When I had very bad social anxiety, my loony therapist made a few suggestions. He said I could brainstorm and list a set of topics for possible discussion with my friend or date, before I saw this person, so, if silence threatened, I could revert to the list and push things along. When I had an especially garrulous friend, and I didn't know how to combat the wall of talk that she would inevitably throw up whenever I saw her, my therapist suggested that I say, "Hey! Could we just sit in silence and hold hands?" (This guy really is from Mars. Who in the world would say, "Friend! Let's hold hands!" My therapist would.) When I met the man I will soon marry, and I was worried at the thought of initiating a first kiss, I was advised to say, "I'm going to hold your hand now." And indeed I did. And the rest is history.
Bernard Waber wrote books about courage. He had been a student at U. Penn, and he dropped out to fight in WWII--and, when he returned to the U.S., he found himself drawing pictures of crocodiles. (He wasn't sure why; he just seemed to especially enjoy making the snouts. Artists don't know where their good ideas come from. If there's an elaborate rationale behind the idea, then it's likely the idea is not a good idea.)
One crocodile became Waber's most famous character, Lyle, who lives in a bathtub in Manhattan, on E. 88 St. (I taught about Lyle in my first year in education, one block away, on E. 89 St. I have intensely nostalgic memories of aspects of this year with Lyle.) One struggle Lyle encounters is with prejudice: A stranger spray-paints "CROCODILES ARE AWFUL," or something like this, on his stoop. His mother-surrogate, Mrs. Primm, says, "It seems, in this life, we must accept that we cannot please everyone all of the time." (Courage is caring a bit less about what people think. Of course, Lyle rejects this advice and mounts a campaign to ensure that the prejudicial troglodyte does actually learn to like crocodiles.) In another book, Lyle searches for his real mother, and is startled to find that she does not resemble Mrs. Primm, but instead resembles a crocodile. (Courage is adjusting your narrow understanding of the world.) "Well," says Lyle, "she's still my mother," and trillions of therapy-addicted adults, reading over a child's shoulder, smile with recognition when they get to this line. After 9/11, Waber wrote a book quite literally entitled "Courage," in which various small animals show forms of courage to one another. "Courage is being the first to apologize." I haven't read "Courage," but I imagine it's among the better bits of work to emerge in response to 9/11. If you gave me a choice between "Courage" and a thousand Jonathan Safran Foer novels, I can promise you I'd pick "Courage" every time.
"Ira Sleeps Over" seems, to me, to be a direct response to Jane Austen. If you told me Waber never read an Austen novel, I'd feel some surprise. "Ira Sleeps Over" is a perfect book. It's a story about people at war with their own thoughts. It's about pregnant silences and slips of the tongue. It's a story in which adults are fools, and manners are linked tightly to morals. It's also a story with a whiff of "BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR."
"I was invited to Reggie's for my first sleepover," says Ira. "Was I happy!" (Fabulous first lines. Waber doesn't explain to us who Reggie is; he knows we can make the inference, even if we are in first grade. Also: "Was I happy!" is double-edged. The narrator on the clip below reads it as a question. Certainly, Ira feels he SHOULD be happy. But does any experience in life really conform to the restrictive role we assign to it? Happy, yes, but also anxious, fearful, stressed? Lastly, a story is about a journey, and there's something wonderfully counterintuitive about noticing that a sleepover counts as a journey; it's as much of a journey as a trip from the U.S. to Russia, or a war chronicle about Nixon and Vietnam. Not everyone would intuit this; Bernard Waber does.) Ira's parents assure him that Reggie won't care about Ira's teddy bear--but what the fuck do they know? Ira's truth-telling sister is cruel-to-be-kind: It's very possible that Reggie *will* care about the teddy bear. It's very possible that Reggie will prove to be an asshole. Such is the risk of having a social life--and it seems to me that Ira's small, trouble-making sister has hit the nail on the head. A wise, resilient guest would respond to Reggie's (hypothetical) nastiness by saying, "I'm sure you're right, and I've just come down with a terrible cold! So sorry!" But Ira is a small child; will he have the skills to navigate a potentially fraught social situation? It seems to me that Ira's concerns are valid and real--and the parents are morons for so quickly ending the conversation. (Recently, I helped host a big sleepover in which my shrewdest, most mature third grader inadvertently revealed the fact of her social terror. She would enjoy "Ira Sleeps Over.")
In any case, the Austen-ian twists often involve silences. "What do you think of teddy bears?" asks Ira, as a way of not quite stating what is really on his mind. And Reggie seems not to hear; he launches into a troubling monologue about ghost stories. I love, love, love this moment. Later, when Reggie shocks us all by producing his own teddy bear, Ira asks, "Is that yours?" "What?" says Reggie, hilariously. "That teddy bear?" And, Reggie: "What? THIS teddy bear?" This is among the greatest bits of dialogue I've ever encountered in writing, and that includes all the Serious Contemporary Fiction I wade through on a regular basis.
Well, everything turns out fine, and not quite as one would expect--as, indeed, life tends to unfold here in the actual world. I'm sorry that Waber wrote only one other Ira book; it's equally great, and it's called "Ira Says Goodbye." More on that later. If you're looking for a good book for your kid, you can't go wrong with Waber. I've said it once, and I'll say it again. Ira? C'est moi.
P.S. I love, love, love the page in which Reggie reveals his "chain of linked bubble-gum wrappers, false nose, plastic glasses, and stamp collection." I love that the stamps take over; ink overruns the page. "DUPLICATE DUPLICATE. RETURN TO SENDER RETURN RETURN RETURN TO SENDER. VOID VOID VOID VOID VOID." This seems to me an expression of pure joy; Waber is directly channeling the wonder and sense of fun that can characterize a childhood. We must find delight wherever we can!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5bIPJIL8YCk
Bernard Waber wrote books about courage. He had been a student at U. Penn, and he dropped out to fight in WWII--and, when he returned to the U.S., he found himself drawing pictures of crocodiles. (He wasn't sure why; he just seemed to especially enjoy making the snouts. Artists don't know where their good ideas come from. If there's an elaborate rationale behind the idea, then it's likely the idea is not a good idea.)
One crocodile became Waber's most famous character, Lyle, who lives in a bathtub in Manhattan, on E. 88 St. (I taught about Lyle in my first year in education, one block away, on E. 89 St. I have intensely nostalgic memories of aspects of this year with Lyle.) One struggle Lyle encounters is with prejudice: A stranger spray-paints "CROCODILES ARE AWFUL," or something like this, on his stoop. His mother-surrogate, Mrs. Primm, says, "It seems, in this life, we must accept that we cannot please everyone all of the time." (Courage is caring a bit less about what people think. Of course, Lyle rejects this advice and mounts a campaign to ensure that the prejudicial troglodyte does actually learn to like crocodiles.) In another book, Lyle searches for his real mother, and is startled to find that she does not resemble Mrs. Primm, but instead resembles a crocodile. (Courage is adjusting your narrow understanding of the world.) "Well," says Lyle, "she's still my mother," and trillions of therapy-addicted adults, reading over a child's shoulder, smile with recognition when they get to this line. After 9/11, Waber wrote a book quite literally entitled "Courage," in which various small animals show forms of courage to one another. "Courage is being the first to apologize." I haven't read "Courage," but I imagine it's among the better bits of work to emerge in response to 9/11. If you gave me a choice between "Courage" and a thousand Jonathan Safran Foer novels, I can promise you I'd pick "Courage" every time.
"Ira Sleeps Over" seems, to me, to be a direct response to Jane Austen. If you told me Waber never read an Austen novel, I'd feel some surprise. "Ira Sleeps Over" is a perfect book. It's a story about people at war with their own thoughts. It's about pregnant silences and slips of the tongue. It's a story in which adults are fools, and manners are linked tightly to morals. It's also a story with a whiff of "BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR."
"I was invited to Reggie's for my first sleepover," says Ira. "Was I happy!" (Fabulous first lines. Waber doesn't explain to us who Reggie is; he knows we can make the inference, even if we are in first grade. Also: "Was I happy!" is double-edged. The narrator on the clip below reads it as a question. Certainly, Ira feels he SHOULD be happy. But does any experience in life really conform to the restrictive role we assign to it? Happy, yes, but also anxious, fearful, stressed? Lastly, a story is about a journey, and there's something wonderfully counterintuitive about noticing that a sleepover counts as a journey; it's as much of a journey as a trip from the U.S. to Russia, or a war chronicle about Nixon and Vietnam. Not everyone would intuit this; Bernard Waber does.) Ira's parents assure him that Reggie won't care about Ira's teddy bear--but what the fuck do they know? Ira's truth-telling sister is cruel-to-be-kind: It's very possible that Reggie *will* care about the teddy bear. It's very possible that Reggie will prove to be an asshole. Such is the risk of having a social life--and it seems to me that Ira's small, trouble-making sister has hit the nail on the head. A wise, resilient guest would respond to Reggie's (hypothetical) nastiness by saying, "I'm sure you're right, and I've just come down with a terrible cold! So sorry!" But Ira is a small child; will he have the skills to navigate a potentially fraught social situation? It seems to me that Ira's concerns are valid and real--and the parents are morons for so quickly ending the conversation. (Recently, I helped host a big sleepover in which my shrewdest, most mature third grader inadvertently revealed the fact of her social terror. She would enjoy "Ira Sleeps Over.")
In any case, the Austen-ian twists often involve silences. "What do you think of teddy bears?" asks Ira, as a way of not quite stating what is really on his mind. And Reggie seems not to hear; he launches into a troubling monologue about ghost stories. I love, love, love this moment. Later, when Reggie shocks us all by producing his own teddy bear, Ira asks, "Is that yours?" "What?" says Reggie, hilariously. "That teddy bear?" And, Reggie: "What? THIS teddy bear?" This is among the greatest bits of dialogue I've ever encountered in writing, and that includes all the Serious Contemporary Fiction I wade through on a regular basis.
Well, everything turns out fine, and not quite as one would expect--as, indeed, life tends to unfold here in the actual world. I'm sorry that Waber wrote only one other Ira book; it's equally great, and it's called "Ira Says Goodbye." More on that later. If you're looking for a good book for your kid, you can't go wrong with Waber. I've said it once, and I'll say it again. Ira? C'est moi.
P.S. I love, love, love the page in which Reggie reveals his "chain of linked bubble-gum wrappers, false nose, plastic glasses, and stamp collection." I love that the stamps take over; ink overruns the page. "DUPLICATE DUPLICATE. RETURN TO SENDER RETURN RETURN RETURN TO SENDER. VOID VOID VOID VOID VOID." This seems to me an expression of pure joy; Waber is directly channeling the wonder and sense of fun that can characterize a childhood. We must find delight wherever we can!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5bIPJIL8YCk
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