This article was originally written in 2003 and published, edited, in the July/August 2005 edition of the Saint Austin Review. Recently the noxious woke mob has tried to cancel Dr. Seuss, as they would all good things. For a thoughtful treatment of why, please see Tucker Carlson’s Tucker: The memory of Dr. Seuss matters more than ever. Meanwhile please join me in “Revisiting Dr. Seuss in Parenthood.”
I remember my brother saying, years ago, that he looked forward to having children of his own, so that he could again watch old Disney movies. I, for my part, in my parenthood, have discovered the joy of revisiting Dr. Seuss and sharing his works, his stories, his words with my children.
This is not my first revisiting. The birth of my nephew and godson in 1990 opened the door for the first revisiting, which went so far as to include sharing with him and his parents a breakfast of green eggs and ham. It was during this first re-acquaintance that I remember declaring that Dr. Seuss was the Shakespeare for children. This declaration, besides being inspired by an adult appreciation for the genius of these works that I had so enjoyed as a child, may also have been an enlightened response to a long-remembered concern, voiced by my parents, and possibly initiated by my teacher, that at second or third grade (some grade that was still on the first floor of Sacred Hearts School), perhaps I was too old to be reading Dr. Seuss. My youthful appreciation for these works has since been further vindicated, at least in my eyes, by the discovery that these classics were prescribed for my wife, long before she ever met me, to alleviate the stress of medical school exams, by a good friend and classmate, with whom she read the works in a stairwell amidst their echoing laughter. The prescriber is now a psychiatrist for both children and adults.
I offer no blanket endorsement or recommendation of the thought and works of Theodor Seuss Geisel. I do not know his thought and have not read all his works, nor have I revisited all of his works which I read as a boy. But rather, what I wish to do is to share, as an adult and parent, who struggles to live a Christian life in our modern world, an appreciation for the values expressed in at least some of the words, stories and works of Dr. Seuss.
Certainly, in Green Eggs and Ham the reader is taught a lesson about deciding to dislike foods before one tries them, but does not the persistent Sam eventually wear down the nameless green-eggs-and-ham-hater’s pride- and ignorance-based prejudice, so that he might lead a fuller life with his discovery: “‘Say! I like green eggs and ham! I do! I like them, Sam-I-am!’” Thus, the changed fellow can come to the grateful conclusion: “‘I do so like green eggs and ham! Thank you! Thank you, Sam-I-am!’”
And, in our culture in which the words “nip,” “tuck,” and “augmentation” have become commonplace, might not the young reader benefit from considering the case of Gertrude McFuzz, a “girl-bird” who “had the smallest plain tail ever was. One droopy-droop feather. That’s all that she had. And, oh! That one feather made Gertrude so sad,” when she compared herself to “a fancy young birdie named Lolla- Lee-Lou,” who “instead of one feather behind, she had two!” This state of affairs leads a jealous Gertrude to one day shout in anger, “‘This just isn’t fair! I have one! She has two! I MUST have a tail just like Lolla-Lee-Lou!’”
Despite the admonition of her wise uncle Doctor Dake, who assures her, “‘Your tail is just right for your kind of a bird,’” she throws tantrums, until he tells her of the pills of the pill-berry vine, which will make her tail grow. And although one pill gives her tail another feather, “exactly like Lolla-Lee-Lou,” she decides to “grow a tail better than Lolla-Lee-Lou.” And she does, by gobbling all the pill-berries down. She grows a tail so stupendous that “that bird couldn’t fly! Couldn’t run! Couldn’t walk!”
It takes her uncle and his assistants two weeks to fly Gertrude home.
And then it took almost another week moreTo pull out those feathers. My! Gertrude was sore! And, finally, when all the pulling was done, Gertrude, behind her, again had just one . . .That one little feather she had as a starter.But now that’s enough, because now she is smarter.
And how much smarter or wiser might the young reader be after considering the case of Yertle the Turtle, king of the Pond on the Isle of Sala-ma-Sond, where “the turtles had everything turtles might need. And they were all happy. Quite happy indeed.”
They were . . . until Yertle, the king of them all, Decided the kingdom he ruled was too small.“I’m ruler,” said Yertle, “of all that I see.But I don’t see enough. That’s the trouble with me.”
So, Solomon-like, Yertle begins to build a higher throne on the backs of his subjects, by commanding the turtles to stack themselves up beneath him, one on top of the other, so that Yertle can see more and exclaim, “‘I’m Yertle the Turtle! Oh, marvelous me! For I am the ruler of all that I see!’”
But the burden on the common folk grows to be too much to bear, so that “from below in the great heavy stack, [comes] a groan from that plain little turtle named Mack,” who, in his distress, petitions the king from the bottom of the stack, “‘I know, up on top you are seeing great sights, But down at the bottom we, too, should have rights.’”
By now, though, the power-drunk Yertle has lost all sense of proportion, and after silencing Mack, he begins to call for more turtles that he might build his throne higher than the moon, when:
That plain little turtle below in the stack,That plain little turtle whose name was just Mack, Decided he’d taken enough. And he had.
And that plain little lad got a little bit madAnd that plain little Mack did a plain little thing, He burped!And his burp shook the throne of the king!
And:
. . . that was the end of the Turtle King’s rule!For Yertle, the king of all Sala-ma-sond,Fell off his high throne and fell Plunk! in the pond!
And today the great Yertle, that Marvelous he,Is King of the Mud. That is all he can see.And the turtles, of course . . . all the turtles are free As turtles and, maybe, all creatures should be.
Still, though taken by the creative and enjoyable conveyances of multi-fold truths and values from these stories, the story that struck the deepest chord within me, by what it conveys, was one that I do not particularly remember that well from my youth or any time since, and one that I was in no hurry to read, let alone embrace, but for the insistence of my son that we read it. And based on that toddler’s insistence, I picked up and began to read to him a story called Horton Hears a Who, the profound theme of which is spelled out frankly in the first few pages with the words:
A person’s a person, no matter how small.
To this theme, this conviction, Horton the elephant remains true through great trial, hardship and persecution, which all begins when he believes he hears:
Just a very faint yelpAs if some tiny person were calling for help.
Horton immediately commits himself to the welfare of this person, without knowing anything about him or his circumstances, or having any proof of his existence: “‘I’ll help you,’” Said Horton. “‘But who are you? Where?’”
It turns out that the call comes from a speck of dust, so that Horton reasons that upon the speck is “‘Some sort of creature of very small size, Too small to be seen by an elephant’s eyes . . . .’” Based on this belief, without yet any proof of the person’s existence, Horton “gently, and using the greatest of care” “carrie[s] [the speck] over and place[s] it down, safe, on a very soft clover.”
As immediate as Horton’s commitment to the person is the contemptuous reaction of the nonbelievers in the “‘Humpf’” of “a sour kangaroo” and “the young kangaroo in her pouch” who “Humpf”s, too. She derides Horton for his unproven belief in the personhood of “the creature of very small size.” “‘Why, that speck is as small as the head of a pin. A person on that? . . . Why, there never has been!’” To Horton’s belief that there may even be more than one life involved, the kangaroos call him a fool. Still, Horton’s conviction is not shaken, but rather deepened, as he moves beyond the initial saving of the persons to an unconditional commitment to them:
“I’ve got to protect them. I’m bigger than they.” So he plucked up the clover and hustled away.
His commitment is unwavering, despite the ridicule of the inhabitants of the jungle and his own “worrying” about what to do:
“Should I put this speck down? . . .” Horton thought with alarm. “If I do, these small persons may come to great harm.I can’t put it down. And I won’t! After allA person’s a person. No matter how small.”
And now, when he needs it, Horton’s commitment is validated with proof. The mayor of Who-ville, the town on the dust speck speaks out to him and expresses the gratitude of the Whos. The constant Horton responds as expected, “‘You’re safe now. Don’t worry. I won’t let you down.’”
No sooner have those words left his mouth than the inhabitants of the jungle, not content to leave Horton alone in his beliefs and defense, snatch the clover and conspire to take it to where Horton will never find it, despite Horton’s painful pursuit. Finally, Horton, begging, while still in pursuit, calls out:
“Please don’t harm all my little folks, whoHave as much right to live as us bigger folks do!
And there it is, the profound truth at the heart of the matter, the right to life and safety of persons no matter how small, regardless of whether or not others believe in their existence and personhood. To this Horton is committed in a way that ought to inspire those of us who live nonfictional lives. And he expresses real concern at finding the clover after a grueling pursuit and search: “Are your safe? Are you sound? Are you whole? Are you well?”; and reaffirms his commitment “I’ll stick by you small folks through thin and through thick!”
And he does. Despite further ridicule and attacks on his sanity and after being roped and beaten and mauled and nearly caged, he stands firm to his convictions until he is finally vindicated. This vindication brings with it conversions:
“How true! Yes, how true,” said the big kangaroo.“And, from now on, you know what I’m planning to do? . . . From now on, I’m going to protect them with you!”And the young kangaroo in her pouch said, . . .“. . . ME, TOO!From sun in the summer. From rain when it’s fall-ish,I’m going to protect them. No matter how smallish!”
Yes, conversions from persecutors and potential destroyers of life to protectors of the right to life and safety of persons no matter how small, regardless of whether others believe in their existence and personhood–so ends the fictional story; and a good end it is, and a good lesson.
Still, part of the lesson of the story of Horton Hears a Who is that which comes from comparing the fictional world of Horton to the nonfictional world in which we are graced to participate. In Horton’s world his heroism is vindicated by a means often denied to us in real life. Horton invokes the Whos:
“Mr. Mayor! Mr. Mayor!” Horton called. “Mr. Mayor! You’ve got to prove now that you really are there!So call a big meeting. Get everyone out.Make every Who holler! Make every Who shout! Make every Who scream! If you don’t, every Who Is going to end up in a Beezle-Nut stew!”
And the Whos do:
And his people cried loudly. They cried out in fear: “We are here! We are here! We are here! We are here!”
This is not enough, though. So Horton pleads further to the mayor:
“Don’t give up! I believe in you all!A person’s a person, no matter how small!And you very small persons will not have to dieIf you make yourselves heard! So come on, now, and TRY!”
After the one “very small, very small shirker named Jo-Jo” adds his “YOPP!” the Whos are heard by more than Horton, and they are saved.
The Whos themselves make a loud enough cry and are heard and saved. But in real life, we know that it is often the smallest and most vulnerable, be they the unborn, the sick, the elderly, the slaves, the mentally and physically challenged, who are not able to cry out and be heard, which puts a greater responsibility and burden on those of us who would wish to emulate Horton’s unconditional commitment to life and personhood. We must be their voice; we must make a big enough noise for them; we must be heard! And like Horton, we must not give up!
With these lessons in mind, at this time of year, as we move through the Season of Advent and into the Season it heralds, in which we celebrate the Incarnation and its inherent vulnerability, it would do us well to remember what the Grinch learned in the failure of his dastardly attempt to “stop Christmas from coming” in How the Grinch Stole Christmas:
He HADN’T stopped Christmas from coming!IT CAME!Somehow or other, it came just the same!And the Grinch, with his grinch-feet ice-cold in the snow, Stood puzzling and puzzling: “How could it be so? It came without ribbons! It came without tags!It came without packages, boxes or bags!And he puzzled three hours, till his puzzler was sore.Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before! “Maybe Christmas,” he thought, “doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas . . . perhaps . . . means a little bit more!”
May it be so for all of us.
Merry Christmas!
©2003 P. A. Ritzer
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