← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
Banned Books with Judy Blume
01:03:12
Host Meg Wolitzer presents stories that were presented as part of an evening with the writer Judy Blume that explored the issues around book banning, and featured works by two authors whose works have been banned. (Blume’s works have also frequently been banned.). First, Xu Mason’s witty “Finally a Book that Cannot be Banned,” imagines what it would take to write a work that could escape all censure. It’s read by Troy Iwata. Celebrated children’s author Roald Dahl cooks up the perfect murder in “Lamb to the Slaughter,” read by Catherine O’Hara. And David Sedaris recounts a challenging encounter with a young man in “Bruised,” read by Maulik Pancholy. Some of Blume’s onstage remarks are included.
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- [00:08]
Meg Wolitzer
Okay, so things aren't quite like ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 just yet, but book bans are very real, and they're everywhere right now. On Today's Selected Shorts, the meaning of censored works. With one of the most banned authors of the 20th century, Judy Blume. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Our stories start now. You're listening to Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. Believe it or not, the book ban is an intrinsic part of American Society. Back in 1637, when the country was nothing more than colonies, the Puritans banned books by a fellow colonist called Thomas Morton, who was not only critical of Puritan society, but seemed sympathetic to the plight of Native Americans, too. Since that time, book bans have marched on slowly but steadily. Uncle Tom's Cabin was banned in the south for its pro abolition message. Ulysses was deemed pornographic To Kill a Mockingbird and Beloved were banned for depictions of sexual violence. The graphic novel Mouse for its language, nudity and violence, to name just a few. Each was tossed from curricula or libraries and on local, state or national levels. And book banning has remained sadly constant for much of the country's history. In recent years, the practice has been supercharged by anxious people who often have not read the literature in question. In 2020 alone, a total of 223 titles were challenged by parents, community or school boards. In 2023, the grand total of challenge titles rose to 4,000, 240. We at selected Shorts wanted to dig into this disturbing trend and some of the works it's meant to protect us from. We asked one of America's most beloved and most banned authors, Judy Blume, to host a live show on the subject. And to our great satisfaction, the cherished author of Are youe There, God? It's Me, Margaret agreed. The resulting evening featured works from banned authors and Bloom's own commentary about her experiences being banned. You'll hear some examples in this hour. Yes, this show is an hour and only long enough to consider a small portion of what the book ban means in contemporary America. Still, we wanted to keep the phenomenon in the forefront of our minds. And while not all of the short stories in today's show have been banned, most of the authors have experienced a ban in some form. The first piece is a parody of those who demand bands in the first place. The remainder of the show features stories from band authors Roald Dahl and David Sedaris. Here's Bloom herself. Setting the stage on that night.
- [02:58]
Judy Blume
I know a thing or two about book banning, so I'm going to take you. Back in the 70s, I was called a communist for having written Are youe There Goddess Me Margaret. Now it's 50 years later and I still don't know if that woman equated communism with religion or menstruation. And then in the 80s, we had Phyllis Schlafly. Do any of you remember her? We won't applaud. She opposed feminism, abortion and gay rights. Her Eagle Forum distributed a pamphlet called how to rid your schools and libraries of Judy Blume Books. And you know, one thing you didn't have to do? You didn't have to read the book. But that was then and this is now and things have changed. I wish I could say for the better. I'm sorry to report they are much, much worse, more dangerous, more frightening. Because the banning isn't coming from an irate mother or a group that wants to decide not only what their kids can read, but what all kids can can read. Though we still have plenty of those groups all over the country. No, this is coming from government. Government in the United States of America. Legislators deciding for all of us, all ages, what we can and what we can't read. So eight years ago, my husband George and I, we opened an independent bookstore in Key west where We've lived for 30 years. In our small store we have a year round table display of currently banned or challenged books. As many books as we can fit. It could be so big, but it's a small table and they change all the time and it is marked off with crime tape. And many readers come in and they are astounded.
- [05:08]
Troy Iwata
What?
- [05:09]
Judy Blume
I love that book. That book can't be banned. How is that possible? But more and more are saying, what can we do in such a scary time? It's good for us to gather and to laugh and to hear some of the authors that others have found threatening. To remind ourselves that writers are not ideologues, but rather people who want to tell stories to readers who want to see themselves reflect in those stories.
- [05:48]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Judy Blume live at Symphony Space. Now that the stage is set, let's hear some stories that will get us thinking about banned books. The first piece we'll hear is by Shu Mason. She is a writer and performer whose work has appeared in comedic outlets including McSweeney's and Reductress. Performer Troy Iwata has appeared in series including Dash and Lily, the movie Space Cadet, and as a correspondent on The Daily Show. Iwata made his selected shorts debut as part of our Banned Books show and here he is performing. Finally, a book that cannot be banned by Shoemaker.
- [06:35]
Catherine O'Hara
Finally, a book that cannot be banned. This is a good book. It has a cover and many pages. This book is endorsed by parents and is church friendly. It is clean and full of grace, as in it was approved by a Florida state media consultant named Grace. It is designed to offend no one. It does not mention war, sex, drugs, politics, depression, alcohol, drugs, violence, scantily dressed women, any mentions of women, really selfless fish, California hungry caterpillars or drugs. Except for the addictive power of prayer, there is absolutely no pronoun ideology in this book. This is a sample sentence. Adam White is going to the park because the father of Adam White is there. Adam White and the father of Adam White are biologically men. Big words. Not in here. This book operates on the understanding that education is hard and teachers can be led astray by YouTube or egregious left wing media like C Span. This book does not mention homosexuality or anything that be construed as queer. There are no rainbows. The only color allowed is a neutral gray. Okay, I'm sorry. I've just been informed that gray is the color of asexuality. So the only color now allowed is blank. What is the color of blank? Why, it's the beautiful cousin of eggshell white. There are no strange or foreign sounding names in this book. In fact, all the characters have good Christian names with clear and established Western European etymologies. They can be pronounced by anyone from any city in a right to work state. There are no opinions in this book, only facts. Like the sky is blue and that God invented dinosaurs. Adam White is only interested in interacting with reality, which is what we call it when one boy follows all the rules laid out by his benevolent state governor. This is a sample sentence. Adam White looked up at the picture of the elected representative of Adam White and said, it's state governor prayer time again. Hooray. This book was crafted to live within any library in America. It was written by a team specializing in what is most important in good books. That it appeals to conservative politicians and that one mom on the pta. Our names were clearly listed in the author's biographies, which we had removed just in case. There is no grooming in this book, either metaphorical or literal. No one leads children astray by the power of sequins. And no one combs their hair or washes their hands after they pee. This book has no rising action or any kind of climax. There are no villains or anything morally gray. Sorry, we mean morally eggshell. There are no character arcs or anything as pretentious as a plot. Here is another sample sentence. Adam White was, is, and will always be a biological boy. This book has no illustrations. It has no titles, no headings, no no fonts that might be too curvaceous, no periods because that's basically an abortion. No spaces because they might be safe. No underlining because it implies top lining, which implies a top, therefore implies a bottom, both of which are known to be gay directions. There are no analogies in this book, no symbolism or any other kind of radical left ideology. No one majors in humanities and no professors get tenure. There are no metaphors like butterflies or uncaged birds, as the only birds recognized in this state are snowbirds here to escape winters and vote against critical race theory. No commas, parentheses, em dashes, participles, gerunds, subjects, or split infinitives as the only person who can split anything is Moses and whoever carved up voting districts. No, what this book does have is a sturdy cover and pages filled with neutral, abstract AI art generated in a tasteful color of pale alabaster. It was formulated to match the words which are printed in cream, blending in seamlessly with the background of blank. When you pick up this book, you will see the ideal book form page after page of pure, empty space. That is why it can never be banned. And this is what makes it a good book.
- [13:11]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Troy Iwata wrote Reading Shoem's Story. Finally, a book that cannot be banned. Now, as far as we know, Mason's work has yet to be banned, but that piece gives us a good sense of how it feels to be a creative person at a time in which reactionaries are doing their best to stifle creativity. I've known Judy Blume for decades. She and my mom are very close friends and I consider her a friend as well. Judy is someone who has been in the house where I grew up. Not unlike her books I read Are you there God? It's me, Margaret. When it first came out, and as a Margaret myself. Well, no one has called me that since second grade, but it is my real name. I could relate. But also as a girl who is starting to see adolescence looming, I could definitely relate. The book has such honesty and appeal. Some people will say it has frankness. As in Judy Blume is not afraid to talk about the body and about the new and confusing changes that kids go through. I think she remembers it all as if it had happened to her yesterday. I loved that book, and I still do, and I made sure that both of my sons read it when they were the right age, and all of Judy's other books too. I wanted them to find themselves in the story, knowing that regardless of our specific bodies or even our cultural backgrounds, we have much in common. But some adults have been making sure that kids never have a chance to read about Margaret Simon or any of those other great Judy Blume characters, and that is both depressing and infuriating. Judy's advocacy against book banning has been important and fierce and has made a difference. Our next piece is by Roald Dahl. Now anyone who has ever read a tale by the Brothers Grimm well knows the kinds of dark places that children's stories can go. Despite the long standing example of the Brothers Grimm, Dahl's books, including Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and James and the Giant Peach, have been banned for language as well as dark themes. This story is one of his shorts for adults, and while its content was never banned outright, the kind of subversion implied by the story is just the kind of thing that might give a sensor pause when trying to rescue kids. Performing this story is Catherine O'Hara. O'Hara has a lifetime of comedic credits, including the original movie Beetlejuice, the recent sequel Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, and her Emmy winning performance on Schitt's Creek. Now here's Lamb to the Slaughter by Roald Dahl, read by Catherine O'Hara.
- [15:53]
Malik Pancholi
Lamb to the Slaughter the room was warm and clean, the curtains drawn, the two table lamps alight, hers and the one by the empty chair opposite it. On the sideboard behind her, two tall glasses, soda water, whiskey, fresh ice cubes in the thermos bucket. Mary Maloney was waiting for her husband to come home from work. Now and again she would glance up at the clock, but without anxiety, merely to please herself with the thought that each minute gone by made it nearer the time when he would come. There was a slow, smiling air about her and about everything she did. The drop of the head as she's bent over her sewing, was curiously tranquil. Her skin, for this was a six month with child, had acquired a wonderful translucent quality. The mouth was soft and the eyes, with their new placid look, seemed larger, darker than before. When the clock said 10 minutes to 5, she began to listen, and a few moments later, punctually as always, she heard the tires on the gravel outside and the car door slamming, the footsteps passing the window, the key turning in the lock. She laid Aside her sewing, stood up and went forward to kiss him as he came in. Hello, darling, she said. Hello, he answered. She took his coat and hung it in the closet. Then she walked over and made the drinks, a strongish one for him, a weak one for herself. And soon she was back again in her chair with the sewing and he and the other opposite, holding the tall glass with both his hands, rocking it so the ice cubes tinkled against the side. For her, this was always a blissful time of day. She knew he didn't want to speak much until the first drink was finished, and she, on her side, was content to sit quietly, enjoying his company after the long hours alone in the house. She loved to luxuriate in the presence of this man and to feel almost as a sunbather feels the sun, that warm male glow that came out of him to her when they were alone together. She loved him for the way he sat loosely in a chair, for the way he came in a door or moved slowly across the room with long strides. She loved the intent far look in his eyes when they rested on her, the funny shape of the mouth, and especially the way he remained silent about his tiredness, sitting still with himself until the whiskey had taken some of it away. Tired, darling? Yes, he said. I'm tired. And as he spoke, he did an unusual thing. He lifted his glass and drained it in one swallow, although there was still at least half of it left. She wasn't really watching him, but she knew what he had done because she heard the ice cubes falling back against the bottom of the empty glass when he lowered his arm. He paused a moment, leaning forward in the chair. Then he got up and went slowly over to fetch himself another. I'll get it. She cried, jumping up. Sit down, he said. When he came back, she noticed the new drink was dark amber with a quantity of whiskey in it. Darling, shall I get your slippers? No. She watched him as he began to sip the dark yellow drink, and she could see little oily swirls in the liquid because it was so strong. I think it's a shame, she said, that when a policeman gets to be as senior as you, they keep him walking about on his feet all day long. He didn't answer, so she bent her head again and went on with her sewing. But each time he lifted the drink to his lips, she heard the ice cubes clinking against the side of the glass. Darling, she said, would you like me to get some cheese? I haven't made any supper because it's Thursday. No, he said if you're too tired to eat out, she went on, it's still not too late. There's plenty of meat and stuff in the freezer, and you can have it right here and not even move out of the chair. Her eyes waited on him for an answer, a smile, a little nod, but he made no sign. Anyway, she went on, I'll get you some cheese and crackers first. I don't want it, he said. She moved uneasily in her chair, the large eyes still watching his face. But you must have supper. I can easily do it here. I'd like to do it. We can have lamb chops or pork, anything you want. Everything's in the freezer. Forget it, he said. But, darling, you must eat. I'll fix it anyway, and then you can have your knot as you like. She stood up and placed her sewing on the table by the lamp. Sit down, he said. Just for a minute. Sit down. It wasn't till then that she began to get frightened. Go on, he said. Sit down. She lowered herself back slowly into the chair, watching him all the time with those large, bewildered eyes. He had finished the second drink and was staring down into his glass, frowning. Listen, he said. Got something to tell you. What is it, darling? What's the matter? He had now become absolutely motionless, and he kept his head down so that the light from the lamp beside him fell across the upper part of his face, leaving the chin and mouth in shadow. She noticed there was a little muscle moving near the corner of his left eye. This is going to be a bit of a shock to you, I'm afraid, he said. But I've thought about it a good deal, and I've decided the only thing to do is to tell you right away. I hope you won't blame me too much, and he told her it didn't take long, four or five minutes at most, and she sat very still through it all, watching him with a kind of dazed horror as he went further and further away from her with each word. So there it is, he added. I know it's kind of a bad time to be telling you, but there simply wasn't any other way. Of course I'll give you money and see you're looked after. There needn't really be any fuss, and I hope not, anyway. It wouldn't be very good for my job. Her first instinct was not to believe any of it, to reject it all. It occurred to her that perhaps he hadn't even spoken, that she herself had imagined the whole thing. Maybe if she went about her business and acted as though she hadn't been listening. Then later, when she sort of woke up again, she might find none of it had happened. I'll get the supper, she managed to whisper, and this time he didn't stop her. When she walked across the room, she couldn't feel her feet touching the floor. She couldn't feel anything at all except a slight nausea and a desire to vomit. Everything was automatic now, down the steps to the cellar, the light switch, the deep freeze, the hand inside the cabinet taking hold of the first object it met. She lifted it out and looked at it. It was wrapped in paper, so she took off the paper and looked at it again. A leg of lamb. All right, then, they would have lamb for supper. She carried it upstairs, holding the thin bone end of it with both her hands, and as she went through the living room she saw him standing over by the window with his back to her, and she stopped. For God's sake, he said, hearing her but not turning around, don't make supper for me. I'm going out. At that moment Mary Maloney simply walked up behind him, and without any pause she swung the big frozen leg of lamb high in the air and brought it down as hard as she could on the back of his head. She might just as well have hit him with a steel club. She stepped back a pace, waiting, and the funny thing was that he remained standing there for at least four or five seconds, gently swaying, Then he crashed to the carpet. The violence of the crash, the noise, the small table overturning, helped bring her out of the shock. She came out slowly, feeling cold and surprised, and she stood for a while, blinking at the body, still holding the ridiculous piece of meat tight with both hands. All right, she told herself, so I've killed him. It was extraordinary now how clear her mind became. All of a sudden she began thinking very fast. As the wife of a detective, she knew quite well what the penalty would be. That was fine. It made no difference to her. In fact, it would be a relief. On the other hand, what about the child? What were the laws about murderers with unborn children? Did they kill them both, mother and child? Or did they wait until the 10th month? What did they do? Mary Maloney didn't know, and she certainly wasn't prepared to take a chance. She carried the meat into the kitchen, placed it in a pan, turned the oven on high, and shoved it inside. Then she washed her hands and ran upstairs to the bedroom. She sat down before the mirror, tidied her hair, touched up her lips and face she tried a smile. It came out rather peculiar. She tried again. Hello, Sam, she said brightly aloud. The voice sounded peculiar too. I want some potatoes, please, Sam. Yes, and I think I can a piece. That was better. Both the smile and the voice were coming out better now. She rehearsed it several times more. Then she ran downstairs, took her coat, went out the back door, down the garden into the street. It wasn't 6 o'clock yet and the lights were still on in the grocery shop. Hello, Sam, she said brightly, smiling at the man behind the counter. Why, good evening, Ms. Maloney. How are you? I want some potatoes, please, Sam. Yes, and I think a can of peas. The man turned and reached up behind him on the shelf for the peas. Patrick's decided he's tired and doesn't want to eat out tonight. She told him. We should go out Thursdays, you know. And now he's caught me without any vegetables in the house. Well, then, how about meet Miss Maloney? No, I've got meat, thanks. Got a nice leg of lamb from the freezer. Oh, I don't much like cooking at frozen, Sam, but I'm taking a chance on it this time. You think it'll be all right? Personally, the grocer said, I don't believe it makes any difference. You want these potatoes? Oh, fine. Yes, that'll be fine. Two of those. Anything else? The grocer cocked his head on one side, looking at her pleasantly. How about afterwards? What are you gonna give him afterwards? Well, what would you suggest, Sam? The man glanced around a shop. How about a nice big slice of cheesecake? I know he likes that. Perfect, she said. He loves it. And when it was all wrapped and she had paid, she put on her brightest smile and said, thank you, Sam. Good night. Good night, Ms. Maloney. And thank you. And now, she told herself as she hurried back, all she was doing now she was returning home to her husband, and he was waiting for a supper. And she must cook it good and make it as tasty as possible, because the poor man was tired. And if, when she entered the house, she happened to find anything unusual or tragic or terrible, then naturally it would be a shock, and she'd become frantic with grief and horror. Mind you, she wasn't expecting to find anything. She was just going home with the vegetables. And this is Patrick Maloney going home with the vegetables on Thursday evening to cook supper for her husband. That's the way she told herself. Do everything right and natural. Keep things absolutely natural, and there'll be no need for any acting at all. Therefore, when she entered the kitchen by the back door, she was humming a little tune to herself and smiling. Patrick, she called. How are you, darling? She put the parcel down on the table and went through into the living room. And when she saw him lying there on the floor with his legs doubled up and one arm twisted back underneath his body, it really was rather a shock. All the old love and longing for him welled up inside her. And she ran over to him, knelt down beside him and began to cry her heart out. It was easy. No acting was necessary. A few minutes later she got up and went to the phone. She knew a number of the police station, and when the man at the other end answered, she cried. Quick. Come quick. Patrick's dead. Who's speaking? Mrs. Maloney. Mrs. Patrick Maloney. You mean Patrick Maloney is dead? I think so, she sobbed. He's lying on the floor. I think he's dead. Be right over, the man said. The car came very quickly, and when she opened the front door, two policemen walked in. She knew them both. She knew nearly all the men at that precinct. And she fell right into Jack Noonan's arms, weeping hysterically. He put her gently into a chair, then went over to join the other one, who was called O'Malley, kneeling by the body. Is he dead? She cried. I'm afraid he is. What happened? Briefly, she told her story about going out to the grocer and coming back to find him on the floor. While she was crying and talking, Noonan discovered a small patch of congealed blood on the dead man's head. He showed it to O'Malley, who got up at once and hurried to the phone. Soon other men began to come into the house. First a doctor, then two detectives, one of whom she knew by name. Later a police photographer arrived and took pictures and a man who knew about fingerprints. There was a great deal of whispering and muttering beside the corpse, and the detectives kept asking her a lot of questions, but they always treated her kindly. She told her story again, this time right from the beginning, when Patrick had come in and. And she was sewing and he was tired, so tired he hadn't wanted to go out for supper. She told how she put the meat in the oven. It's there now, cooking. And how she'd slipped out to the grocer for vegetables and come back to find him lying on the floor. Which grocer? One of the detectives asked. She told him, and he turned and whispered something to another detective, who immediately went outside into the street. In 15 minutes he was back with a page of notes. And there was more whispering, and through his sobbing she heard a few of the whispered phrases. Acted quite normal, very cheerful. Wanted to give him a good supper. Peas, cheesecake. Impossible to cheese. After a while, the photographer and the doctor departed, and two other men came in and took the corpse away on a stretcher. Then the fingerprint man went away. The two detectives remained, and so did the two policemen. They were exceptionally nice to her, and Jack Noonan asked if she wouldn't rather go somewhere else, to her sister's house, perhaps, or to his own wife, who would take care of her and put her up for the night. No, she said, she didn't feel she could move even a yard at the moment. With her mind off leave, she just stayed where she was until she felt better. She didn't feel too good at the moment. She really didn't. Then hadn't she better lie down on the bed? Jack Noonan asked. No, she said, she'd like to stay right where she was, in this chair. A little later, perhaps, when she felt better, she would move. So they left her there while they went about their business, searching the house. Occasionally, one of the detectives asked her another question. Sometimes Jack Noonan spoke at her gently as he passed by. Her husband, he told her, had been killed by a blow on the back of the head, administered with a heavy, blunt instrument, almost certainly a large piece of metal. They were looking for the weapon. The murderer may have taken it with him, but on the other hand, he may have thrown it away or hidden it somewhere on the premises. That's the old story, he said. Get the weapon and you've got your man. Later, one of the detectives came up and sat beside her. Did she know, he asked, of anything in the house that could have been used as a weapon? Would she mind having to look around to see if anything was missing? A very big spanner, for example, or a heavy metal vase? They didn't have any heavy metal vases, she said, or a big spanner. She didn't think they had a big spanner, but there might be some things like that in the garage. The search went on. She knew that there were other policemen in the garden. All around the house. She could hear their footsteps on the gravel outside, and sometimes she saw the flash of a torch through a chink in the curtains. It began to get late, nearly nine. She noticed by the clock of the mantel the four men searching the room seemed to be growing weary, a trifle exasperated. Jack, she said, the next time Sergeant Noonan went by, would you mind giving me A drink? Sure, I'll give you a drink. You mean this whiskey? Yes, please. But just a small one. Might make me feel better. He handed her the glass. Why don't you have one yourself? She said. You must be awfully tired. Please do. You've been very good to me. Well, he answered, it's not strictly allowed. But I might take just one drop. Keep me going. One by one, the others came in and were persuaded to take a little nip of whiskey. They stood around rather awkwardly with the drinks in their hands, uncomfortable in her presence, trying to say consoling things to her. Sergeant Noonan wandered into the kitchen, came out quickly and said, Look, Ms. Maloney, you know that oven of yours is still on and the meat's still inside. Oh, dear me, she cried. So it is. I better turn it off for you, hadn't I? Will you do that, Jack? Thank you so much. When the sergeant returned the second time, she looked at him with her large, dark, tearful eyes. Jack Noonan, she said. Yes? Would you do me a small favor, you and the others? We can try, Mrs. Maloney. Well, she said, here you all are, and good friends of dear Patrick's, too, and helping to catch the man who killed him. You must be terribly hungry by now, because it's long past your supper time, and I know Patrick would never forgive me, God bless his soul, if I allowed you to remain in this house without offering you decent hospitality. Why don't you eat up that lamb that's in the oven? It'd be cooked just right by now. Wouldn't dream of it, Sergeant Noonan said. Please, she begged. Please eat it. Personally, I couldn't touch a thing. Certainly not what's been in the house when he was here. But it's all right for you. It'd be a favor to me if you'd eat it up. Then you can go on with your work again afterwards. There was a good deal of hesitating among the four policemen, but they were clearly hungry, and in the end they were persuaded to go into the kitchen and help themselves. The woman stayed where she was, listening to them through the open door, and she could hear them speaking amongst themselves, their voices thick and sloppy because their mouths were full of meat. Have some more, Charlie. No, better not finish it. She wants us to finish it, she said. So be doing her a favor. Okay, then. Can give me some more? That's a hell of a big club the guy must have used to hit poor Patrick, one of them was saying. The docsis skull was smashed all to pieces, just like from a sledgehammer, it ought to be easy to find exactly what I say. Whoever done it, they're not going to be carrying a thing like that around with them longer than they need. One of them belched. Personally, I think it's right here on the premises. Probably right under our very noses. What do you think, Jack? And in the other room, Mary Maloney began to giggle.
- [32:19]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Catherine O'Hara performing Lamb to the Slaughter by Roald Dahl. So while this story was not banned like some of Dahl's other work, the story does seem to provide an amazing alibi. If after its publication, there had been a sudden spate of copycat mutton murders, censorious personalities might have considered it. When we return, David Sedaris Gets Bruised. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to Selected Shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide. Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. This week we're considering the Power of Book Bans with the writer Judy Blume. If you're enjoying it so far, please seek out this week's podcast extras. I had an incredible interview with Judy Blume about censorship, book bans and much more. You can find it on selectedshorts.org or wherever you get your podcasts. Our final story comes from David Sedaris. He is the author of much loved personal essay collections, including Naked and Me Talk Pretty One Day, as well as more recent compilations including the Best of Me. Many of Sedaris books and individual stories have been banned from classrooms, often for perceived political activism. That is he dares to write about gay people. Judy Blume spoke from the stage at Symphony Space.
- [34:06]
Judy Blume
Reading this Sedaris piece is a performer and writer who knows about this brand of censorship. 2. You may recognize his face from series including 30 Rock or his voice from animated shows like Phineas and Ferb. But he is also the author of the middle grade novels the Best at It and Nikhil Out Loud. Both titles about young Indian Americans surviving middle school have won awards and both have been banned. The reason, apart from being kids of color, which believe it or not, has been the reason given for many current bands. The central characters also discover or they just know they're gay. Sedaris story Bruised touches on themes that recur in your works, right? And many of the books targeted by bands self acceptance, though of course it's Sedaris. So that Journey to Self Love may Be as uncomfortable as it is funny. And now. And now performing Bruised by David Sedaris, please welcome Mulik Pancholi.
- [35:32]
Troy Iwata
Bruised When Hugh was In his late 20s, he bought an old stone farmhouse in a small village in Normandy. It didn't cost much, but it didn't have much either. No electricity or running water, a roof that needed replacing. He took offense when I called it a dump, so instead I referred to it as a hovel, which I think technically it was. The floor on the ground level was hard packed dirt. On the second level it was wood but worm eaten. And it was the same in the attic. All of the beams were rotted as well, as were the doors and windows. The previous owner had left an armoire, a table and half a dozen barrels, several of which were big enough for me to stand up in. Upstairs and down. The place smelled like old rope. I first saw the hovel in 1992, a few years after Hugh and I met. I knew no French back then, other than a few odd words I'd picked up. Traffic jam raw the verb to shorten for some reason. And then, of course, all the English words that just happened to be nocturnal surveillance cliche. I assumed that the villagers would have learned a little something from watching American tv. Dallas was huge at the time. People were naming their daughters Pamela, but that was as far as they were willing to go back then. So on my first four visits, I spent all my time smiling and trying to look as though I knew what was going on. It was so humbling being robbed of my personality like that. I was never the smartest guy in the room, but I could usually hold my own. In Normandy, though, I was considered an idiot. Worse still, I couldn't get a laugh to save my life in America. That was my thing, my identity. I was on the radio and in magazines. Now I was just a lump. And it was Hugh who commanded all the attention. He spoke and understood French perfectly, but couldn't really be counted on to translate, especially if there were a lot of people around. Once we got electricity and water, he started inviting friends over. Groups of 10 would arrive for lunch and I'd feel so left out. What did she say? I once asked after a guest had held the floor for a few minutes and then hidden her face in her hands. She vomited on herself at her wedding. I'll tell you later. I hated being excluded. So between a brief visit in May 1997 and a much longer one the following August, I took a 10 session private French class taught by a petite, sharp nosed, thumbtack of a woman. Elise was Canadian and we met twice a week in the World Trade Center. At around the same time, I started opening my Larousse dictionary, writing random nouns on index cards and memorizing them on my daily walks. Why did you learn the word bruise? Elise groused one afternoon. When is that going to come in handy? In retrospect, I suppose I can see her point. Why master bruise before, say, umbrella? How many of us know, though, when learning a foreign language, what words and phrases might prove useful? It's like predicting the future. If I had to do it over, I'd have perfected the line, let us go see what your grandmother is up to. Though bruised came in handy as well. That summer Hugh and I had the main support beam in the living room replaced, which was a massive undertaking. While we were treating the new one for worms, I fell off my ladder and bashed my thigh against a heavy chair. Look, I said the following morning, pointing to the purple smudge on my skin. A bruise. I repeated it later that day to the woman across the road. Madame G was impressed but still corrected my pronunciation. Equimoz, she said. Pas equimus. She and her husband were in their early 70s at the time and raised horses and sheep. They kept chickens as well and rabbits in the doll sized house right next to there. They kept Madam G's active 98 year old mother, Granny G, who had long white hair and took walks through the forest every afternoon collecting either berries or mushrooms depending on the season. They also took care of Monsieur G's younger sister Clotilde, who had down syndrome and was very short. People with her condition sometimes die fairly young, but she was in her mid-50s. Clotilde wore thick glasses that made her eyes appear small. She had gray hair and whiskers and spent her days standing up dominoes, then knocking them over when the weather was good. She did it on a metal topped table in her front yard, stopping only when Madam G barked mont. This was her cue to climb the front stairs to the house and then another set to the second floor where the bathroom was. She would sit on the toilet until the end of time, unless someone instructed her to get off of it. Madam G explained to Hugh, though not impatiently, she had great affection for her sister in law. The only word I ever heard Clotilde say was big. This in French, of course, and in response to a question that was always the do you want a big slice of tart or a small one? Groll. Clotilde would moan and everyone would applaud everyone that Summer often included included Madame and Monsieur G's two grown children and six grandchildren. Three belonged to their son, who worked for the electric company and had a number of crudely rendered tattoos on his arms. And then there were three boys born to their daughter. The middle one was 12 and named Olivier. I'd first met him a year earlier, but he'd gotten taller since then and now had 2 inches of on me. Between one August and the next, he had grown furtive in the same way I had when I was his age. I gathered he had come into possession of a secret that he was gay. It's funny how that works. One moment you're a child and know only that there's something different about you, something that separates you from other boys. Then you get a little older and understand what that thing is. If you attend a progressive private school and have supportive parents who have lots of artistic friends, maybe you can go straight from your realization to acceptance. Olivier's family seemed pretty cool. His grandparents had no problem with me and Hugh, or with the lesbian couple who would later move in down the road and were so butchered that at first we all took them to be men. But 12 is young, especially in those pre Internet days, and more so when you lived as Olivier did in a town of only 13,000. In our tiny village, the population was closer to 50 and most everyone was either retired or well into adulthood. There was no one for the kids to hang out with except one another and the inarticulate man child, me, who lived just across the way. I was over at the G's a lot that summer, hoping to improve my French. At first I understood nothing, then a Single word, then two. Vien inter marche. One of the GS would ask. I would get into the car and ride with them to the charmless Walmart style hypermarket they like to shop at. It was a sort of place that sold both scallions and riding lawnmowers. The sort that smelled like a brand new beach ball and was killing small businesses across the country. Why here? I wanted to ask, though the answer was obvious. There was no real money to be made raising sheep. The hypermarket sold things more cheaply and in bulk. The grandkids were around a lot that August, especially Olivier and his cousin Claudette, who would grow up to become a nurse. One night we gathered in the G's cramped dining room to celebrate her 13th birthday. And when the lights were turned off in advance of the candle lit cake, I cried in a panicked, accusatory voice. Mon port foyer. My wallet And I got my very first laugh in French. Take children River. Madame G proposed the following afternoon. It wasn't far from her house, a 10 minute walk across a pasture and through the woods. Claudette and Olivier talked to each other. Along the way, I heard the words beach hot. Spain. That was where Olivier and his family had recently returned from. All of them deeply tanned. They were nice looking boys, beautiful really, all with their mother's black hair and olive complexion. At 15, the oldest was already handsome. His features had settled while Olivier's were still in play. The eyes a bit too large. They made his mouth appear small and girlish. It was a doll's face, flecked with moles, that reminded me of my own when I was his age. I noticed when we entered the woods that Olivier kept tripping and grabbing onto me for support. The first two times it happened, I didn't give it much thought. Then I realized it was an act, an excuse to make physical contact. He did the same as we crossed the river. The water was cool and shallow, easy to traverse on large flat rocks spaced no more than a foot apart. A child half Olivier's age could have done it, but he kept pretending to lose his balance. Then he'd grab hold of me in places that seemed strategic. My stomach, my butt, my upper arms. His hands lingered, feeling me rather than just relying on me for support. Look, he said at one point. I turned toward him and he pulled down his swimsuit, pointing to what looked like a mosquito bite on his bottom. His cousin laughed and I thought, no, put that away. A moment later, I saw Granny G coming down the path with a basket of blackberries. Bonjour. I called in a way that meant help and so loudly that birds took flight. I noticed. When we returned to the G's house, Olivier lowered his eyes and refused to look at me. There was no change in Claudette's behavior. She was her same cheerful self, but for her cousin. Once there were other adults around, I was dead to him. I said to Hugh over dinner that night, can a person be sexually harassed by a 12 year old? The following afternoon, I was at home writing in the milking parlor I used as an office, when Olivier let himself in the back door. Hugh here? I said no. And he hopped up the short staircase to our bedroom. You two together? He asked. At least I thought that's what he was getting at. To make it clear, he turned his hands into fists and bumped one against the other. I was trying to determine how to answer when he threw his arms around me. The kiss. He planted would have met my lips had I not turned my head as fast as I did, causing it to land instead just above my left ear. It was so unexpected. Shocking, really. In the same moment, I considered how this would appear were someone to look in through the window, and I wriggled away, saying, grandmother. When Olivier grabbed me again, my mind turned to those old New Yorker cartoons, the boss chasing his secretary around the desk, but in reverse, with the secretary being male as well, and a child. When I recounted the story to a friend back in New York, he wondered why I hadn't been firmer. Why not say, look, this is inappropriate? I explained that grammatically speaking, the sentence and the delicate ones it would lead to, was beyond me. Then, too, I remembered what it was like to be 12 and gay. You might grope a boy your age at a slumber party, pretending you were just horsing around, but if he called you on it, you would deny everything and then set out to destroy him. Me. It was you who started it. The shame, the guilt. It is overwhelming when you are a kid. Were I to embarrass Olivier, he could have said anything. And who would the people in the village believe? The cute 12 year old with the nice family or the foreigner who talks like a baby and is a known homosexual? Grandmother, I repeated, racing out the front door, which we always kept open. Everyone's was, regardless of the flies it let in. A closed front door meant that you were either asleep or up to something. Olivier had no interest in Hugh, just me. For some reason, perhaps because I'm small and was closer to his size then too. I've never had any authority, not even first graders do what I tell them to do. I thought this might change as I grew older, but it hasn't. Nobody is afraid of me, I'm guessing. Olivier watched the house, waiting until Hugh's car left and he knew I was alone, for he never came over otherwise. I took to closing and locking the front door, but that didn't stop him from crawling through the window. One afternoon I was taking a nap, and when I awoke to find him standing beside the bed, I knew I was in for it. Grandmother. I cried, but before I could stand, he was down on the mattress, put practically in my lap, his heart beating so loudly I could hear both it and Clotilde's dominoes falling against the metal top table across the road. I said to Hugh that night, what surprises me is his brazenness. I'd never have been so bold when I was 12, even if the other person was my age. I Wondered whether Olivier had had an experience with a teacher or a coach, or maybe just some gay grown up he'd run into. I was 41 that summer. That was ancient to a seventh grader, but again, I could understand what he might have been going through. When I was his age, I used to wait until everyone else in my house was asleep. Then I'd creep into the family room where my father would be conked out in front of the tv. He'd be in his underpants like always, snoring in his chair, and I'd sit on the coffee table, studying him. Most often I'd be wearing a pair of briefs I'd cut the back out of with scissors. It's nothing I'm proud of. Just the opposite. Recalling it fills me with shame. Even at the time, I wondered, what on earth am I doing? I don't know what I thought would have happened were my father to wake up. It wasn't sex I wanted. I'm not sure I understood the mechanics of it then, the what went where part. I suppose I just wanted to cuddle with my dad, wearing underpants I'd cut the back out of and my brown framed glasses. Our family room was on the ground floor and always smelled of mildew. It was accessible from the outside by way of two sliding glass doors, and more than once I wondered what someone looking in might have thought. It didn't last long, this phase, a couple of months, maybe, and I didn't do it every night. The following afternoon I'd watch my sisters eating their cookies or potato chips off the coffee table I'd sat on with my bare bottom, and I'd feel so ashamed of myself. I was out of control that year, completely. And so too, I knew, was Olivier. I half considered going to his grandparents with Hugh in tow, to translate, but when you are a gay kid, your greatest fear is that someone is going to rat you out. I could not in good conscience do that. And again, were Olivier to feel cornered, he might say anything. When I was 11, a year younger than he was, I developed a crush on a Neighborhood woman named Mrs. I don't recall why I chose her over any other mother on our street. She had a nice laugh, I remember, and she was always kind to me, asking questions and seeming to really listen to my answers. Mrs. Ha was plump and had three or maybe four children. I started by leaving flowers outside her kitchen door, then homemade cards. I'd creep over early and wait until her husband, my rival, left for work one morning. I went with a fresh bouquet and found an envelope waiting for me. In it was a note that read, dear David, if I were ever to fall in love again, it would be with you. All these years later, I can still admire what a perfect response that was. This is never going to happen, but thanks so much for noticing me. Would the same message have worked with Olivier? The difference, I suppose, was that all I'd done with Mrs. Ha was leave flowers. Then, too. She was a respectable mother, me having a crush on her. It was cute, a joke, something the grownups on my street could laugh about. A gay man, on the other hand, couldn't risk putting the word love in a note to a 12 year old boy. Olivier came around a few more times before his school year began and he stopped spending days in our village. It was always the same. He'd creep in and grabbing my cigarettes off the desk because I knew I wouldn't be back for a while. I'd say, grandmother, and then I'd rush across the road to the G's house and he'd reluctantly follow me, sulking until Hugh returned and I could go back to work. In early September I flew home to New York, where I could talk and be recognized as a whole person. I didn't see Olivier again until the following August. By that time my French had improved and he had outgrown me. This kid's going to be a famous fashion designer, madame G. Announced, beaming in his direction as we sat around her living room one afternoon. He's even taking sewing lessons, aren't you, Olivier? He grunted yes, and then returned to the game boy he was fiddling with. Never again did he come to our house or even call me by my name. I hadn't realized until then how terribly flattered I'd been by his attention the previous year, by the idea that no matter where I was or what I was doing, someone was thinking of me, perhaps even longing for me. Is this how a teacher feels after a student's crush has faded? The more French I learned, the more I understood how fractured the G's relationship was with their daughter, Olivier's mother, who eventually broke off contact with her parents and prevented them from seeing their grandsons. Clotilde died, and Madame G's mother followed them not long afterward, at the age of 103. I saw Olivier a few years later, just before Hugh and I packed up and moved to Sussex. He was working in his hometown at the hypermarket his grandparents used to take me to. I'd say he was around 20 at the time, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. Over this he wore a synthetic red uniform jacket with short sleeves. I watched from a distance as he removed the security tag from a pair of slacks. Then he folded them, scanned a few grocery items, and frowned vacantly into space as the customer opened her purse and began searching for her credit card. Under the harsh lighting that casts no shadows, his skin was sallow. He looked empty. Is this all? I wondered, feeling almost angry. No going to university? No moving to a big exciting city to become the next Mugler or Gaultier? Just working as a cashier at Inter Marche, of all places. Of course, I wasn't doing much when I was his age. It was in fact, one of the worst years of my life. I was a college dropout living in my parents basement and getting high all day. Hopefully Olivier was just stalled, lingering at the gate a moment before taking off. Still, I thought as I headed out the door to where I'd parked my bike, I'd wanted so much more from this boy. Not just Paris, but the world. Thank you.
- [59:00]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Bruised by David Sedaris Performed by Malik Pancholi Yes, Sedaris manages to make his predicament funny, but as you can hear, that story is full of discomfort. No, it's not comfortable. It shouldn't be. It's about puberty and adolescent confusion and striving to do the right thing. Despite how much the narrator feels flattered by Olivier's attentions, none of those things is easy, but they most certainly reflect how difficult and messy life can be. This story isn't for everyone. Sedaris never said as much, nor should he. But speaking on behalf of those of us at Selected Shorts, we think everyone ought to be able to make up their mind about whether or not a story is worth their time. Whether a writer like David Sedaris or Roald Dahl or Judy Blume or Toni Morrison, James Joyce, Harriet Beecher Stowe, or Art Spiegelman are in fact for them.
- [59:53]
Judy Blume
That's our show. Except we really, really appreciate appreciate you coming out to share your night with us and to engage not only with these authors and stories, but the fundamental ideas that we're talking about tonight. The protection of the freedom of expression and the freedom to read. Lauren Groff has recently opened a bookstore, an independent bookstore in Florida, and I'm thinking, and maybe if enough of us open bookstores there, we'll overwhelm the censors. We can try. Anyway. Special thanks to the National Coalition Against Censorship and the American Library association for all of the great work that they do. If you want to find out more ways you can help locally. Go to NCAA to join the Right to Read Network and find out more about the American Library Association's efforts@unitedagainstbookbounds.org you can also join PEN America. They've recently opened an office in Miami just to combat the censorship in Florida. And thank you again to the Brooklyn Book Festival. I'm Judy Blum. Good night and thank you.
- [61:42]
Meg Wolitzer
That was Judy Blume live at Symphony Space. Anyone who won't allow readers that freedom to read is living in fear. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward, and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Deardorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.