Why I Don't Write Children's Literature

by Gary Soto

A DOG STORY FEATURING GEESE

  A not-much-loved poet remembers:

  For years I believed dogs were faithful and that by extending their paws they portioned out kindness to us humans. We were, after all, the ones who pulled back the tabs of cans and scented the air with processed meat byproducts. It was our duty, too, to flick the struggling fly from water bowls and to comb them with large brushes. And wasn’t it true that we led them to green and expansive public lawns and hurled Frisbees so they might exercise their joy?

  In 2008, I required a dog’s affection. My stock portfolio was like a zipper, way down, an embarrassment. My wife didn’t like me and my daughter liked me even less. If she could have, our child would have shot BBs at me through the gap between her front teeth. The hydrangea I planted died in dappled sunlight, and the roots of my spindly rose bush were nibbled by slick-headed gophers. It fell over and lay in a ball gown of shriveling leaves.

  I lamented the passing of these friends, the hydrangea and the rose bush. They had brought a smile to my face when I had watered them from the garden hose. They had spoken to me when the breeze sliced through their branches. Their demise was ugly business: I was forced to chop them down to size and hurl their roughage into the green bin. Philosophically, I realized that I had been born old. I wheezed when I walked and didn’t have much stature. I was shrinking into a forgetful little old man. Is this what angered my wife? That I was unmanly and unadventurous, and carried no more than two twenties in my wallet at any time? I kept my spare change in a coin purse. When pursed, it opened like a dirty mouth, revealing dimes, nickels, and bitter pennies.

  One day I ventured into a public park where children were hitting plastic balls with plastic bats. Bald babies with big, wet mouths were on swings, their soiled diapers fouling the air about them. Families were picnicking festively on blankets, and a father and son were flying a bipolar kite that swung in its own wacky movements, first left and then right. I could see the world was in its proper order and I had no place in that park. That is, until the appearance of a dog that initiated something like love. My heart began to leap like a trout. I jumped with joy, though admittedly not that high — because of my bad hip. When I clicked my fingers at this highbred pooch, he, dressed in an ascot, quivered his snout at me, raised that moist extension nobly, a few inches into the air, and sniffed twice. Did he catch a whiff of middle-aged sadness, of a man a whisker away from failure? Whatever, he sniffed and wheeled away.

  “Pooch,” I bellowed, “don’t you remember me? You were my best friend in childhood!” I explained how I’d patted rain from his fur, doctored his eyes with drops, used a comb to patrol his pelt for ticks and fleas. Hadn’t I fed and cuddled him when lightning sparked from really dark clouds? Well, not him, I told this dog, but a dog just like him. Didn’t he register my love?

  The highbred pooch responded by scraping his back feet on the ground, as if sweeping dirt on a steaming turd.

  I was too weak with loneliness to be offended. The trout inside my heart slowly expired, mouth gasping for good air. I lowered my head and thought, Worthless me! Near tears, I noticed that my zipper was down — forgetful, ever forgetful. I’d been rejected by a creature that had evolved; the dog knew a loser when he saw one!

  In truth, I really was downcast because of my stock portfolio (I was heavily invested in a rubber-band factory in Bangladesh) and the unfriendliness of family. And also because, the week before, I had secretly sent a fan letter to a community-theater actress. Her response had arrived in a reused envelope: a photo smacked with wide-mouthed kisses and a form letter photocopied a hundred times for men not unlike me. Surprised by my strength, I resolutely ripped up her letter and scattered the pieces, blistering my fingertips — I wasn’t used to such furious work. The photo was torn to shreds too, but not before her image had been burned into my memory. God, what large, white teeth she possessed.

  To make friends with my wife, I painted the bedroom white. The furry skin of the roller flopped nearly uselessly across the wide expanse of our bedroom. I worked the roller to fuzz and cardboard, painting with fury, until my hair was white. When my wife came home from work, I heard her keys hit the kitchen counter. Discovering me paint-flecked, she sneered at my clothes, then at the bedroom. “This,” she said, “is the wrong color white.”

  Now I have only one ambition: to befriend a dog in his middle years. I scan the public parks, where dogs of numerous breeds frolic, most princely the leaping terrier, but none has come to me when I have called. They all stop, appraise me from a distance, then prance away. Now and then the wild geese approach me with their heavy-ass waddle, shit a liquid drop or two, and clack their beaks at each other, as if sword-fighting. How I wish I could take a few clothespins and shut their beaks closed.

  Geese are not dogs. They are more like smirking sentries. When I tried to pet one, it snapped at my fingers. The look in his crazy, spinning eyes forced me to leave the park. As I walked up the street, every third person — and every other couple — had a dog on a leash. But not me. I yanked at my shadow like a rummy with a deaf dog, returning home by the shortest route.

  THE CROWD INSIDE ME

  Let’s say for the sake of play that there are three people inside me: the boy lifting weights in a garage; the teenager with three guitar chords in his heart; and the young man painting miniscule hearts on a first girlfriend’s thumbnail. This is all conjecture, of course, a way to keep my mind busy, a little creative wrangling on a day when I don’t have much to do. I could wash the car, or sweep the garage, or watch my wife baste a chicken with large artistic strokes before sending it into the oven.

  After forty years, however, I’ve tired of this game, a poet who used to lick the pencil to keep the tip moistened. I should favor history like, for instance, Erasmus. According to my mental notes, he left Italy for England in 1509. He sailed by single-masted ship, its hull loaded with barrels of wine, then was ferried by carriage — or perhaps, he rode a durable horse, certainly not a donkey. He would have been too smart to splay his bottom on a burdened beast, he a scholar with six languages at his disposal, a speed-reader who absorbed what he read in a logical manner. He settled in London, with King Henry VIII for his patron, and kept quiet during those years when heads were being lopped off and spiked for viewing on the London Bridge. This much I know about the saintly Erasmus.

  I’m not a historian who scribbles marginalia on the pages of first-edition books. At the moment, however, I’m musing over an incident in which the trustees of the York Minster (the second-largest cathedral in England) debated the scandalous nature of an image of Mary breastfeeding the baby Jesus — an image painted on the ceiling. In truth, the portrait was difficult to make out unless you craned your head straight up, like a duck swallowing a small fish. Posed in such a manner, a viewer could eye the soft heaven of Mary’s right breast, with Jesus clawing for the latch of a serviceable nipple. In 1910 — a prudish period, one would think — this image of the blessed mother feeding her son so provoked a few congregants that the trustees voted on its whitewashing. One enlightened trustee suggested a partial paint job: over Mary’s upper body. An artist could then supply an image of Jesus with a bottle in his mouth.

  I can just imagine the others’ reaction to this idea: “By Jove, we have it!” Thus Mary’s breast was stained to match the fabric of her dress and a large baby bottle painted in place — after all, even Jesus needed his nourishment. None of the church members was troubled by this alteration; at the time, there was no Breastfeeding Association of Great Britain.

  In the 1960s, however, when a new generation of trustees stood under the painting, gawking upwards, they were baffled by the presence of the baby bottle — did these exist in the time of old Bethlehem? Embarrassed by the decision of the previous administration, and recognizing the ridiculousness of the scene, the trustees again commissioned artists. Mary’s breast returned, perhaps even fuller than before, while the baby bottle was booted into a recycling bin. If the painted Jesus could have spoken
, he might have said, “Now we’re talkin’.”

  Again, I’m no historian. I habitually disrespect facts, though this bit of York Minster history is very much true. I’m a poet with three people inside me, none with spiritual rumblings. I have had to work with this gang of three for forty years. Recently, however, I added a fourth figure — an elderly gentleman, one sock black and the other dark blue, his sweater buttons in the wrong holes. This new person will ignore the other three, all loud-mouthed youth who live by the senses of taste, touch, and smell — not unlike, I guess, the baby Jesus. The old guy won’t do much but tinker in his garage and rake the hand-shaped leaves of the sycamore tree. He’ll find solace on a public bench in Oakland and return home with grass in his pant cuffs. That’s the best he’ll do, an adventure in the wilds of an unkempt park where one afternoon he is bullied by teenagers: “Come on, pops, go down to the liquor store and hook us up with some cold ones.”

  The old guy mulls it over: drinks — that would be nice. He has it together enough to say, “OK, I’ll buy if you fly,” then corrects his verbal gaffe. “Oh, silly me — I mean you buy and I’ll fly.” The teenagers hustle away, afraid of the lunatic; they light up on a faraway bench, whiffs of good shit scenting the air. They stare back in the direction of the old guy and mutter under their breath, “Checkered pants with red socks — hell no.”

  “I’ll die before I get that old,” one claims. And in Oakland, this is often what they do.

  GINA

  This Sunday, Gina comes running from service, she’s so happy. She stops, bends over, and tightens the Velcro straps of her pink runners. She picks up a napkin from the floor and places it on the buffet table. She eyes with fascination the other kids squirreling around on the floor of the church social hall. Today, she’s four years old; tomorrow, she will remain four years old. But for the older members of the church, me included, the clock spins wildly ahead — this morning you’re sixty-two and tomorrow right after lunch you’re seventy.

  It’s a great day for Gina. But part of the day is already gone: a tidy, hour-long service at Berkeley Methodist United, known as BMU, a traditionally Japanese American church. I see Gina from the corner of my eye. With both tiny hands, she’s doing her best to squeeze the hand brake of someone’s wheeled walker. Her eyes say: What is this thing?

  My attention returns, full focus, to Tomoko Hayashida who, like me, is a member of the Sogetsu school of ikebana. Unlike me, a newbie in the flower-arranging scene, she has been practicing the art for forty-plus years. Over a lunch of unadorned tuna sandwiches (no tomato, no lettuce, no pickle) and a pile of Pringles, Mrs. Hayashida tells me that I should do arrangements for the church. Her comment sends an electrical shock from my hand to my mug of tea; tsunami waves rock against its sides. The Pringles go down roughly. I cough three times. She wants me to make ikebana creations! I can place flowers in a bowl in a somewhat artful manner but, honestly, I have no clue about plant life. True, I recognize that a pineapple is not from the same genus as a marigold, but little more. I nibble a homemade cookie and remind myself to share this moment with my wife, Carolyn, who will tell me, “Tomoko was just being nice.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Gina at another table. She’s tapping Mrs. Goto on the arm. Mrs. Goto, somewhat surprised, turns and peers down at Gina. Taking her fingers out of her mouth, she whispers a short sentence. When Mrs. Goto shakes her head no, Gina turns to Mrs. Hirose. Mrs. Hirose also shakes her head no, as does a visitor at the end of the table.

  My attention returns to Mrs. Hayashida, who parts a slice of apple pie but doesn’t scoot a portion onto her fork. Her face appears concerned; she is thinking hard. She appraises me — in her eyes, I might appear to be a decent man. Her mouth is like a very small rose, a flower not used often in ikebana, and her neck is stem-like in elegance. In very slow and deliberate speech, she offers me bowls, vases, kenzans (frogs), a pair of scissors, and an apron with the Sogetsu logo. She tells me that she has books, some warped from the sprinkle of water over the ages, the pages stuck together — I imagine a flower or leaf pressed inside. And then I begin to worry. What I’d considered a kind gesture on her part has now become a genuine request. Smiling, I tell her several times that I’m only a beginner. I can’t follow the simplest of the school’s basic teachings, which require attention to color, mass, and form. I don’t know what to do except place a Pringle in my mouth, then crunch and chew. Briefly, I turn to three boys with a Nerf football, playing roughly on the stage of the social hall. Watching them, I can’t help but anticipate something breaking —either the stuff stored behind the curtain or one of their bones.

  Then I see Gina, tiptoeing to reach Mrs. Yamashita’s ear. From where I sit, I can make out the words, “Does this belong to you?” Gina points to the walker, but Mrs. Yamashita holds up a cookie.

  I try to excuse myself from Mrs. Hayashida, but she takes my hand and mentions the palm leaves. “They’re spray-painted white,” she says, “but you can do them any color you like.” I see palm leaves large as umbrellas on the wall of her garage.

  I thank her by squeezing her hand, even though I’m now thoroughly concerned that she thinks of me as her replacement for ikebana creations. Whatever responsibility she has could be passed down to me. What have I gotten myself into?

  I venture to a table where a platoon of desserts has been lined up — pumpkin pie, apple pie, and marshmallow something-or-other. Two teenage boys who could be Brad and Kenji hover over the table. Bright boys, neither jumps for a dessert. They are contemplative and picky; if they’re going to allow themselves something sweet, they want to make the right decision. The boy who could be Brad eventually reaches for pumpkin pie, while Kenji chooses a smaller piece of the same. I pick up a single oatmeal cookie, embedded with raisins and walnuts. With one nibble and three large bites, it’s gone.

  By the Japanese-language chapel, I corner David Fujita, a season ticket holder for the Golden State Warriors basketball team. “Hey, man,” I beg, “hook me up with tickets.” When I hold up two fingers, he smiles.

  “How are the books?” he asks, meaning my writing career.

  I tell him that only last week I met someone who had actually bought one of my books — a used copy, but what the heck. I would have continued my quest for tickets, pleading poverty, except for the tug on my pant leg. When I look down, David Fujita makes his escape, picking up a plate of apple pie from the table behind us.

  There is no escape from Gina, so I bend down to hear her whisper.

  “Does that belong to you?”

  I look at the stroller-like walker with a hand brake. Gina, I suspect, has already asked this question of all the nisei, the second-generation Japanese Americans; now she is asking me, a third-generation Mexican American. Mrs. Ito, Mrs. Suzukawa, Mr. Shimamoto, and Mr. Yamada, who is busing dishes, have all said no, touching the top of Gina’s head in the lightest fashion. She may have asked Reverend Southard as well, but not, I suspect, Miss Saito, who is sponging a spill on the floor with paper towels.

  Gina has gone from one older adult to the next, and now she has stopped at me. I see that she has cake in the corner of her mouth. What can I do but smile and touch the top of her head too? “Oh, no,” I tell her, “mine is all chrome.”

  She blinks, registers that I’ve answered no to her question, then turns away.

  Someday, I may have such a walker. Recklessly, I’ll cruise without a hand brake to slow my steps, daredevil me — got to have some excitement in my late years.

  And Gina? Quick as a fairy, she’s already on the other side of the hall, interrupting a conversation between Bishop Sano and Mrs. Uchida. The bishop cups his hand around his ear and bends forward to listen. He looks in the direction of the walker, understands her meaning, and shakes his head no. Mrs. Uchida, fork in hand, shakes her head no as well.

  This is a Sunday not unlike many others. The walker belongs to no one, it seems, and yet everyone. In the social hall, Gina is sweeter than any of the homemade pies.
r />   THE BUST OF A POET

  In the spring of 1989, hustling along the second floor of Dwinelle Hall at UC Berkeley, I noticed the bust of a poet on a tall pedestal. Like a troublesome child, it had been assigned to a corner. The quality of the veined and milky marble (imported from Italy?) was anyone’s educated guess, but the level of workmanship was evident. Here was the work of an artisan handy with chisel and hammer, with the muscular assignment of capturing a poet for eternity. I stopped because of the sculpture’s desecration: a piece of gum was stuck to the bridge of the poet’s nose.

  As I was on the teaching faculty, I had strode past this bust many times, but had never paused to view it as art, or to read the bronze caption, or to pay homage. How had the sculpture ended up on the second floor? Why not the first floor, or near the English Department in Wheeler Hall? Moreover, who was this poet? Had he studied here and made the institution proud? Had he once taught classics? Had he bequeathed bags of silver dollars to the university? This last was unlikely, I’ll admit — most poets live by their wits. They are inept at handling money and dispense IOUs that are seldom recouped.

  That spring day, as I beheld the lump of gum on the poet’s slender nose, I figured that some wisenheimer had been at work, a sophomore living up to his name. The crudeness of the act made me grimace. Still, I didn’t bother to peel off the wad — or to reflect on my own chewing gum, exercising my back molars. Instead, I seized upon the irony of the moment: weren’t poets supposed to be seers and anarchists of sorts, drunken troublemakers, wild as bramble? But with gum on his nose, this poet had become a clown. Moreover, I began to question him. If you were such a hotshot, I asked, why are you here in a corner and not the centerpiece of some world-renowned think tank or writing center set on a leafy hill? For a few seconds — little ticks of an angry clock — I was delighted by this childish prank. This poet of minor rank deserved that lump on his snout! He should have written better!