Frank Layton: An Australian Tale,
by George Sargent, a children’s adventure of the “ripping yarns” genre, is a
stirring book. Though published as far back as 1865, by Britain’s
Religious Tract
Society, it contains themes that make it a worthy precursor to much of
the work that has flowed since from the pens, typewriters and personal
computers of Australia’s talented legion of children’s book writers.
It is essentially
about courage, both the physical and the moral kinds. It tells the story of
Frank, a British farmer’s son, who decides to make a new life in Australia.
Along the way he squarely faces up to numerous challenges, from the squalor
of the Victorian goldfields and the moral depravity of Melbourne to floods,
bushfires and bandits. At every step the reader is presented with lessons in
how a person of virtue confronts adversity, and how, in the process,
character is developed.
Sargent also gives readers lessons in
race relations. Frank’s bride, Mercy, makes clear her opposition to the
injustices done to the Aboriginal inhabitants of the young colony by the
white settlers. And the book includes an Aboriginal stockman, Dick Brown, as
well as an Afro-American gold prospector.
In her wonderful history of children’s
literature, Australia Through the Looking-Glass,
Brenda Niall noted that
this American is “one of the most admirable men on the goldfields, and Dick
Brown - unlike most Aborigines in fiction of this period - is intelligent
and brave. He also speaks English correctly: Sargent resists working up
comic effects through pidgin.”
Niall informed us that Sargent drew
inspiration from an earlier Religious Tract Society book, Australia and
Its Settlements. This earlier work (aimed at adults, not children)
presented an incisive commentary on the appalling conditions in Australia,
noting, for example, the environmental despoliation brought on by the
settlers:
The scene along the
[Yarra] river, once quiet and beautiful, while left to nature’s attendance,
is now completely shorn of those attributes. The decaying carcass of an ox
or horse is here and there upon the sward; and unsightly wooden
slaughterhouses, with similar boiling-down establishments, surrounded with
indescribable filth, are passed in succession as the city is approached.
Australia and Its Settlements
was similarly scathing in its portrayal of the impact of white settlement on
the Aborigines:
The Australian Aborigines had an unquestionable right of property in the
soil, and had committed no offence to forfeit it to the foreign race which
landed on their shores. Being without strength, however, to repel the
intruders, they had their lands usurped, without an attempt to purchase by
treaty, or any offer of reasonable compensation. Added to this, a class of
persons was introduced among whom were many, both free and bond, who,
regardless of law, and in a great measure exempt from its operation by the
remoteness of their position, practised appalling cruelties upon a
comparatively helpless people….To the present period, the introduction of
the white race into Australia has been an almost unmitigated evil to the
black population.
The compassionate Christian impulse, so
prevalent throughout Frank Layton and in Australia and Its
Settlements, was much evident in the children’s literature of that
period in Britain, and such sentiments subsequently migrated to Australia.
Indeed, until a few decades ago
Australian writers of children’s books would have seen it as one of their
duties to teach readers lessons in character and in distinguishing right
from wrong. Many of these writers were, presumably, not religious, but just
as a bus driver is expected to take a certain responsibility for the
physical safety of passengers, so writers of children’s literature were
assumed to hold a mandate for the moral education of their readers. As I
have noted already in my discussion of the Blinky Bill books, it went
with the job.
For example, a couple of generations ago
character-building books of the Little Train That Could variety were
common among works for younger children. Today’s books for youngsters are
aimed at the television generation. They are big and beautiful - infinitely
more attractive than anything I could have expected as a child - with
lively, witty, well-written stories. But they are not necessarily intended
to teach a moral lesson.
There have also been some profound
changes in literature for older children, notably the move into what can be
called the social comment novel. Some of the trends can be delineated by
observing the annual awards of the
Children’s Book Council (CBC).
The CBC, established in 1945, is a mighty
force in Australian children’s literature. Some schools and libraries
automatically order all or many of the books on its annual awards short
list. According to author
Morris Gleitzman,
writing in The Australian’s Review of Books: “So big is this one
contest, so all-important the recognition, that for many authors it means
the difference between full-time authorship and having to scribble stories
on taxi dispatch pads at traffic lights.”
It is thanks in part to nurturing by the
CBC that children’s literature is such a prominent force in Australian
culture. Our youngsters may grow up watching “The Simpsons” and “Friends”,
attending Stephen Spielberg movies, playing Tomb Raider on the
PlayStation and idolising US basketball stars, but in one area of popular
culture - their reading - they are most likely to opt for Australian authors. We
have a rich body of children’s literature that is respected around the
world.
The first CBC award, in 1946, went to
Leslie Rees for The Story of Karrawingi the Emu, a straightforward
work with lots of detail on the life cycle of emus. Throughout the 1940s and
1950s and into the 1960s the awards were dominated by uncomplicated books
with titles like Australian Legendary Tales, Aircraft of Today and
Tomorrow, All the Proud Tribesmen and Pastures of the Blue Crane.
But then came a change, with novels that
spoke a message of environmental protection. Dorothy Wall had, sometimes
awkwardly, injected pleas for conservation into her Blinky Bill
stories. But now the message was an integral part of the book; it sometimes
drove the story. So strong was the ecology message that Brenda Niall in
Australia Through the Looking-Glass said such books were “later to turn
to cliché”. There was a diminishing concern with moral education.
Then in the 1980s came a wave of books
that concentrated on social problems. Increasingly, parents - and sometimes
most other adults - were seen as unreliable; in some cases they were the
enemy.
So Much to Tell You,
CBC Book of the Year for older readers in 1988, was the first book from
John Marsden, a
former secondary-school teacher. It is the diary of a 14-year-old girl who
has been traumatised by the break-up of her parents’ marriage and the abuse
meted out to her by her father. She is lonely, confused and withdrawn,
though the book shows her gradually opening up, and it ends on a note of
hope as she seeks reconciliation with her father in a prison hospital.
The book has been a best-seller
internationally, and John Marsden has gone on to write a string of other
books, to become, by far, Australia’s most popular writer of teenage
fiction. In the 12 months to March 1998, books he wrote occupied five of the
places in the Top Ten Australian children’s book bestseller list compiled by
the Australian Publishers Association.
In 1990, the CBC winner for older readers
was Came Back to Show You I Could Fly, by
Robin Klein.
Its front cover featured a picture of a shyly smiling boy and a gorgeous,
blonde Meg Ryan look-alike with a shoulder tattoo and a generous cleavage.
It told the story of a boy and his friendship with a girl on drugs.
Prize-winners such as these heralded an
even sharper wave of “realistic” kids’ books, in which the youngsters were
usually helpless victims of a sick society. The trend was summed up by
author and publisher Walter McVitty, with a certain degree of exaggeration:
“It is almost unheard-of for a book about a family to win an award these
days unless Dad is bashing up his de facto, the daughter is on drugs and the
son is a homosexual with AIDS.”
In 1997 came three books of utter
despair: Dear Miffy by John Marsden, Care Factor Zero by
Margaret Clark
and Shoovy Jed by Maureen Stewart. All three were bleak accounts of
teenagers on the edge, and each ended with the main character committing, or
attempting, suicide.
They created instant controversy in the
world of kids’ literature. In 1997, The Australian Magazine featured
a long article titled “Life Sucks, Timmy”, on the state of children’s
literature. It contained a lot of criticism of the books. The article began:
Instead of romping
home ravenous from an outdoor adventure to hot scones with lashings of cream
and jam, a nineties version of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five would perhaps
trudge back from the CES office to find Mum’s new boyfriend shooting up in
the kitchen and the baby nursing bruises and a black eye.
But such books have many defenders, who
will tell you that by a vivid depiction of the horrors of suicide, the
writings actually discourage it; that they help lost kids realise that there
are others in the same plight; that kids who might not otherwise read might
read these books; that youngsters today are sophisticated and already know
all about suicide and despair; that kids can read far worse in adults’
books; that teenagers with lives of privilege need books like these to show
them how many others live in Australia today; that such books force the
authorities to confront problems they might prefer to ignore; that kids
nowadays get most of their values from television, not books; and so on.
There is substance in all these points,
and I believe most teenagers are sufficiently resilient to handle the
nihilistic despair of this kind of book.
But what about teenagers at the end of
their tethers? As the books’ defenders point out, kids these days are
worldly and sophisticated. They know a lot more about life than I did at
that age. Yet they are still looking for guidance and direction from
society. What do they think when they see some of Australia’s leading
children’s book writers and publishers producing such books for them?
Suicide by young men is a serious problem
in Australia. Telling them they are helpless victims of society is scarcely
the way to help. Youngsters with problems need to read material that takes
them out of their immediate lives and into a wider environment. They need
books that help them make sense of the corrupted world that they see all
around, and that give them a sense of purpose in life.
When I was 12, my primary-school teacher,
noting my shyness, and my nervousness about taking on responsibilities,
wrote in my year-end school report: “I could suggest that he express his
concern for the affairs of the world by tackling specific small tasks,
unimportant as they may seem, in his immediate environment.”
Unfortunately, these new “realistic”
books of the past dozen years are contributing to the trend that I noted in
my Preface: that society’s infrastructure is giving less support to the
development of character. As educator Jill Ireland has pointed out, in an
article in Education Monitor, many of the books teach that we live in
a malevolent universe that must be fought with cunning, that the human race
is largely corrupt, that institutions like family, government or church are
not even remotely helpful, that relationships have only temporary value and
that people are fundamentally solitary.
This is despite the immense power of
books to do good, to build character, to help us make sense of our
environment and to take us outside the confines of our world. American
Psychologist journal has provided a major survey of research in this
area, demonstrating “the central importance of stories in developing the
moral life”.
In his famous work
The Uses of Enchantment, child psychologist Bruno Bettelheim
stressed the importance of children’s literature containing strong role
models. He said young people ask the question “Who do I want to be like?”,
rather than, “Do I want to be good?”. Commented the three American authors
of
Books That Build Character: “It is not a question of whether
your child will find someone to identify with, the only question is with
whom.”
In the past, our writers tried to instil
old-fashioned virtues like honesty and self-sacrifice in kids. They passed
down values and ideals. As I have stressed already, they saw that as their
job. Today, when you ask writers about their reasons for writing a
particular book the answer is as likely as not to relate to the writer’s own
needs, rather than the readers’.
Thus, John Marsden in 1997, asked on
Melbourne radio station 3LO why he wrote Dear Miffy, said: “I guess
mainly because I wanted to explore a particular culture, a particular
sub-culture, in Australia, and also, I mean, the reason I write everything
is so I can get some understanding for myself as much as anything.” (I
should stress that in interview after interview John Marsden is outspoken in
his concern for Australian youngsters, and in particular their spiritual
development.)
We live in a fallen world, a world in
which everyone is subject to temptation, a world in which we must struggle
to develop character. Kids in particular need protection and guidance. That
doesn’t mean shielding them from the real world; the Blinky Bill
stories are full of episodes that show the harshness and brutality of life
in the forest. There is far more death in those tales (admittedly of
animals, not people, though the animals are the stars of the stories) than
in modern books for young people.
But the dangers and harshness of life in
the forest also serve as a context for adventure, for challenge and for a
chance to develop character. That a declining number of our leading
children’s writers and publishers believe that they have a duty to provide
books with similar themes shows that our society’s structures no longer
provide the support our young people need.
Frank Layton,
the 19th-century story with which I introduced this chapter, concludes with
the hero building a church. It was an expression of thanks to God for
bringing him to Australia and for helping him through many trials. It was an
action that served as an expression of hope. It may seem cloyingly
sentimental or even faintly ridiculous to turn-of-the-millennium
Australians, but it would have served as a source of inspiration and
optimism to readers of the time. It showed them there was a transcendent
world outside their immediate lives. Today’s young readers deserve books
that inspire the same feelings of hope, not despair.
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