My parents read a lot. We had lots of magazines and books around the house, and from the time we could read, none of us were forbidden to touch any of them. There were no trashy romance novels, no stashes of porn; the closest thing to inappropriate was a pile of Cosmos that a cousin had handed down (and my mom had no interest in). Plus, a lot of the thrillers and such were in Condensed Book form, so they were the equivalent of movies cut for TV. Anything graphic was edited out.
There were books we had to treat carefully, and those were on high shelves - the encyclopedias, the old family Bibles. We were expected to have clean hands, be gentle, put them away.
We had lots of storybooks, too, but if we could read something the adults owned, that was OK. Mom sometimes told us that we probably wouldn't like a book that was really dry, from a kid's point of view, or warned us that there was something we might not like (for me, that meant animals dying. I still loved Old Yeller). But if we could read the words, we could read the book (or magazine).
I remember sitting in the living room and reading a magazine while my mom sat across the room reading something. I came across a word I didn't know. I was never the kid who just skipped those; I had to find out how to say it, and what it meant. So, I asked my mom, "What are genitals?"
She looked a bit surprised, and said, "Private parts - reproductive organs. What are you reading that has that word in it?"
"Reader's Digest." She raised her eyebrows, so I elaborated - "It's an article about a bear attack. It says the man covered his during the attack." Now I understood why.
Mom said, "I'll bet he did." Then she wanted to know, "Did he survive?"
"I haven't finished the article yet, but the title has the word 'survival' in it, so I'm guessing he did."
"That's good," Mom said, and went back to reading.
That kind of parenting was perfect for me. She didn't lecture me about reading something scary and tell me that I'd have nightmares. (Books rarely scared me.) She didn't rush to reassure me that bear attacks were rare, and that we were safe when we went into the woods. (I knew that anyway, and the article had already covered that ground if I didn't.) She certainly never refused to tell me what a word meant, or made me feel bad for asking. She gave clear, factual answers, without unnecessary detail.
I was eight years old when the book Jaws came out. I remember clearly lying in the hammock in the back yard, reading in the opening pages the description of the first victim reaching down, thinking she'd caught her foot on something, and discovering that her whole leg was gone. A fly landed on my book, and in irritation I slammed the book shut, squishing it between the pages, then regretted my impulsiveness.
I loved Brody, Hooper and Quint. I loved the way that each needed the other's expertise to get the job done. I rolled my eyes at their bickering, and was captivated by their bonding. I understood parts of each of their personalities.
At eight, though, my only experience with losing a main character was Old Yeller. I naively assumed that all of our principles would live. After all, so far, everyone who'd died had been someone we'd met for mere moments.
Then Quint died. I took it very hard; I was devastated. Decades later, I still feel it.
I did not understand the reaction that a lot of people had: "I will never go in the ocean again!" A very literal person, I could not figure out if people had never known that sharks existed. That seemed unlikely. If you knew that sharks existed, why would a book about one be surprising? Turns out, most of them had just never considered that a shark might attack them, personally.
My reaction was, "You know what in the ocean is most likely to kill you? The water." Most animals will leave you alone, most of the time. Water is relentless, and doesn't care about you. Still, people felt sure that intellect and ability would keep them safe from the actual water - just don't breathe it, right? A shark sounded much more unpredictable and frightening.
Still, I fell back on the numbers, how many people die every year from drowning vs. shark attack. Plus, Benchley called his character a "rogue" shark, over and over. The whole point was that this was not a normal shark, and not a normal summer. Plus, it was fiction. He could have made the shark talk if he wanted to; fiction is not constrained by facts.
Decades later, I'm still afraid of drowning; sharks still don't bother me a bit.
The next year, when the movie came out, kids at school kept asking each other, "Have you seen Jaws?" I kept saying, "No, but I've read the book." (One kid earned a scowl by saying, "What book?")
When I was sleeping over at a friend's house, her dad asked my mom if it was OK if I went with them to the movie. "Sure. She's read the book; she'll be fine," Mom said. And she was right; the scenes of the camera gliding over the ocean bottom at the beginning of the show felt scarier than any of the scenes with the shark.
Except when we still lost Quint. I hoped that they'd let him live this time, but no. In a way, that made me happy, because I hate it when filmmakers change the plot, but I hated losing Quint, too.
I had the same rules for my kids concerning books as my mom had had for me - clean hands, treat it right, don't leave it out, put it away when you're done. But I didn't have any books that I hid from them. If there was something not appropriate for kids - I read a lot of mysteries and histories, and people in those have a tendency to die, often in colorful ways - I put it on a high shelf. By the time you could reach the shelf, you'd be old enough to read it.
My daughter was home from college for a visit, and I said something about a crime; I forget which one. "Oh, yeah, I read about that in your book," she said.
"Which book?" I wanted to know.
She told me, then said, "Whoops. I probably shouldn't have told you that." It was a book about famous unsolved crimes - Jack the Ripper, the Black Dahlia, JonBenet Ramsey.
"Why not?"
"Because I read your book."
"Did you ruin it?"
"No."
"Did you put it back?"
"Yeah."
"Then what's the problem?"
"I figured you'd be mad if I read it."
"Let me get this straight. It's a book that I bought - not just borrowed, but spent money on. It's something that I'm interested in. And you thought that would be a problem?"
"Well, yeah. People were, like, murdered."
"So, you thought that a book that sat in plain sight, on a shelf literally right outside your bedroom, would be forbidden."
"Well, yeah." She actually looked a bit disappointed that I wasn't angry, but I thought that this was very funny. Kid, if I didn't want you to know that the book existed, I would not put it at eye level, 6 inches away from your bedroom door.
Also, if I would have said, "This is really fascinating, you should read this," I probably would have gotten, "Ew! That's gross! What is wrong with you? Why would I want to read that?"
I have only one book with pages that I don't want left where people can see them, and that's because I would have a problem. I own a big, glossy, fascinating book about the Titanic. But, the pages with photos of the wreck are paper clipped together. The kids all know that they're welcome to look, but as soon as they're done, those paper clips go back on!
Because the scariest thing in my books is still the water.
