Every night, my daughter picks out bedtime stories from the picture books on her shelf. And every night, my husband gamely asks me the same question before starting to read: âThe gorilla [or dog, or pigeon, or llama, or snowplow, or crayon, or bear, or monster, or dinosaur, or fly, or cat, or tank engine] is a girl, right?â âRight,â I say. In our house, she is.
Our daughter doesnât know how to read yet, so she canât know that my husband and I are deviating from the text when we gender-swap Pete the Cat or Elliot the elephant or Pigeon the pigeon, and thereâs nothing in the booksâ illustrations or plots to suggest that these characters need to be male. In fact, it took me a while to notice the disparity myself. But once I started paying attention, I realized Iâd have to do on-the-fly editing if I didnât want my daughter to think that the non-human world is predominantly the province of males.
A 2011 Florida State University study found that just 7.5 percent of nearly 6,000 picture books published between 1900 and 2000 depict female animal protagonists; male animals were the central characters in more than 23 percent each year. (For books in which characters were not assigned a gender, researchers noted, parents reading to their children tended to assign one: male.) No more than 33 percent of childrenâs books in any given year featured an adult woman or female animal, but adult men and male animals appeared in 100 percent of the books.
My own nonscientific research suggests that not much has changed. While there are a handful of exceptions, like Frances the badger, Olivia the pig and Lilly the mouse, they are the exceptions, not the rule. Of the 69 Caldecott Medal and Honor winners since 2000, just four â âKittenâs First Full Moon,â âInterrupting Chicken,â âOliviaâ and âA Ball for Daisyâ (which has no text but identifies Daisy as âsheâ on the jacket copy) â have animal protagonists that are clearly identified as female. Recent bestseller lists are topped by books starring crayons, fish and a snowplow: all male or non-gendered. Lists fromÂ Scholastic and Time magazine of the best 100 picture books include fewer than 10 female non-human characters. If these books reflected reality, we wouldnât have to wonder why the dinosaurs went extinct â there were no females around for them to reproduce with.
Whatâs even more surprising is that this disparity persists in a time when gender norms are being challenged elsewhere in the culture: transgender characters on TV, gender-neutral college housing, public bathrooms with unisex signage. Last year, Target announced that it would stop dividing its toy department into âgirlsâ and âboys.â But little has changed when it comes to childrenâs books.
Does it really matter if the fish or the skyscraper is a boy? And do kids even notice? âAnthropomorphized characters have always been in the forefront of childrenâs books because they enable the creator to not have to make decisions about is this a tall or short, black or white … character,â says Marcia Wernick, a childrenâs literature agent who represents Mo Willems, creator of the Pigeon, Piggie and Gerald the elephant characters. âWhen kids arenât looking for that resemblance to themselves, there can be a universality, and the characters can express all the internal emotions.â
Which, I would argue, is exactly why these books are so influential. When I read my daughter âWhere the Wild Things Areâ or âMadeline,â she is hearing the story of a specific boy or girl. But when she hears story after story in which everything from the skyscraper to the very hungry caterpillar is called âhe,â how can she help internalizing the idea that to be male is the rule and to be female is the exception?
Even childrenâs books that seem radical in other ways reinforce a male-dominated universe. The current bestsellers âThe Day the Crayons Quitâ and âThe Day the Crayons Came Homeâ have been praised as parables of inclusion and celebrations of diversity. One bookseller I spoke with even described the rebelling crayons as a metaphor for the Occupy movement. Yet not a single crayon is identified with a female pronoun. Just about everything and everyone in the books â from five of the crayons to a paper clip to a sock to Pablo Picasso to the crayonsâ owner, Duncan, to his father to his little brother â is male, or not assigned a gender. The exceptions are a female teacher and Duncanâs little sister, who uses the otherwise under-employed pink crayon. To color in a picture of a princess. And is praised for staying in the lines.
âThere is an unspoken understanding in childrenâs books that a boy wonât read about a girl, which I think is a self-fulfilling prophecy,â says Betsy Bird, the collection development manager at the public library in Evanston, Ill., who blogs about childrenâs literature. âAny parent of a boy choosing between âThe Day the Crayons Quitâ and âFlora and the Flamingoâ [about a human girl who dances with a flamingo] will choose âThe Day the Crayons Quit.âââ
Two studies, one from 1978 and one from 1988, did find that boys expressed a preference for male characters, but the youngest age group studied was the fourth grade, at which point it is impossible to separate nature from nurture. Books are often introduced to kids in infancy, years before they are capable of holding a book upright and turning the pages, much less buying one â which translates to years of parents curating their childrenâs bookshelves and perhaps influencing what their kids will and wonât read.
The idea that boys wonât read books about girls, even if the girl is a duck or a moose, ties into another assumption: that boys aren’t into books. Concerns about the literacy gap between the genders create a kind of pandering to young male readers. âThe winners of recent Caldecott medals often seem to be the kinds of books that have been thought of as having appeal for boys,â says book historian and critic Leonard Marcus, who has written several biographies of childrenâs book authors. âIt could be that librarians know that they lose boys much more often than they lose girls as they get into the middle grades.â
The paradox is that childrenâs literature as we know it was largely created by women. In the 1930s, educator Lucy Sprague Mitchell formed a writers workshop to produce childrenâs books, launching the careers of writers and illustrators including Margaret Wise Brown (âGoodnight Moonâ) and Esphyr Slobodkina (âCaps for Saleâ). Powerful editors such as Ursula Nordstrom and the influential librarian Anne Carroll Moore shaped the reading habits of children for much of the 20th century. Today, the industry continues to be female-dominated, yet the manuscripts they edit and sell arenât.
âManuscripts come in with a gender assigned, and you tend to not question it,â says Lucia Monfried at Penguin Random House, who edits the Skippyjon Jones series, about a (male) Siamese cat. She adds that there is an increased awareness aboutÂ racial diversity in picture books right now. âWe would never show a classroom of children that wasnât racially diverse. Thatâs become so ingrained, but at one time it wasnât. We should question [gender] too. Why canât this character be a female, and wouldnât it be good if it could?â
The good news is that beyond the animal world, there are more options. Several recent books, such as Andrea Beatyâs âRosie Revere, Engineerâ and Ashley Spiresâs âThe Most Magnificent Thing,â depict complex human females who like math and science. (Of course there are classic human girls, too, such as Madeline, Amelia Bedelia and Eloise.) And, despite conventional wisdom about what boys will and wonât read, children may be far more open-minded than adults assume. Kevin Henkes, creator of a world of fantastic animal characters of both genders, says he hears from librarians and teachers that his fearless, resourceful Lilly the mouse appeals to boys and girls equally, topping lists of kidsâ favorite characters from his books.
As for Henkesâs Caldecott-winning âKittenâs First Full Moon,â he says the decision to make Kitten female was organic. âWhen Iâm working on a picture book, I write it and write it and read it aloud, and the rhythm of the words has to be exactly right,â he says. âFor the rhythm of the words, I needed a pronoun.â Inspired partially by the childrenâs author Clare Newberry, he says, he made that pronoun âshe.â
Which makes me think the gender imbalance may ultimately be as much a problem of language as chauvinism. It seems entirely possible that in my daughterâs lifetime, gender-specific pronouns will sound as archaic as âtheeâ and âthou,â supplanted by âzeâ or âzirâ or some neologism of the future. Until that happens, I will continue to seek out books with female protagonists and, as long as she lets me, will read my daughter stories about a mischievous, curious monkey and a pajama-clad, bedtime-fearing llama that, in my telling, just happen to be female. As Monfried says, âWhen we read our children picture books, weâre saying, âThereâs a world here that will give and give and give for the rest of your life.â We should want to show our children that anybody can do anything.â
To which Iâd add, we should want to show our kids that girls can be anything â and anything can be a girl.