A History of Violence, by Y S Lee

A couple of months ago at the launch party for Rivals in the City, I read aloud a scene that takes place outside Newgate Prison. The year is 1860. A wooden scaffold has been built outside the prison gates, as it was before each public execution. The hangman, William Calcraft, is testing the gallows and trapdoor to ensure that they work. And the crowd is eagerly, boisterously, anticipating the day’s entertainment. All this is historically attested.

The human face of Victorian execution, William Calcraft, ca 1870. Image via wikipedia.

In the scene, I add a detail featuring ragged children “playing Calcraft”: taking turns pretending to be executioner and condemned. I invented this game, and have never formally researched “macabre children’s games, past and present” (although now that I’ve typed that phrase, it sounds like a fascinating topic). But the idea of the game rings true for me. Games of the imagination are how children process the world around them, and how they imbibe their culture. In my novel, the game of “Calcraft” has several functions: it’s a means of including children in the Victorian streetscape; a way of shifting and blending perspectives of the execution-day milieu; and, of course, a comment on the idea of a public execution in general.

West view of Newgate Prison in the mid-nineteenth century. Image via wikipedia.

After I’d read this scene aloud, one of my listeners expressed concern about the scene. Was it, he asked, appropriate to explore violence and death in a book that was written for children? Didn’t it glamorize violence and death, to see it represented in fiction? He was talking about the contemporary young adults to whom my book is marketed, but I wonder if the presence of children in the Newgate scene is what triggered his very real anxiety. It was an earnest question and I attempted to answer it with the seriousness it deserved. The party was hectic, though, and I compressed my response into a couple of brief points. Now, I think it’s time to answer the question more fully.

So is it, in fact, appropriate to explore death and violence in children’s literature? My first instinct at the party was to cite historical realism. During the Victorian era, people were much more pragmatic about death and suffering. Infant mortality was much higher than it is now; adult life expectancy was shorter. A death in the household also meant a corpse laid out in the parlour or spare bedroom. And in many cases, the women of the family washed and dressed that corpse themselves. The Victorians were less squeamish about death in general. People didn’t spay or neuter their pets; they simply drowned the unwanted litters. In Wuthering Heights, Hareton Earnshaw famously “hang[s] a litter of puppies from the chair-back in the doorway”. The shocking part of the scene is not the puppies’ deaths, but the fact that their suffering is a form of entertainment for Hareton. But remember: in Emily Bronte’s vision, even Hareton Earnshaw, Animal Sadist, is redeemable. With Cathy Linton’s love and support, it becomes possible to imagine a somewhat happy ending for Wuthering Heights.

Still, the defense of historical realism only takes us so far. After all, history contains an endless amount of truly gruesome detail. How do we decide which of those bits belong in historical fiction for young people? Let’s go back to human developmental principles. Children learn about death in bits and fragments, starting in toddlerhood. By the time they are eight years old, they are “consistent in showing adult ideas of death”. So the idea of death – with variations according to age and circumstance – is a normal part of children’s understanding. I’d go a step further, here: if a novel like Rivals in the City (which is written for teens) deliberately downplays the existence of death, it’s insulting the intelligence of its readers.

Knowing this, perhaps we can agree to acknowledge historically realistic deaths. But what about violence, and the much-feared “glamorization” of violence? Once again, let’s think about real, present-day children. Children understand violence because they are human beings. They negotiate conflict from toddlerhood. They can act violently towards others. They hear about violence on the news. They see instances of injustice all around them. The real question here is, What do they do with all this experience and all this unformed knowledge?

At this point, we must return to the specific scene or image that prompts the question. Is it an image or description of violence on the news, presented without context or consequence? I imagine that would be haunting, confusing, and possibly traumatic. Is it a video game, in which the hero-player is rewarded for acts of violence? In that case, I see how that trivializes the gravity of violent acts. In my novel, however, the threat of violence is mediated by a heroine, Mary Quinn. She is a former victim of violence who understands its impact. She has strong feelings about the uses and abuses of power. She offers readers a thoughtful perspective on the violence of her culture, and how to resist it.

If anything, I’d argue that this kind of ethically grounded violence is essential to children’s literature, and to the project of learning about the world and about oneself. I’m proud to be part of a long tradition of children’s authors who imagine the world as fully as possible, as humanly as possible, as respectfully as possible.

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Y S Lee blogs every Wednesday at www.yslee.com.

Protecting our Children by Marie-Louise Jensen

I had a different post in mind for today, but want instead to respond to Katherine Langrish and Barbara Mitchelhill's posts a few days ago about bleakness and violence in children's books. It's a subject I have strong feelings about.

What I have always loved about children's books, is the comparative safety and comfort they offer. Terrible things can happen, there can be danger, unhappiness and darkness. But you know for sure that things will somehow end up all right. Perhaps not for all the characters, and perhaps not a completely happy ending. But there will be light and comfort and a resolution of some kind. This is no longer the case.

I know real life isn't like this. None better. Perhaps that's why I crave this in fiction. Young people are going to be exposed to reality sooner or later - some will be confronted with loss and pain very young indeed. It's not about pretending the world is all wonderful when it isn't. It's not about lying to children to protect them. It's about fiction finding hope even in these bleak situations. When it doesn't, I wonder what the point of it is? What kind of message are we asking children to take away with them?

It bothers me that there seems to be a fashion and atmosphere of pushing at boundaries and taboos in children's fiction - to see just how grim writers can get away with being and still being published. And the shock factor is often endorsed with prize listings, which raises these books above more positive ones as though they are more imprtant and meaningful.

But are they? Is it not a greater message to a young person to help them find the positive or seek towards resolutions than to sink into a pit of despair? I believe that it is. Especially when you consider that British children are so often ranked as 'the unhappiest in Europe' or have 'the lowest self-esteem in the developed world' etc etc in the surveys the media loves so much.

The trend is only reflecting the one in adult fiction/television of course - there it is also towards the more violent and shocking too. I notice it because I rarely see television (I don't have it) and on the occasions I do, I'm horrified by the graphic nature of the modern crime series. They weren't like that years ago. They didn't show horrifically mutilated bodies or linger on scenes of agony and terror in death.

And as we expose ourselves more, there's also a culture against protecting children. If you choose to enforce film certificates in your home, you are far more likely to be laughed to scorn by friends and acquaintances than praised for obeying the law or protecting your children. The implication is there's something wrong with you.

I have learned over the past few years that books I would hesitate to give to children because of the appalling images they've left in my own mind, sometimes don't bother children nearly as much as they bother me. A child living a secure childhood may enjoy vicariously experiencing grim scenarios, abuse, neglect and even death. It doesn't upset them as much as an adult who's been through it in real life and has a fuller knowledge of the distress involved, or who reads the book as a parent, imagining his or her own child in the situations.
Nonetheless, the trend concerns me. Childhood is short, it's unspeakably precious and it never comes back. The security you get as a child stays with you throughout your adult years. A child who is protected and happy, who feels secure, is less likely to suffer from depression, anxiety and low self-esteem as an adult.

You have the rest of your life to see the bleakness, the misery and the lack of hope - if that is your lot in life, or if that is where you choose to focus. Because it is partly a choice. Sometimes life can throw dreadful things at you. But it can be how you deal with them. And that's what fiction can offer us above all.

For example: you can look at a scene in the park and choose to admire the beautiful autumn colours, the rich green grass or the children playing happily on the swings. Or you can spend your time in the park focusing on the dead squirrel under one of the trees and dwell at length on much it must have suffered before it died. Is that deeper or more meaningful than the beauty? I don't think that it is. Let's make sure we don't forget to teach children to see and value the beauty.