‘Little Panic’: The young and the wretched
Our increasingly complicated world makes childhood more stressful and worry-filled. Gaining insight into how youngsters feel as their cocoons are invaded by anxiety and fear – and what can be done to help them – is tremendously valuable.
“Little Panic: Dispatches from an Anxious Life” (Grand Central, 385 pp., ★★☆☆) tries to do that. The book offers a glimpse into the maelstrom churning in the mind of Amanda Stern, who shares indepth recollections of her childhood.
The memoirist grew up in New York City’s Greenwich Village in the 1970s and ’80s, presumably with all the makings of a smooth-sailing life. But starting from early childhood, she was wracked with an all-consuming sense of worry and dread.
It took years to diagnose Stern, who also suffered from having a checked-out father and a clueless mother. Many chapters begin with excerpts from the author’s psychological and school evaluations over the years.
Stern tries to convey how consumed she was with nervousness, uncertainty and fear: For example, she was convinced her mother would die or move away. To prevent that from happening, the then-elementary-schoolage Stern believed she had to keep a watchful eye on her mom.
Her worry reached a fever pitch after 6-year-old Etan Patz vanished in 1979. He was a neighborhood boy whom Stern (who was then 9) didn’t know but whose disappearance is credited with bringing national awareness to the plight of missing children.
She became so obsessed with the case that once she called a police officer over, thinking she had found Etan – until the cop pointed out that the child she had found was Chinese.
Interspersed among these more bitter-thansweet chapters are snapshots of Stern’s life as an adult, including tales of a failed relationship with a long-term loser boyfriend and the grief that comes from the sale of one’s childhood home.
The problem is that unlike many other autobiographies, there are no universal lessons in “Little Panic.” It reads like an incessant whine. And the whole time, the reader thinks, “Wow, these parents are lousy.”
Also detracting from the kvetchy autobiography is Stern’s voice as a writer. In memories from her childhood, Stern writes with a erudite elegance that a kid simply wouldn’t have – even one who grew up in a sophisticated household and attended private school.
“One day I’ll have to live on the street side of life. On the garden side we look after one another ... If only this were the entire world. If only the garden could hold us all”? No young child thinks like that.
“The night is fast-forwarding its heaviness and I feel it coming for me”? Please.
While sporadic bursts of beauty in Stern’s writing – “a growing constellation of errors,” for example – prevent “Little Panic” from being unbearable, the uneven tone and crass piggybacking on the Patz family’s tragedy make this a collection of dispatches to skip.