Reading “Little House on the Prairie” to my children on election night

by guest blogger Kelsey Johnson

Bedtime stories are a beloved tradition in our home. Recently, I’ve been reading aloud a few chapters from Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder to my children, ages 8 and 6.

These books chronicle the daily life of a courageous pioneer family. The stories are much as I remember them from my childhood: stories of resourcefulness and resilience, living off the land, surviving a winter of brutal blizzards, persevering in spite of many trials and set-backs. As a little girl, these were the first books I was able to read independently so they have always produced nostalgia and fondness in me. So I’ve read aloud, page after page. And, night after night, we’re all eager to discover what happens next.

But on some pages, I’ve come across parts of the narrative I don’t remember, things I didn’t catch as a child. They are the uglier parts of the story that reveal the historical context in which they were written. In many cases, this reality has opened conversations with my children—we have been able to talk about how we see and treat others who are different from us.

For example, the narrator (Laura) repeatedly says that Ma hates “Indians.” Each time this appears in the story, even though I cringe, I’ve paused to allow us to wonder together:

“Why do you think Ma hates Indians?”

Intuitively, the children have responded with, “Maybe she’s afraid of them,” or “She doesn’t really know any Indians.”

When we finish a chapter, I always flip through the next dozen or so pages to see what’s coming next in the story, anticipating what will read the next evening together.

Earlier this week, as I did my cursory previewing, it startled me when I came to a page that, no doubt, had been lost upon my child-self. Yet now, as a 33-year-old, an illustration of five men, smiling and dancing, jumped off the page. The men were in blackface and wearing tattered clothing. I recognized it immediately as a minstrel show and yet didn’t want to believe it.

I searched the paragraphs around the illustration and soon discovered that one of the men participating in the minstrel show, parading in blackface and entertaining the crowd of all White settlers was Pa! But it couldn’t be Pa, who could do no wrong. Pa, the one who defended Native Americans when Ma expressed her anxiety and hatred for them. Pa, who, like the character of Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, is glorified as a hero who rises above the racism prevalent in his social context and treats people as people.

Once again, I had idolized the myth of the exceptional White hero and ignored the ugliness that persists in each of us. As an often naïve White mom of bi-racial children, it humbles me that I feel continually “shocked” as I wake up to what has always been present in America in various forms—the ugliness only thinly veiled, barely masked, easily exposed.

Out of my own self-protection, I contemplated whether I should just skip over that part in the book. Would they even notice? Probably not, and I could avoid my own discomfort and preserve their innocence—for now.

But I decided to lean into the discomfort, knowing full well that is a part of our nation’s story. An often ugly story about the clashes of White identity and Black identity, but one that must be acknowledged and worked through.

So, without realizing the impending irony, I read those pages on Election Night 2016, as votes across America were being counted. I began by turning to the page with the illustration of the minstrel show—of those five seemingly comical characters, dressed up and disguised.

I called my children over to the chair where I was sitting and pointed to the picture and asked them, “What do you see? What do you think this is?”

“It looks like they painted their faces,” my daughter said.

“I think you’re right. Why do you think they would do that?” I replied.

“It looks like they’re making fun of Black people.”

In that revelation from the lips of my 8-year-old, I realized my children didn’t need much more explanation of minstrel shows. I only added: “Some people think it’s funny to mock others who are different. To laugh at another’s expense. To not really see them as people.”

I also made sure they knew that it was not OK to call Black people “darkies,” which is what they were referred to in the text. Somewhat soberly, we got through the chapter and I tucked them into bed with kisses.
From there, I went into the living room to watch as votes came in from every corner of our country. With an overwhelming sadness, I anticipated another conversation awaiting us at the breakfast table.

When our children couldn’t understand why someone who said and did ugly things like Donald Trump could be our president-elect, we did our best to answer because my husband and I are similarly bewildered. Parts of the conversation went like this:

“People get very confused when we are afraid.”

“We say hateful things to each other, and we don’t trust each other.”

“Through it all, we are going to keep loving each other and trying to understand each other.”

As painful as it is, I have to lean into the raw, exposed vulnerability. When family members think it’s funny to mock the tears of “liberals” and post videos of people declaring, “All Rifles Matter.” When a victory for some feels like a slap in the face to others. We continue the conversation and try our best to see people as people.

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Kelsey Johnson is White and lives in Houston, TX with her clergyman husband and their two Black/Bi-racial children. She received a B.A. in Communication from Centenary College of Louisiana, and is currently studying at Texas State University in the M.F.A. Communication Design program. She is a designer and photographer, passionate about advocating for access to diverse children’s literature. She supports inclusive faith communities and the welcome and resettlement of refugees.

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