I unwittingly stirred up a hornet's nest this week. Perhaps you noticed. I made the (apparently ridiculous) statement in one of my classes that there were no fairytale princesses . This happened when we were discussing Realism in literature and why it followed the Romantic movement. Romantics were dreamy, creative, imaginative, and a bit bizarre---Poe was a Romantic, for example. The Realism movement came along in part because of the Civil War. The way I explained this to the class was that just like we outgrow the Disney movie stage of our lives and move on to more realistic, grown-up topics, the Realists took over as the Civil War traumatized the country. No more Disney princess, a lot more scary movies or action movies. After all, everyone comes to the realization that they won't become princesses.
Well.
I was widely informed by a number of girls that they most certainly were princesses. They had always been princesses. They would always BE princesses. They were the princesses of their parents or of their boyfriends, or even both. And I could never claim that they would never be princesses.
This is what I've feared all along with the princess clothing, princess furniture, princess attitudes, and Toddlers and Tiaras phenomenon. There is an overwhelming attitude of entitlement from so many kids that I find by turns heart-rending and infuriating.
But this comes from a very simple place: the one that I was brought up in, the best raising I could ever have asked for. For the rest of my life, I will wonder at the great wisdom my parents had and how they did such a reasonable job of bringing up my brother, my sister, and me.
We could have had a lot more things that we did as kids, but we never lacked for the things we needed. Mom and Dad taught us to appreciate what we had, to be gracious and thankful, and never to expect things to be handed to us. This wasn't cruel; it taught us a work ethic. There was NO entitlement. I remember the perfect example: the Christmas that I was twelve and my brother was eight (this was before Sheri was born), we got checking accounts. We had our own checkbooks and were expected to keep them up-to-date. From then on, we were paid for any work that we did on the farm or at the business, Dad's grain elevator and feed store. From the money we made, we bought things that we wanted, such as records and (I have to admit my age) 8-track tapes, clothing we especially wanted (concert t-shirts, for example), books for me, ammo for my brother, things like that. We still had all our basics covered, of course, but we learned money management early and with the protection of still being young and at home. Some of the people I've told about this think is sounds a little cruel or over-the-top. But what is cruel about teaching your child how to survive? It seems much more cruel to me to NOT teach this to children.
Here's another example. I've written before about how I loved music from my earliest memories. By the time I got to be in fifth or sixth grade, I really wanted a stereo for my room. I was old enough that I liked to barricade myself in my room and read whenever I could, but the only stereo was in the family room. Maybe Mom suggested it, maybe Dad; I don't remember. But every fall I would help Mom pick up pecans, sometimes for weeks in a row. I decided that I would pick up enough pecans one fall to buy a stereo---the kind of system we'd have, back in the 70's, with a record player, 8-track, and AM/FM radio all in one, enormous speakers included. And I did it; with a little boost from my grandparents contributing an afternoon of their picking, I sold enough pecans to buy my first stereo. It was the most glorious thing imaginable to me! I remember the look and feel of the burlap covering the speaker fronts as though it was still in my room today. The heady scent of the plastic hinged lid to the record player was intoxicating. That was my most precious possession for many years, from junior high to making the ritual trip to my college dorm rooms each year, until it had to be updated for cassette tapes. No other stereo compared to that one---except, perhaps, the first one I got with a CD player that had a remote to it. And I paid for that one, too.
How many "princesses" learn the joy of working and earning things? How can they become responsible if they are treated and pampered as royalty? What happens to them when they are pushed by whatever circumstance into the real world, where no one will recognize their eminence? Will they know how to support themselves, and heaven forbid, their children, if life goes horribly wrong? These are the things that plague me about the Princess Complex. These are the reasons I pray the little girls in my own world will never think of themselves as princesses. Instead, I want their strength, confidence, and wisdom to come from true experience and ability, not over-protection from the vagaries of life.
Life is for real, not for royalty.
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