Pets and Other Fishy Books

couple of years ago, my class wanted a pet. The class across the hall had a tree frog; why couldn’t they have a pet, too? Periodically, the subject would come up. I attempted to handle it sensitively by: 1. Changing the subject. 2. Explaining that furry animals like guinea pigs and hamsters weren’t allowed because too many kids had allergies (avoiding any mention in this instance of non-allergen producing reptiles). 3. Pointing out how incredibly annoying the tree frog’s chirping was. 4. Discussing what reptiles ate; i.e., other animals. 5. Reminding them that pets die. (My last class pet, a suicidal goldfish, was found on the rug one morning.) 6. Warning them of nasty animal odors.

However, nothing I said convinced them. Just as I was prepared to capitulate (with a turtle, the one class pet I had ever had success with and far more tolerable than their first choice, a snake), my salvation came in the form of a book. Art Spiegelman’s Open Me . . . I’m a Dog! to be exact. For those who don’t know it, and who may need it for the same reasons I did, this is a small book with a leash attached. The narrator is a dog who relates the story of how he was once a real dog but, through various unfortunate encounters with magical beings, has now been transformed into a book. He ends by pointing out how much he is still like a real dog, that he enjoys being petted and taken to the park; yet, “if you forget to walk me, I promise not to make a mess on the carpet.” Apprehensive (would they buy this?), I brought Open Me . . . I’m a Dog! to school and announced to my class that, at long last, I had a pet for them.

Hallelujah! The class was charmed. They loved their new pet. The clever idea of a book-dog delighted them more than any real pet. (A tree frog? How pedestrian.) He was immediately named Fred, provided a doghouse made out of a box, and fed daily (with paper bowls of dog food and water). The children loved taking Fred on walks around the room, down the hall, and even to visit the tree frog (at which, of course, Fred never barked). Fred absolutely was the very best classroom pet I ever had. No one was allergic to him, he didn’t make a sound (other than a slight bumping noise when he was dragged around by his leash for his walks), he didn’t eat anything disgusting, would never die, and smelled quite nice. Fred lived in my classroom all year, enjoyed equally as pet and book.

Fred, a.k.a. Open Me . . . I’m a Dog!, is a member of a special breed of books, one that playfully calls into question the very idea of the book. Sure, Open Me . . . I’m a Dog! has a title page and a linear narrative, but it also has a leash and furlike endpapers to stroke. The pleasure my students got out of it was exactly because it wasn’t what they expected; it played havoc with their assumptions about what a pet was, what a fairy tale was, and what a book was. Challenging standard thinking is a hallmark of books in this genre (or should I say species?). These relatively rare books are subversive; slyness courses through them. By pulling the carpet out from under us, their creators remind us that life is not quite as certain as it seems. And while this concept may seem rather adult, children, I’ve discovered, have a great capacity for enjoying, appreciating, and relishing such books.

One of my more disagreeable tasks as a fourth-grade teacher is supervising lunch in the classroom. I long ago resigned myself to the spills, the lingering smells, and the forgotten French fry stepped on after school. Worst of all, however, is dealing with reluctant eaters. “Please, please eat something; it is so unhealthy not to,” I plead. “If you don’t eat you’ll be too tired this afternoon,” I scold. “No food, no recess,” I threaten. “Eat or I’ll call your mother,” I vow. It is a thankless job, made worse by my sympathy for these fussy eaters. Even as I beg, threaten, and carp, I guiltily recall my own picky eating days when most meat and vegetables were repulsive to me. But I know better now, right?

Wrong, according to turncoat grown-up David Wisniewski. With The Secret Knowledge of Grown-ups he not only attacks the rules that seem inviolate and unyielding but he calls into question adult (how dare he!) honesty. All those sensible reasons grown-ups have been giving children for eons: why they have to eat their vegetables, drink plenty of milk, and so forth — a pack of lies, Wisniewski reveals. Eat your vegetables because they are good for you? No way. According to Wisniewski, it’s to keep the vegetables under control. As for drinking lots of milk — forget about health reasons; the purpose is to keep enormous atomic cows from exploding.

I introduced The Secret Knowledge of Grown-ups by turning off the lights and asking the children to sit as close to me as possible. In a whisper I told them that they were very lucky indeed. Here were two grown-ups (myself and Wisniewski) willing to tell them the truth, something no other adult had been prepared to do before. I then read the introduction, “The truth must be told to kids!” and the real reason behind rule #31, “Eat your vegetables.” Ignoring all demands that I read another, I got up, walked to a closet, and locked the book up. Daily, until the book was finished, I repeated this scenario. After all, subversive books demand subversive read-aloud tactics, especially ones like this.

The children adored this book. The idea of someone breaking down the barriers between grown-ups and children delighted them. How great to be brought into that secret club known as adulthood by finding out the so-called truths behind its arcane rules and regulations. In fact, The Secret Knowledge of Grown-ups produced a new club consisting of young and old together enjoying its mixture of knowingness and flat-out silliness. I found the atomic cows funny because I remember radioactive milk concerns; my students were equally amused at the idea of exploding giant cows. Adults are likely to smile at the juxtaposition of Albert Einstein, Elvis Presley, Pablo Picasso, Groucho Marx, and Richard Nixon as survivors of rule #56, “Don’t blow bubbles in your milk” while kids just laugh at the silly pictures. Sadly, only files 31, 37, 42, 56, 61, 62, 73, and 82 are in The Secret Knowledge of Grown-ups, leaving my students desperate for the rest. David Wisniewski, you had better be out there collecting the rest as promised; children are counting on you.

We make lots of books in my classroom. “What do you need for your book?” I ask when the children are preparing to publish their stories. An attractive cover with the title and author’s name prominently displayed on the front, someone will tell me immediately. Next, they are quite certain, is a title page, a dedication page (frequently consisting of long lists of best friends, family members, and an occasional pet), a table of contents, and then the story itself. Chapters, page numbers, copyright statements, a note about the author—my students know them all and put them in their own small books. As for the story, fourth graders know about beginnings, middles, and ends and can discourse at length on character motivation, settings, and plot devices. All in all, they are pretty confident that they know what a book feels like, sounds like, and looks like.

Then along comes Jon Scieszka’s The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales. While the cover looks normal, all conventions disappear once it is opened. For starters, one story (the Little Red Hen’s) begins before the title page. And then there is the dedication — upside down. The table of contents is late and falling apart. As for the tales themselves, they are highly fractured and mixed-up versions of some very well-known fairy tales, and stupid they are indeed. Lane Smith, the illustrator, and Molly Leach, the designer, are equal partners with Scieszka in the creation of a book that is hilarious for children because it subverts everything they know about books and fairy tales.

Published in 1992, The Stinky Cheese Man is an old children’s book by my students’ standards, and they usually recognize it when I begin to read. Yet they are happy to see it again. Most of the books they read are very conventional in design and structure. Wonderful as these books may be, and though they engage them in myriad ways, they still maintain a standard look, shape, and style. Returning to (or first encountering) The Stinky Cheese Man is a reminder that life can be surprising and unexpected. As I read, the children enjoy the parts they remember and many new ones as well, for this is a sly book and it takes more than one reading to catch everything. For example, the subversive addition to the copyright statement that “Anyone caught telling these fairly stupid tales will be visited, in person, by the Stinky Cheese Man” is invariably new to them, something that probably wouldn’t have meant much when they were younger. Just as Spiegelman caused my students to rethink their concept of pets and Wisniewski challenged them to question the rules of adults, Scieszka, Smith, and Leach have them rethink the structure and details of a storybook.

Scieszka and Smith’s latest collaboration, Squids Will Be Squids, presented a new wrinkle. A send-up of Aesop’s fables, these twisted cautionary tales are all about life for a typical American kid: homework, moms, name-calling, TV, being grounded, science projects, and the like. But rising above the chuckles and requests that I read just one more was Jennifer’s plaintive voice, “I don’t get it. What’s so funny?” Stymied, I wondered, how does one explain funny? Jennifer was not amused by “Elephant and Flea,” one of the fractured fables. She and I were equally frustrated; both of us wanted her to be in on it, to join those of us who already found the book funny. Unsuccessfully, her peers tried to explain the story to her. Earnestly, they told her about the adage “elephants never forget,” pointed out the size difference between Elephant and Flea in the illustration, and referred back to the earlier fable in the book, “Elephant and Mosquito.” Of course it didn’t work. Not only can funny not be explained, but Jennifer had evidently reached her limit for dry humor.

While my students’ capacity for subversive books is vast, it isn’t bottomless. That intergenerational club that took to The Secret Knowledge of Grown-ups does not necessarily accept all books of this sort. After all, this humor isn’t for everyone, child or adult. Whereas many of my students, Jennifer included, were amused by The Stinky Cheese Man, she wasn’t the only one (just the most expressive) to be left cold by Squids Will Be Squids. A librarian friend has read it to many fourth- and fifth-grade classes and reports a similar situation: half the children jump up and down with pleasure while the other half are completely lost.

Most unexpected to me was their reaction to Chris Raschka’s Arlene Sardine. Assuming it was another piscatorial preschool book along the lines of Swimmy or Rainbow Fish, I quickly touched upon and then skipped right past it at the bookstore. It was only when I heard that it was something quite different, ironic perhaps, that I returned for a proper look. Any book whose protagonist dies midway through would be considered unusual; a children’s book where the dead protagonist’s journey continues for fifteen more pages until she achieves her heart’s desire is unique. At first glance Arlene Sardine seems similar to other books in the subversive species. “Easy-open book” and “NET WT. 12 OZ.” are printed right there on the cover, a quick reference to every can a sardine-eater has ever opened. While child readers may be unfamiliar with sardines, the story evokes for child and adult alike many a tale of fortitude. Just like The Little Engine That Could (or Ulysses, for that matter) the little fish Arlene single-mindedly (inasmuch as a fish, and a dead one at that, would have a mind) achieves her ultimate goal. To be a sardine.

I loved Arlene Sardine. What could be more subversive than taking on death, after all? I showed it to adult friends who also liked it, but we all wondered whether it was a book for children. Did they know enough about sardines, about personal growth books, or about death to get it? How developed was their sense of irony? I heard testimonials of successful readings with children. Some found it hilarious, others were saddened by Arlene’s death, and one group of fifteen-year-olds decided it was a book about suicide. Yet I was reluctant to use it with my own students. I knew them well, after all; I had watched them react to all kinds of books, many that were unusual, subtle, that demanded more of them than did the average children’s book. Yet Arlene Sardine seemed so deadpan, so dry; much more so than Squids Will Be Squids. I was afraid; I liked Arlene Sardine too much to have it flop with them. For some time the book sat on my desk at school while I tried to decide whether or not to read it to my class. Finally, my curiosity won out, and I convened a Chris Raschka week, ending with Arlene Sardine.

When I finished reading there was silence; not a giggle broke the total quiet. But looking around, I realized the silence was not one of sorrow. My students looked blank, confused. I waited in vain for a raised hand, a blurted-out comment, anything. They’d had plenty to say about Raschka’s other books: sympathetically murmuring during my reading of Yo? Yes!, swaying to the sounds of Charlie Parker Played Be Bop, intently scrutinizing the structure of Mysterious Thelonious, and singing along with Simple Gifts. But now, nothing. Finally, as the silence stretched out and the children became restless, I asked if they had anything to say. No. Evidently they did not. When two boys began rolling around the floor completely uninterested, I gave up; these were usually very opinionated children and I saw no point in forcing them to speak about Arlene Sardine if they didn’t want to.

Looking back, I have to wonder if this was a mismatch between book and age level. While others seemed to get something out of Arlene Sardine, my nine-and ten-year-old students were just confused. They had no idea how to react. Were they supposed to laugh? Somehow that didn’t seem right for a book where the main character dies. Were they supposed to cry? Yet the book seemed so bright, so happy, that somehow that didn’t seem right either. Caught between two competing responses, this group of children opted for none. Arlene Sardine was a club that they didn’t want to join.

Arlene was just the latest in a long line of fish who died in my classroom. Even before the self-destructive goldfish, there was the year of the tropical fish. Young and naïve, I discovered a fifty-gallon tank in my new classroom. Like the slow-witted protagonist of a folktale, rather than taking the most obvious route (moving it out of the room), I decided that filling it with tropical fish would be an easy way to deal with the perennial pet problem and provide an attractive room divider as well. My students and I went to the pet store and blithely picked out the most colorful fish, filled the tank by making numerous trips to the bathroom down the hall, and found pretty rocks and plants for the bottom. You can guess the rest. The fish quickly died, the children squabbled about an appropriate interment (we compromised with a funeral in the boys’ bathroom), and I spent a very long evening emptying the tank. Worst of all, for the rest of the year that tank sat in the middle of my classroom, a smelly and unattractive memorial.

While Arlene Sardine made quite a splash in the publishing world, she sank without a trace in my classroom. Hermetically sealed in her book, back to the shelf she went, leaving no stinky fish tank to remind us of her existence. And maybe that was the problem. Arlene was just so tidy. While her antiseptic life and death was what made her story so amusing to me, an adult, it may have been what made it equally dull to my students. As neat and clean as Fred the book-dog was as a class pet, he still did remind us that real dogs tend to piddle on the rug. And as for smells, Jon Scieszka gleefully provides them in abundance in the The Stinky Cheese Man and Squids Will Be Squids. Earthy sight gags galore in The Secret Knowledge of Grown-ups produced the predictable chorus of “That’s gross!” from my delighted students. Poor Arlene Sardine . . . too clean, too bright, too highfalutin for my students, not quite a member of this subversive species of children’s books, I think. A book about a fish, perhaps, but not a fishy book.

Monica Edinger is a fourth-grade teacher at the Dalton School in New York City.