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If I Only Had A Brain

For the past couple of weeks, our household culture has been dominated by "The Wizard of Oz." Emma had always enjoyed our sanitized bedtime story version, but when she learned, through playgroup gossip channels, that the movie would be on TV, things kicked into high gear.

Although we avoided the dreaded "Winged Monkey Freakout" through judicious remote control management, Emma still caught a glimpse or two of the Wicked Witch of the West. This created problems at bedtime, when we learned that, of the witch's many bad attributes, her green skin was particularly disturbing. After a few nights of this, a change of scenery was clearly in order.

We needed new material, preferably involving cute animals. Anything to take her mind off that witch's leering green mug. I knew we must have something Emma hadn't seen yet, and as I scanned the bookshelf, it caught my eye: The Story of Babar, The Little Elephant.

Awwwwwwww, I thought, how sweeeeeeeeeeet. Babaaaaaaaaar.

The story begins innocently enough. We meet Babar as a baby, and we learn that, quote, "His mother loved him very much." OK, very cuddly, so far so good. Next, a two-page layout of the child-Babar frolicking with the other little elephants. Emma's eyes widened; she was hooked. Wizard of Who? Fagettaboudit.

"Isn't this a great story?" I said to Emma, pushing my luck, turning the page with that sense of confidence only a pompous know-it-all can feel. I should have guessed what was coming next.

On the next page, a hunter shoots Babar's mother dead at nearly point-blank range, as little Babar rides on her shoulders. Gee, how pleasant! I improvised some implausible substitute for the actual text: "The hunter has killed Babar's mother! ð Babar cries." Emma got the idea anyway, since the illustration is pretty literal, right down to the tears streaming from Babar's eyes. Thanks a lot, guys. Jeez, draw the exit wound, why dontcha.

I couldn't manage to put a warm and fuzzy spin on this, so I moved on. Babar goes to the city, Babar is covets fancy clothes, Babar meets a rich old broad who buys him everything, Babar immerses himself in the life of luxury. "Gad, what a load of tripe," I thought. This book couldn't end soon enough for me.

Not so fast; there was another bit of gratuitous weirdness, doubling as a weak plot device: just as Babar returns to the jungle, the King of the elephants eats a "bad mushroom," and dies. Even though we didn't need any help in the Fear of New Foods Department, this scene wouldn't have been so bad if not for the illustration of the dying elephant, his skin a sickly deep green.

Emma considered the dying green elephant, then shifted her gaze to the sleeve of her own pajamas, which were, as fate would have it, green. I could hear the gears turning.

"Papað" she began unsteadily, and I knew this next question was going to be a doozy.

It was going to be a long night. I should have stuck with the Wizard of Oz. When will I ever learn to leave well enough alone?

If I only had a brainð

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© Todd Pinsky 1998-2002. All rights reserved.