Long before I was a writer, I was a reader. I have my
mother to thank for that. When my sister and I were in grade school, our mother
brought home stacks of library books for us to read.
One of those books my mother brought me stands out in my
mind as the first one I read. I don't know if it really was the first.
Memory plays strange tricks on a person.
The true first may have been a Little Golden Book. Or a
Nancy Drew mystery. Or Marshmallow, Clare Turlay Newberry's
delightful story about a housecat who befriends a rabbit. But I don't remember
actually reading that story. What I do recall is gazing at Newberry's gauzy
illustrations of cat and bunny over and over again.
Others, like Charlotte's Web and A Wrinkle
in Time, came later.
Stretching back through time, this is the earliest one I
can recall reading. Not just looking at pictures and piecing together words or
phrases, but really reading and absorbing the story in my mind.
How old was I? In my emotional memory, first or second
grade feels right, but given the sophistication and violence of the story,
that's probably too young. Fourth grade feels too late, yet is probably the
correct time frame.
My mother handed the book to me. "You know how much
you love Peter Pan? Well, this is the book. It's not just a children's book.
It's such a good story that grown-ups enjoy reading it, too. I still love it
even now."
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| By Photographer-Rothschild, Los Angeles (eBay item front back) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons |
Mom's reference to the Peter Pan I knew was
not the Disney cartoon, but the Broadway musical. It was broadcast for years on
NBC TV, and we had the record at home. My parents indulged me by playing the
record on our hi-fi, though I'm sure not as often as I would've liked.
Somewhere between the ages of 3 and 5, I had every song memorized.
I'd forgotten about this until, during a visit with my
family in Indiana a few years ago, my mother mentioned it to me. "You used
to sing those songs for your grandparents," she said.
Feeling strangely embarrassed, I joked, "Oh, those
poor people!"
"No, no, they loved it! Your grandmother was amazed
at how you could sing every single song. You knew all the words, and you could
even sing them in the same voices as the singers. You sounded just like
them."
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| By Jerome Robbins/Winter Garden (eBay item front back) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons |
So the exuberant voice of Mary Martin was my backdrop for
the book on which the musical was based.
As I opened the dusty, cloth-bound cardboard cover and
turned to the first page, I wasn't sure what to expect. Somehow, I knew it
would be different. I understood that hearing a story sung on a stage had to be
vastly different from reading it in words on a page.
I couldn't have articulated it then, but as I came to
realize later on, musicals take only the most obvious elements of a story and
transform them into another art form using acting, sets, costumes, choreography
and, of course, music and lyrics.
Musicals tend to bypass the subtle nuances of literature
because they're not needed on a stage. There, a different world is created for
the audience using tangible props. In a book, the author must somehow create
that world in the mind of the reader using only words.
I remember being transfixed by the much bigger and richer
fantasy world J.M. Barrie had created in the book, compared to what I knew of
the musical. There were mermaids here! I didn't remember them being in the
musical.
And, of course, central to the story was the stubbornly
defiant Peter Pan. Something about the child refusing to grow up has resonated
within me throughout adulthood, as I struggled to be professional in a world
where I didn't agree with all the rules. Or as I searched for a soulmate in a
world where the mysteries of relationships always seemed beyond my
understanding.
As a child, I didn't know much about what happened beyond
my safe, little world. I felt secure in the belief that there was an invisible
shield of protection surrounding all children. This was reinforced by many of
the cartoons, comic books and movies of the time. The children always came out
OK in the end.
But the dangers threatening these children seemed much
more real, more malevolent, than the predictable, melodramatic antics of the
stage version. Even though I knew how the story went in the musical, I still
worried about what was going to happen to the children. I wasn't entirely sure
they would come out OK in the end. All through the book, I sensed this vague,
nagging fear of betrayal. Betrayal by the author, who promised a happy ending,
but delivered something else.
Finally, I got to the last page. Instead of closing the
book, I kept reading that page over and over again, certain I'd missed
something. I vividly recall a feeling I wasn't accustomed to: gloom. Surely
this wasn't the end. It couldn't be!
This story didn't have a happy ending. Not the kind I was
accustomed to, anyway. And certainly not the kind I wanted. No triumphant
curtain call, that's for sure.
It wasn't exactly the betrayal I was expecting. No
disaster befell any of the children. Wendy, John and Michael made it home, safe
and sound.
Barrie's betrayal was more insidious than that. Rather
than assuming the relentlessly cheerful tone I had come to expect from
children's literature, the story was bittersweet. The characters experienced
pain which was not resolved in a satisfying way.
And in the end – the ending being not a specific cut-off
point, but rather a road disappearing into an endless horizon – Peter Pan stayed
a boy, free from all the burdens of adulthood, while the other children kept
growing up and, as the book implied but never stated outright, facing their
mortality.
I remember thinking there was something inherently unfair
about this. Why couldn't everyone remain a child, free and forever untroubled?
I also remember thinking that if this is what it meant to
be an adult, then maybe I didn't want to grow up, either.
When I spotted Peter Pan on a bookstore shelf
a few years ago, I thought maybe it was time to read the story again, as an
adult. And as I read, I was surprised to discover many of my childhood memories
of Peter Pan confirmed.
The fantasy world of the Neverland was still magical and
rich, yet menacing. And I was still struck by the idea that a literary work
could be adapted and done equally well, though differently, as a musical.
The main difference between then and now is that I
realized what a self-centered, narcissistic, shallow person Peter Pan was. And
maybe that's to be expected. I'm an adult now. My ability to empathize with
others has grown far beyond what it was then.
When I was a child, Peter Pan was worthy of admiration.
Now, I find myself offended by his selfishness.
I'm struck now by how human the story is, focusing on
very real flaws in both the children and adults. The interesting thing is that
as a child, I don't think I perceived the faults in the children (or, at least,
I didn't see them as faults). But, of course, I immediately recognized the
flaws in the adults.
I was quick to hold the adults responsible and blame them
for their mistakes and failures, but unable to do the same with the children.
I suspect that's because I was one of those children who
are "gay and innocent and heartless." I didn't understand that line
then ... especially that last word. Heartless. I do now.
Now, I see Peter Pan not only as a testament
to the joys of childhood, but a warning not to stay mired there. If we seek only
the immediate gratification we sought as children, then we will never grow as
people.
Peter Pan may have been happy to avoid the
responsibilities of adulthood. But he missed so much of the joy that comes with
aging. Our culture does not teach that. But the truth is, if we work at it and
learn as we go, growing older means finding peace within ... and with other
people.
If we refuse to allow that kind of inner contemplation
and reflection, then how can we ever find our place in the world?
I used to be a kind of Peter Pan, myself. I resisted
growing up. As a result, I often felt I didn't fit in. Now that I'm not putting
up such a fight, I find so much more satisfaction in living and learning with
people.
I haven't completely put away the fantasy world. I am,
after all, a writer. But I have finally grown up.
And it feels good.
As I've discovered, responsibility doesn't have the
negative connotations I once thought it did. The responsibility we have as
adults is very much the same as that of children: simply to live.
The difference is that we have learned to live not only
for ourselves, but also with others. We've discovered that there is pain, but
also great joy, in sharing our lives – our selves – with other people.
That's not a burden. It's a blessing.
