Once upon a time, in the vibrant hues of the 1980s, my mom embarked on a mission. It wasn’t to conquer the world, but something perhaps more personal and, in her mind, just as important: to ban Shel Silverstein’s “Where the Sidewalk Ends” from my Christian elementary school library. This revelation unfolded over a summer lunch in Florida, a confession shared beside her life partner. The words hung in the air, momentarily eclipsing the Florida sunshine. How could this free-spirited woman, my mom, have ever aligned with the very book-banning sentiments I find myself vehemently opposing today? The irony was as thick as the Florida humidity.
I had grown up with the rhythmic cadence of “Where the Sidewalk Ends poems,” picturing my mom’s eyes alight with amusement as she read to my brother and me. The poems were portals to fantastical realms, whispered secrets given voice. My brother was captivated by the boisterous “One Sister for Sale,” while I found solace in the relatable drama of Peggy Ann McKay in “Sick.” Mom couldn’t pinpoint the exact poem that triggered her visit to the principal’s office, but I could vividly imagine the determined set of her flower-bang-framed face as she marched in.
The ’80s aesthetic had left its indelible mark on my mom. Her once-straight hair was a cascade of permed spirals, crowned with voluminous flower bangs. Sundays meant calf-length floral dresses, shoulder pads standing sentinel, and flesh-colored nylons. When a pastor criticized her for daring to wear slacks to church, she conceded. My dad’s fashion critiques, however, were met with staunch resistance. Her nature-themed T-shirts from Northern Reflections were non-negotiable, a foreshadowing of the unconventional path she would eventually forge.
When my mom first confessed her past aversion to Shel Silverstein, I naively believed it was a solitary, quirky opinion. A quick internet search swiftly corrected my misconception, placing her squarely within the context of the ’80s book-banning movement. She wasn’t alone; in fact, she was part of a wave of concern.
This wave, fueled by a vocal minority, would propel Shel Silverstein and his subsequent poetry collection onto the American Library Association’s list of the 100 most banned books of the 1990s. Figures like televangelist Jerry Falwell, a prominent leader in the ’80s book-banning efforts, likely amplified these concerns. Falwell, pastor of a megachurch and founder of Liberty University, enforced strict codes of conduct, prohibiting ponytails for men and deeming bare shoulders immodest for women. (An interesting aside: I attended cheerleading camp at Liberty University, my ears filled with Rush Limbaugh’s radio commentary during morning car rides to school.)
Even with this cultural backdrop, the specific Shel Silverstein poem that sparked my mom’s objection remained a mystery. Nor could I anticipate the response from our Christian elementary school principal. Similar to many contemporary book challenges, my mom’s grievance might have been less about the poems themselves and more about the poet: a Playboy magazine cartoonist who frequented Hugh Hefner’s mansion. The perceived association, rather than the actual content, might have been the trigger.
The Bible, interpreted literally, served as the bedrock for my parents’ media guidelines. To unravel the mystery of my mom’s objection, I decided to examine “Where the Sidewalk Ends” through a similar lens of biblical scrutiny. What could have been deemed so objectionable?
My gaze landed on “Magic,” a poem populated with leprechauns, witches, goblins, and elves – all figures considered incompatible with Christian doctrine. In our household, only the miracles of Jesus held theological weight. “Joey” features an illustration of a bare bottom, a side view, but still undeniably present. The poem about a unicorn felt like a sacrilegious parody of Noah’s Ark. “Peanut-Butter Sandwich” mentions suicide, although the connection between a sticky sandwich and suicidal ideation seemed tenuous at best.
Then there were other poems. “If I Had a Brontosaurus” could have been problematic, given our family’s skepticism toward dinosaurs. “Paul Bunyan” exhibits an unorthodox control over destiny, entering and exiting heaven at will, even defying death. Could this have been the offending poem? “Just Me, Just Me” hints at polyamorous relationships, a concept certainly outside our conservative Christian understanding. “Hungry Mungry” promotes parental disrespect, possibly the ultimate transgression in our upbringing.
Comparing my speculative list to documented objections from library patrons, I found some alignment. The Central Columbia School District in Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania, for instance, raised concerns about the poem “Dreadful,” specifically the line “someone ate the baby,” fearing it might encourage cannibalistic tendencies among students.
While that concern seemed far-fetched, re-examining “Where the Sidewalk Ends” through a modern, liberal lens revealed different potential points of contention. Our societal understanding of identity and representation has evolved significantly. While context matters, and judging past works by present standards has its limitations, even my own early writing makes me cringe at times. In that spirit of critical reassessment, I considered other aspects of the 30th-anniversary edition I now read to my own children.
“No Difference” champions colorblindness, a prevalent ideology in the ’80s that is now recognized as a simplistic and problematic approach to race. “If the World Was Crazy” suggests it’s absurd to call boys “Suzy” and girls “Harry,” potentially reinforcing rigid gender norms. “The One Who Stayed” uses the word “crippled,” a now-outdated and offensive term for people with disabilities. And while the “Naked Hippo” poem might seem whimsical, it could be interpreted as perpetuating fat-shaming.
It’s somewhat miraculous that I developed the open-mindedness to critically analyze a book my mom once sought to ban. Perhaps the inherent contradictions within a literal interpretation of the Bible inadvertently opened my mind to alternative perspectives. But if I were to pinpoint the true catalyst for our evolving worldviews, it’s likely that our life stories simply didn’t unfold as neatly as we might have initially anticipated.
I had envisioned my mom’s book-banning narrative mirroring the story of Judy Blume, an author whose books were forbidden in our house due to alleged promotion of masturbation. Blume didn’t stand a chance at our Christian school. However, when my mom, clutching her original edition of “Where the Sidewalk Ends,” entered the principal’s office, the script took an unexpected turn.
I remember the principal, a gentle-faced man, quite well. Yearbook photos show him in suits and ties. My chapel memories place him in sweaters and shiny shoes, ankles crossed with unassuming kindness.
“Hello, Melinda,” I imagine him greeting my mom in his Mr. Rogers-esque voice.
Perhaps she nervously tapped her fingers on the book’s black and white cover, articulating her concerns about its content. Maybe she expected an apology for a questionable library selection.
“I see,” the principal responded, his kind eyes possibly softening her initial stance.
This was the moment she might have anticipated validation, a commendation for her vigilance against anti-Christian messages. She couldn’t have predicted his actual response.
“This is how we teach our kids to think,” he stated. This single sentence is the one my mom vividly recalls.
Another parent might have doubled down on their objections, but my mom, being who she is, performed a remarkable act. She listened.
“If we don’t expose our kids to views that are contrary to our own,” the principal continued, “they won’t know how to handle them as adults.”
His words resonate with a prophetic quality, especially in our current political climate. His solution for raising children like me, future voters and critical thinkers, was to read the “offending” content aloud and then engage in dialogue, perhaps saying, “Mommy doesn’t care for this one. Can you think of a reason why?”
This same principal later reassured my mom that it was perfectly harmless for my four-year-old brother to play dress-up in women’s clothing. Was he the first crack in the rigid framework of our worldview, allowing a glimmer of reason to penetrate?
The mom I know today embodies the spirit of possibility that permeates Shel Silverstein’s poetry. She often gardens in T-shirts from the boys’ section at Old Navy, her short silver hair grazing her ears. For dressier occasions, she opts for vests and collared shirts, and for truly fancy events, a red bowtie. She is a steadfast advocate for children assigned male at birth who wish to be called Suzy and children assigned female at birth who prefer Harry.
At home, I have curated a case of banned books for my own children. On a shelf at their eye level sits my worn, gray copy of “Where the Sidewalk Ends.” It serves as a reminder of a mother’s initial concerns, a principal’s insightful wisdom, and the enduring power of poems to open minds and spark crucial conversations.
