbed their sad little hands all over the window of a bakery when they were out on the street ogling the cakes? After fleeing an orphanage, our protagonist’s first move is to hit up a convenience store for some cigs:
‘How old you say you are?’
‘Fourteen.’ Well, I was almost in my fourteenth year. ‘Why?’
‘Enjoy your smokes,’ she said.
‘I told you. They’re for my pa.’
She disappeared, and I could almost hear, ‘I’m sure.’
Childlike wonder can turn a bare field into a magic kingdom, a moonlit street a bridge to a secret world, a regular gas station into a den of debauchery and delight. Do you think they have cigarettes and porn at Hogwarts? Take a look at the different sort of magic our protagonist discovers:
I noticed the magazine that old Pizza-face had dropped on the radiator cover. It was called Fever, and it had a color picture of this really stacked dame stepping out of a shower with nothing on. On the bottom, like a lot of those things, FOR ADULTS ONLY was stamped on real hard.
It’s possible this seems so ludicrous because, born in the mid-90s, I have never encountered the porno mags that the Beastie Boys screamed about. Is this any different than seeing highly sexualized images of women in advertisement and the media? That’s a different conversation. This is a conversation about never encountering a children’s book like this in my own childhood, in which most of the books on the children’s and middle grade shelves were relatively sterile.
I saw the FOR ADULTS ONLY and got even madder and more confused. Is this what you read when you’re a man? I opened it. Another picture inside, black and white, and it got me even crazier than the cover.
Maybe there’s a stacked dame out there waiting for me. I’m sure using that particular phrase will help me find her.
Image Via Movie Star Girls Blogspot
Oh, and we do hear from his parents eventually. Like our protagonist, we probably wish we hadn’t:
There’s twenty feet of rope in the basement, ya bum. You can hang yerself on the pipes. Aww, what’s the matter? Did I make ya feel bad? Well, ain’t that too bad! Stick yer head in the oven and I’ll turn on the gas.
I’m certainly not passing judgment on these older children’s books, nor am I attempting to pass judgment on children’s books today. Instead, I’m merely observing that there’s a difference—and that it’s pretty f*cking gigantic.
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