Why the village doesn’t own our kids

When I was in the sixth grade, I was part of what you might call a de facto, do-it-yourself lending library. The entire literary collection consisted of one book: Judy Blume’s “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret.”

Any woman who was ever a girl who had not yet gotten her period knows that book, and can remember all of the emotions triggered by the diary entries of this mid-tolate 20th century adolescent.

The thing I most remember about the book is not so much what was inside the covers, but what I had to go through to get the copy. Apparently, the sixthgraders at Merion Mercy Academy were pretty cheap, because when I say “get the copy,” that’s exactly what I mean.

There was only one book floating around the classroom, and you needed to put your name on a list to have access to Blume’s words of wisdom. I was so far down on that list, there was a possibility I’d go through menopause before reading about what would happen when I got my period. It apparently never occurred to the girls in Mrs. Osertag’s class to just buy another copy.

But I digress. The fact that we had to sign our names on a list, and then share the book surreptitiously at the locker or in the lunchroom gives some idea about the culture of children’s literature in 1972. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have had to score a copy of Laura Ingalls’ “Wilder: or “Anne of Green Gables” at the corner from some guy named “Fang,” but we treated “Are You There God It’s Me Margaret” as if it were contraband.

And that’s because we were (1) in a Catholic school, (2) a bit prudish and (3) our parents actually loved us.

But they weren’t going to expose us, excuse the pun, to things that were inappropriate for our collective age. “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret,” actually was appropriate, and has become a classic of the coming-of-age genre. I remember reading it with awe and gratitude. I bought my own copy, and it sits in a closet with all of my beloved childhood treasures, packed away but not forgotten.

I thought of the subversive Blume Trafficking Network when I heard about the mother in Fairfax County, Va., who stood up at a school board meeting and read from a book that she was able to check out from the local high school library which included passages about pedophilia, sodomy and other delightful childhood activities.

Stacy Langlon said that she was motivated to investigate the books that were being offered at her school after hearing about the sexual content in other school libraries.

One of the books was a graphic novel entitled “Gender Queer” by Maia Kobabe, and the other was “Lawn Boy” by Jonathan Evison. The latter included passages of a man having sex with a boy, and another character masturbating.

When confronted with this mother’s concerns and the events of that school board meeting at the recent Virginia gubernatorial debate, Democratic candidate (and former governor) Terry McAuliffe said this:

“I’m not going to let parents come into schools and actually take books out and make their own decisions. I don’t think parents should be telling schools what they should teach.”

McAuliffe is channeling the philosophy of people who think they are the ones who should decide what your kids should wear on their faces, what should be jabbed into their arms and, much more importantly, what should be poured into their malleable, wonderful, open and extremely vulnerable young brains. It’s no longer “the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.” It’s more like “let’s cut off the hand that rocks the cradle, unless it rocks it the way we want.”

To be honest, I’d rather have guys in spangles read wholesome stories to little kids than teachers providing heartwarming manuals about sexual deviance under the guise of “inquiry” and “diversity” and “tolerance.”

Thinking back on the way Judy Blume’s book finally made it into my pre-pubescent hands brings a smile, now, along with a realization that things were so much more innocent in 1972.

And it makes me immensely grateful to that mother in Fairfax County, Va., who had the courage to remind us that the village doesn’t own our kids.