Some of the memories I have of second grade are visual – clear images that play in my mind, either as frozen snapshots or short movies: circling the room on the first day, searching for my nameplate in a sea of unfamiliar names; walking home from school, followed by a boy who did a poor imitation of the way I enunciated my name and pulled at my ever-present braids as he chanted, “Milk the cow, milk the cow”; watching as my teacher introduced another new girl partway through the year, and realizing – with mixed relief and disappointment – that I no longer held that position; sitting on the rug with a friend, co-writing a book about a rabbit; standing on the stage, reciting Shel Silverstein’s “Hug o’ War” with classmates. Other memories are more of a hazy feeling: Leo the Late Bloomer sinking into my psyche and Byrd Baylor’s imagery stirring something within me. José Aruego and Byrd Baylor visited my elementary school that year. My mum and brother had the good fortune of showing Byrd Baylor around while my school day went on. Perhaps the books made an impression because of the physical presence of their respective illustrator and author. Or perhaps it was simply because they spoke to something I didn’t yet recognize in myself. A year younger than my classmates, I would soon come to feel like a late bloomer. And growing up in the suburbs, the peace of nature would often call to me. I could feel lonely surrounded by people, but never when surrounded by nature. Books and nature restore me.
I wonder now about the books I read with my own children and students. Which will make such an impression that they inform who these children become? Which will awaken something that will inspire a thought, an action, or a personal reflection? I see glimmers of it already, and I’ve started to become even more intentional in the books I choose to bring into children’s lives.
Christine Baldacchino’s Morris Micklewhite and the Tangerine Dress is such a book. Dan, the boys, and I first figuratively met Morris at Drag Queen Story Time. Morris is a character who deserves to live on everyone’s bookshelf. He teaches us to embrace everyone for who they are, moving beyond gender stereotypes. I’m fortunate to have been raised to play alongside my younger brother, both of us having Mini Micromachines and My Little Ponies, combining our Barbies (admittedly, me) and Ken (admittedly, him), spending hours in the muddy “clay” in my aunt and uncle’s field, and sharing a love of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I had glimmers of awareness of gender differences in toys, sketching my own female additions to the turtle team – Cassatt and O’Keeffe. Now, as a parent to three boys, these differences strike a chord with me daily. Fighting against gender stereotypes is perhaps my greatest soapbox.
And so, back to Morris…
My boys have red and white striped dresses, purchased at H&M because we were shopping one day and they wanted dresses. Simple as that. If Mummy could wear dresses, why couldn’t they? My old dresses sometimes make their way to the dress up collection, hanging alongside an Elsa costume from Halloween 2017. Wren has worn his dress to school two or three times, clearly influenced by Morris. The book ends with one of Morris’s classmates declaring, “Boys don’t wear dresses,” to which Morris – with confidence that has grown throughout the book – retorts, “This boy does.” Wren first wore his dress to school on the last day of school last year because he wanted to show his classmates that boys can wear dresses if they want to. This followed a year of debate over clothing choices in the Dramatic Play area of his classroom. He wore it again a few weeks ago, telling me that he wanted someone to say to him that boys don’t wear dresses so that he could respond proudly, “This boy does.” His disappointment was apparent when he came home, lamenting that no one had said anything about his dress.
I sense that Morris has already settled into Wren’s psyche, giving him a role model who stands up for whom he wants to be. Morris is very “boy” in many ways. He loves tigers and space. He wears airplane pajamas. His toys include a soccer ball and dinosaurs. And Morris happens to like the tangerine dress in his school’s dress up area. It reminds him of tigers and his mother’s hair. Likewise, Wren is very “boy”. I use these stereotypes only to exemplify his diverse tastes. He loves dinosaurs and trains, roughhousing, dirt, and body functions. And he equally loves his dress because it puffs up when he spins around. He loves playing with the My Little Ponies from my childhood, he loves having his nails painted, he loves baking (dinosaur) cookies, and he loves his fairy garden. Why? Because dinosaurs, trains, ponies, baking, and nail polish aren’t gendered. Adults have made them so, just as they utter, “Boys will be boys,” forgetting that girls can like dirt and think farts are funny, too.
Literature builds empathy. We learn to understand another’s perspective by living his or her experience, albeit briefly. It’s my great fortune as a parent and teacher to have the opportunity to introduce children to books that can help them get to know themselves and others, providing them with language they may be able to one day use and experiences they can have from the comfort of their own reading nooks and imaginations. Christine Baldacchino’s Morris has lived in a book tub at home, and he now lives on a bookshelf in my classroom, where he’s appeared in more than one literacy lesson. Morris has taught fifth graders about how to use commas after a prepositional phrase, and he’s taught them a little something about being themselves.
Fighting gender stereotypes sometimes – often – feels like an uphill battle. You know who’s ready to challenge them? This girl is.
To Palimpsest 