“At Least They’re Reading”
I used to work in a book store where I managed the children’s department. Multiple times per day, a mother would come in with her son or daughter to purchase one of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, or another similar children’s comic book. While I was helping them to find these titles, the mother would invariably make an embarrassed comment under her breath, usually in these exact words: “Well, at least they’re reading.” I would hand the child the book with a smile and send them on their way, but that guilty comment always struck me as being very odd.
When mothers guiltily say, “At least they’re reading,” they betray a secret thought. They are conveying the fact that they know the comic books their children are choosing to read are not as valuable as “real” literature. Mothers know that in choosing these more accessible options, they are giving something up. But what, exactly, is left on the table when you allow your child to choose a comic book over a well-written children’s novel?
The empowering joy of important decision-making is left on the table when a child refuses to read a real novel. In my 3rd grade literature class, we read Abel’s Island by William Stieg, which is about a mouse who gets swept away in a storm. He is physically blown through the air by the wind until he lands on a deserted island. Abel spends a year on this island by himself, unable to find a way home. Children easily relate to this mouse in a storm, because they know what it feels like to be small, and to be out of control of themselves. Because the students can relate to Abel, they learn from his decisions while he is on the island.
“The stubbornness of his character stood him now in good stead. He refused to consider himself defeated.”
Abel first decides to build a boat. When it breaks, he builds another. When that one breaks, he builds yet another. When that one breaks, he tries to build a bridge, and so on. Such is the beauty of Abel’s Island—without a lecture, children learn that while your situation may be out of your control, the way you decide to react to it is not. You can sit down and bemoan the injustice of the universe, or you can get to work and try to fix it.
Image from The Wheel on the School by Meindert de Jong. Illustration by Maurice Sendak.
When a child chooses a comic book over a novel, more is left on the table than important decision-making. They leave behind the opportunity to find a literary hero they can admire and aspire to be. A quiet, occasionally temperamental student of mine found his literary hero this year while we were reading The Wheel on the School by Meindert DeJong in literature class. There is a character in the book named Janus, who is an elderly man with no legs and a bad reputation. He is known as a grumpy old man who throws stones at children and beats them when he can catch them. Later on, the children of the village have no choice but to ask him for help—and he turns out to be the most jovial, charming man in the entire book. Janus comforted this boy in my class immensely. Janus taught my student that, even though he sometimes has a temper, he is worth knowing, and he can still be charming and jovial.
Children’s comic books do not allow for the subtleties that make an old man like Janus relatable to an eight-year-old child. The purpose of them is to make a child laugh and wish to turn the page, not to provide them with someone they admire.
Where books like Abel’s Island and The Wheel on the School offer valuable life lessons in a way that is enjoyable, Diary of a Wimpy Kid offers enjoyment divorced from value. Books like this are undeniably easier to read, which is why they have such a large following. Guilty mothers justify their child’s choice because they hope this superficial reading will serve as a transition to real reading. But, just like eating champagne gummy bears, hoping it will refine the palate of someone who wishes to enjoy great wine, this justification is unfounded in reality. The things that are really important about a good novel, or a great glass of wine, are not present in these comic books or sweet treats, so there is no reason to believe that interest in one correlates with interest in the other. Champagne gummy bears are delicious and easy to eat, and it is similarly very easy to whip through volume after volume of Diary of a Wimpy Kid. However, these enjoyments are merely surface-level entertainment and require none of the work necessary to engage with something truly great—like a glass of pinot noir, or a work of art like Abel’s Island. Just because something is easy and tangentially related to something great, does not make it a gateway to something great.
Image from Diary of a Wimpy Kid by Jeff Kinney
Please do not misunderstand me; surface-level entertainment has its place in the world, and I am not saying that it is morally reprehensible to read a children’s comic book. Many people enjoy reading and collecting comic books (granted, usually of a different sort than Diary of a Wimpy Kid) well into adulthood. There is nothing wrong with that. Emphatically, I declare that a child should be allowed to read these comic books as a pastime. It would just be unrealistic to expect these comics to lead to actual, serious reading if that is the only kind of book they will willingly open. Reading children’s comic books like Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Dog Man, or Dork Diaries brings about as much value to a child as doodling or blowing a bubble with chewing gum—that is to say, not that much. But it is fun, and for the most part these pastimes are pretty harmless.
Comic books are not a gateway to novels. When a child exclusively reads comic books, a guilty mother says, “At least they’re reading.” What she really means is, “I’m trying to encourage my kid to read books, and this is all he’ll take without complaint.” Unfortunately, you can’t just give them Captain Underpants and cross your fingers—that transition you’re hoping for is never going to happen because it is impossible.
My pursuit as a literature teacher, as well as the purpose of this blog, is to prove that the extra work required to engage with real literature is worth it. The payoff of engaging with a great work of literature is so enjoyable that it cannot be left on the table while a child pursues cheap laughs.