See discussions, stats, and author profiles for this publication at: https://www.researchgate.

net/publication/254951847

Reading Disability in Children's Literature: Hans Christian Andersen's Tales

Article in Journal of Literary & Cultural Disability Studies · January 2011

DOI: 10.3828/jlcds.2011.6

CITATIONS READS

18 3,353

1 author:

Vivian Yenika-Agbaw
Pennsylvania State University
25 PUBLICATIONS 144 CITATIONS

SEE PROFILE

Some of the authors of this publication are also working on these related projects:

Nonfiction, children's literature and literacies View project

Children's literature, culture and literacies View project

All content following this page was uploaded by Vivian Yenika-Agbaw on 12 July 2018.

The user has requested enhancement of the downloaded file.

Reading Disability in Children’s Literature
Hans Christian Andersen’s Tales

Vivian Yenika-Agbaw
Pennsylvania State University

The article examines the diversity issues that are embedded in fairy tales and explores socio-
political implications for the construction of so-called able-bodiedness. Critical disability theory
is discussed, as are studies that provide alternative approaches to reading children’s texts that
explore disability. In order to expose the discourses of power, four of Hans Christian Andersen’s
tales that feature non-human characters with disabilities are analyzed. The conclusion is that,
though seemingly innocent and thus supposedly pertinent for children’s reading, fairy tales
are loaded with ableist ideology.

When reading fairy tales we usually take for granted that the events are improb-
able and that the primary purpose is to entertain. While this may be true, as
we engage with the texts and get carried away with the characters, their deeds,
and all that is happening in their world, as we consume all the cultural images
that are present in the genre, there may be moments when we pause to ponder
a certain action, character, or event. It is at these moments that we may real-
ize that the tales from which we derive simple pleasures may often be loaded
with ideology (Hollindale 10). Even though we may not acknowledge the fact,
these tales, as cultural artefacts, have more to offer readers than pleasure. They
expose us to a particular world view, as conceived by an author who may have
lived in a world, region, and/or time that differs from our own in social values
and norms; an author about whose intentions we may only speculate. One such
author is Hans Christian Andersen.
Renowned for being one of the first creators of the literary fairy tale (Nor-
ton and Norton 48; Russell 199; Tatar, Annotated, xxxviii), Andersen’s “genius”
lay in his “ability to transform his private conflicts into metaphorical tales that
address universal social problems” (Zipes et al. 215). Additionally, Maria Tatar
asserts, the tales are magical and “give psychological depth” (Annotated, xviii).
Though fascinated with the magical touch that Andersen brings to his art, it
is the daily struggles of his characters that enthrall me, making me ponder
why, for example, a princess would opt out of a world where she is cherished,
and trade off her “fish’s tail […] to have two supports […] like human beings”
(“The Little Mermaid,” 142). For critics like Tatar, these stories that have char-
acters who endure “silent suffering,” and who for the most part end up dying,
Journal of Literary & Cultural Disability Studies 5.1 (2011), 91–108 ©  Liverpool University Press
ISSN 1757-6458 (print) 1757-6466 (online) doi:10.3828/jlcds.2011.6
92 Vivian Yenika-Agbaw

­tragically embracing a better life in the spiritual world (Classic Fairy Tales, 214),
have “engaged generations of children and adults alike with their melodramatic
depictions of desire, loss, and self immolation” (Classic Fairy Tales, 216). We
read them and may only conjecture as to why Andersen chooses to put his
characters through so many trials and tribulations. However, if we remember
the stories as “innovative narratives that explored the limits of assimilations in
closed social order” (Zipes 82), it becomes difficult to ignore the power dynam-
ics and/or the issues raised in a genre that hides behind what Vanessa Joosen
refers to as a “magic mode” (228).
On rereading some of my favorite Andersen tales I have found myself inter-
rogating the texts for their stance on disability (having grown up with a sibling
with a physical disability).1 In this article, I explore how characters with dis-
abilities in four of the tales interact with their environment and other mem-
bers of their community (humans and non-humans). It is my hypothesis that
power plays a significant role between the characters with disabilities (all of
whom are non-humans) and those without disabilities. I draw on Lissa Paul’s
assertion that “without ever being explicit” fairy tales “confirmed” the “order
of colonial authority,” which had become a “natural order,” with husbands and
parents in domineering roles and wives and children in subservient roles (24).
This power structure is expanded to include relationships between humans and
non-humans. In the case of the four tales—“The Little Mermaid” (1837), “The
Brave Tin Soldier” (1838), “Little Tiny or Thumbelina” (1835), and “The Ugly
Duckling” (1843)—the fact that the characters have disabilities defines their
place in the social order within their imagined worlds. In a way, Andersen uses
their disabilities, construed as “an alien condition” (Snyder and Brueggeman 2),
to heighten their otherness, and consequently ranks them at the bottom of the
social ladder, even below able-bodied animals.
In Andersen’s day, according to Tatar, “critics believed his greatest accom-
plishment came in the form of fairy tales (‘told for children’) […] And yet many
of those fairy tales took up adult themes” (Annotated, xxxviii). They are clas-
sified in three categories: Tales for children, Tales for adults, and Biographies.
The tales I have selected fall in the first of Tatar’s categories.2 While there seems
to be a growing interest in how cultural groups are represented in literary texts,
many scholars agree that constructions of disability in children’s books are for
the most part stereotypical (Blaszk 3; Irwin 3; Rubin and Watson 60–61); unre-
alistic (Dyches, Prater, and Jenson); or may simply reflect the social attitudes of
1. Tatar asserts that translations are never “pitch-perfect” (Annotated, xxxviii).
2. Tatar adds, “The first dozen tales in [her] volume may seem too harsh for children at times, but
they constitute the Andersen canon” (Annotated, xxxviii–xxxix).
 Reading Disability in Children’s Literature 93

the time (Little 181–82). Little proclaims, “Early books seem to promote three
major purposes: to inspire Christian piety and patience through examples of
the sufferings of the unfortunate handicapped characters, to show the accom-
plishments possible in spite of physical adversities, to educate the public about
what is involved in various handicaps and overcoming them” (182). The tales
discussed here, published within the first half of the nineteenth century, empha-
size some of these purposes.
Having read these stories to my children, and purchased for their amusement
some of the artefacts and merchandise associated with the characters, especially
playthings connected with “The Little Mermaid,” it has become very clear to
me that from seemingly “innocent” tales a lot can be learned about society and
how people negotiate power relationships. My discussion of how characters’
disabilities limit participation in their fictional communities revolves around
six of several questions that Paul uses to illuminate the colonial order evident
in children’s books:
Whose story is this?
Who is on top?
Who acts? Who is acted upon?
Who gets punished?
Who speaks? Who is silenced?
Who looks? Who is observed? (16)
I use this framework primarily because it makes visible the subtle ways in which
power relationships work in stories. I focus on these six questions not only
because they are the most relevant to my analysis, but also because they serve
as concrete items within the texts. I could easily establish connections between
the events happening in these fictional settings and events that occur in the real
world, as is often advocated by the reader response theorists Louise Rosenblatt
and Robert Probst. This is not to say that they occur in the same manner, for, as
Rosemarie Garland-Thomson reminds us, “the actual experience of disability is
more complex and more dynamic than representation usually suggests” (Extra-
ordinary Bodies, 12).

Disabled, Dis-ability and/or Dis-human?

Defining disability is something with which many educators grapple. Accord-

ing to the Disability Discrimination Act (DDA), “a disabled person [is] some-
one who has a physical or mental impairment that has a substantial and long
94 Vivian Yenika-Agbaw

term adverse effect on his/her ability to carry out normal day-to-day activ-
ities.” Kathy Saunders and Lynn Kings recognize two interrelated definitions:
a medical definition that suggests that disability is caused by a medical condi-
tion and a social definition, which they attribute to how society accommodates
or responds to persons with disabilities (1). Tobin Siebers argues further that
disability is “the product of social injustice, one that requires not the cure or
elimination of the defective person but significant changes in the social and
built environment” (3). Perceived as a social construct, it provides an appropri-
ate framework through which people with disabilities can “organize politically”
and fight for their civil rights (72).
Definitions of disability are problematized by Dianne Pothier and Richard
Devlin, who note that most are either limited in scope or have overlooked a pos-
sible socio-political dimension that can be linked to issues of power. Drawing
attention to descriptors that are used in society (and in their own edited book),
some of which include “persons with disabilities,” “the disabled,” “disabled per-
sons,” “people with impairments,” “activity limitations,” and “people who live
with impairments,” Pothier and Devlin argue that the use of multiple descrip-
tors is “a reflection of a significant level of discomfort with what the English
language seems to be able to offer as the available options” (3). This discomfort,
for them, raises concerns about equality, as interpreted by the social models,
since disability, they add, “has no essential nature. Rather, depending on what
is valued (perhaps overvalued) at certain socio-political conjunctures, specific
personal characteristics are understood as defects and, as a result, persons are
manufactured as disabled” (5). Garland-Thomson reinforces this idea, insisting
that “disability, like femaleness, is not a natural state of corporeal inferiority,
inadequacy, excess, or a stroke of misfortune. Rather, disability is a culturally
fabricated narrative of the body, similar to what we understand as the fictions
of race and gender” (“Integrating Disability,” 5–6). This builds on her notion of
disability being a “form of ethnicity” and not necessarily a “form of pathology”
(6). While the claim may raise concerns about the status of disability, as the
basis for a minority group with all the trappings in regards to identity it also
has the potential to force individuals to rethink their understanding of what it
means to live with disability. This is particularly important, for, as Adrienne
Asch points out about the human variation model she supports, “human beings
come in a variety of physical, mental and emotional make-ups that change over
time and may fit well into some sizes of clothing and some environments, but
not others” (4). Looking closely at the four protagonists, we realize that while all
are comparably disabled, their “impairments are multiple and various” (Asch 3):
Tin Soldier has one leg; Little Mermaid is mute and feels pain when she walks;
 Reading Disability in Children’s Literature 95

Thumbelina, while technically able-bodied, is tiny; and Ugly Duckling is ‘ugly’

to the ducks. Because the minority model may be limiting in this respect, I uti-
lize the medical and socio-political definitions of disability that better serve my
purpose. Nevertheless, I do understand that disability is a “loaded” term whose
meanings evolve as our understandings of the socio-cultural, “medi-cultural,”
and socio-political realities and implications of bodily form deepen. It is also
important to remember that because disability is so complicated, representing
it in children’s fiction is difficult (Blaszk 2).
Before proceeding I should expand a little on how Andersen’s four protagon-
ists meet disability criteria. Dysches, Prater, and Jenson stipulate that “the tin
soldier [is] considered to have an orthopedic impairment—a missing leg” and
that “dwarfism is considered a disability under the Americans with Disabilities
ACT.” Therefore, Tiny is a character with a disability. The Little Mermaid, by vir-
tue of being mute, also qualifies under this act. Garland-Thomson asserts that
there existed “ugly laws” in our not-so-distant past, which were later repealed in
1974 (Extraordinary Bodies, 7). This reinforces Snyder and Brueggeman’s notion
of “psychological disabilities” (1), thereby rendering Ugly Duckling disabled
too. I am interested in how these characters interact with their environment
and focus on two ways in which power dynamics play out in the tales: charac-
ters as objects of amusement and/or pity and characters as a dominated class.

Objects of Amusement and/or Pity

In the introduction to her collection, Lily Owens remarks that many of Anders-
en’s fairy tales and stories are “moralistic; others are strongly Christian. And yet
he retained a mischievous sense that people’s ethical standards are not always
the highest and that this can be treated with humor as well as moral exhortation”
(xi). Perhaps this is the best place to begin the discussion, especially in regards
to “The Little Mermaid.” This is an engaging story of a mermaid who sacrifices
her family, body parts, voice, and life for a human prince who never returns
her love; a tale that, Tatar contends, even Andersen had to admit was quite
moving (Annotated, 119). As Paul observes about popular fairy tales, this story
explores the typical gender power relationship with the female in a subservient
role, aspiring to win the love and approval of the handsome prince. Although
the mermaid does get her wish to be part of the human world in the company
of the prince, she remains “his little foundling,” dancing “quite readily, to please
him, though each time her foot touched the floor it seemed as if she trod on
sharp knives” (145). Moreover, as her love for him grows he simply “loved her
96 Vivian Yenika-Agbaw

as he would love a little child,” “yet unless he married her, she could not receive
an immortal soul” (145). In his eyes, her disability otherness makes her asexual
(Murray and Jacobs 155).
Applying Paul’s questions to this tale indicates that, although it is the mer-
maid’s story, she is under throughout, she is voiceless, she is constantly acted
upon as she observes the prince and his royal human crowd, and she is eventu-
ally punished. In other words, it may be her story, but the humans end up on
top, as they unconsciously shut her out of their active social circle—making
room for her only as an entertainer and, because she is mute, an object of pity.
The interesting thing is that the prince is not depicted as callous; for a moment
we may be tempted to sympathize with him somewhat for being oblivious to
her love, or ignorant about her affection, and simply blame the mermaid for
trying so hard to prove her worth. But on close reading it is evident that the
prince really makes no effort to understand her body language. This kind of
oblivion may be interpreted as a sign of entitlement on his part; as an able-
bodied prince he is the normative standard that others should aspire to look
like and with whom they should wish to associate.
“The Brave Tin Soldier” also echoes sentiments of a certain kind of colonial
order, but with a different twist.3 His disability is not of his own doing, as is
the case with the mermaid: rather, it is a manufacturing glitch, for “there was
not enough of the melted tin to finish him, so they made him to stand firmly
on one leg” (12). Like the mermaid, he is surrounded by humans. But, unlike
her, he directs his affection toward a cut-out paper dancer whom he believes is
also one-legged. This attempt to link up with someone who shares his physical
disability serves as a motivating factor that enables him to survive the abuse he
suffers at the hands of the humans. He chooses to blame his mishaps not on the
humans but on the black goblin who had taunted him earlier, thereby introduc-
ing a racial dimension to the tale, and blackness as another symbol of otherness.
In so doing, he refuses to acknowledge the superiority of the boys; instead, he
holds steadfast to his love of the dancer in hope of having her reciprocate.
Although Dyches, Prater, and Jenson argue that the focus of the story lies on
the tin soldier’s steadfast behavior (which is typical of a soldier) and not neces-
sarily on his disability, I insist that the missing leg reinforces this behavior. He is
a soldier with one missing leg and must appear courageous throughout his trials
and tribulations, but this becomes personal in the light of his sexual awakening.
He wants to love and be loved. This desire for love takes precedence. Moreover,
3. I would strongly recommend that Mitchell and Snyder’s Narrative Prosthesis is consulted for more
about “The Tin Soldier.” I have not drawn on the work in this instance only because I am focusing on
the application of Paul’s work.
 Reading Disability in Children’s Literature 97

he is a symbol of “fortitude in the face of adversity,” for he “endures all manner

of assaults from humans and from the forces of nature, but he also has a roman-
tic side, pining for a ballerina who fails to acknowledge his devotion. In the end,
theirs is a failed romance, for they proved unable to transcend their inanimate
condition” (Tatar, Annotated, 223).
The Tin Soldier is acted upon as an object of entertainment: initially, by the
birthday boy; next, by the boys who put him on a paper boat and send him off
in the flowing water; and, eventually, by the little boy who tosses him into the
stove. Although (like the mermaid) not on top, the Tin Soldier takes his mis-
fortunes in strides, coming to terms with the fact that his otherness is a factor
in the overall quality of his experience. In his human and inanimate worlds,
just like in the mermaid’s human world, humans become colonial masters who
wield power, consciously or unconsciously, over their subordinates—who are
not only different from them culturally but also physically—and reduce them
to objects of entertainment. Their differences are multifarious; the tin soldier
is both inanimate and “handicapped,” even as the mermaid is mute. Physically
she may look like the humans, but culturally she feels alienated and remains an
exotic other.
Popular in fairy tale collections (Nikolajeva and Scott 42), “Little Tiny or
Thumbelina” manifests the same pattern of colonial dominance. However, the
protagonist, unlike the mermaid and tin soldier, goes through a series of “own-
ers,” from the woman who desires a child, to the toad who kidnaps her with
the hopes of marrying her off to her son, to the field mouse who arranges a
marriage between her and a blind, rich, but unkind mole. As a character whose
disability falls under the category of “dwarfism” (Dyches, Prater, and Jenson),
Tiny finds herself the smallest among humans and animals wherever she goes.
Consequently, she is always in danger of being stepped on or blown or tossed
away. Like the mermaid and tin soldier, she is part of the human world at first,
having sprung out of a flower as “a delicate and graceful little maiden […]
scarcely half as long as a thumb, and they gave her the name of ‘Thumbelina,’
or Tiny, because she was so small” (6). She is treated as a pet by her owner who
sets up a “walnut-shell, elegantly polished” as a bed, puts down a “plateful of
water,” and leaves her alone to amuse “herself on a table” (6). In this regard, she
is a plaything and not the child whom the woman so desired. Her plight is dif-
ferent from the first two characters in that she emerged from a flower; but for
her size she could pass for a human, her supernatural origin notwithstanding.
Interestingly, in both the human and natural worlds, the larger people/animals/
objects serve as colonial masters, as they also objectify and reduce her to a freak
of nature (Garland-Thomson, Freakery, 2).
98 Vivian Yenika-Agbaw

Among the four protagonists, Tiny is the one who is acted upon the most and
who also endures the most pity. The fishes save her because “they saw she was
very pretty, and it made them very sorry to think that she must go and live with
the ugly toads” (7). However, the cockchafers dismiss her as ugly, for “she is like
a human being” (8). She remains an object of curiosity, pity, and admiration
because of her size, but, above all, an object of amusement until she joins other
little people in a world where their size is the normative standard.
“The Ugly Duckling” takes the idea of ugliness as a disability to another level.
Ugliness, though touched upon briefly in “Thumbelina,” is more central in this
tale that has tremendous universal appeal because of the societal obsession with
appearance. The title character is acted upon throughout by his family, other
barnyard animals, and humans because they consider him ugly. The large egg
out of which he hatches is mistaken for a turkey egg; when it hatches, the duck
is amazed at the duckling’s size and hopes “his looks will improve” or “maybe
in time he’ll shrink a little” (104). His extraordinary body, just like in “Thumbe-
lina,” makes him stand out, and causes anxiety to the animals and humans. But,
unlike Thumbelina, who finds instant acceptance among the flower people, Ugly
Duckling must metamorphose into a beautiful swan before he gains recogni-
tion from the swans. In this new bodily form he does not mind the stares. Tatar
posits that to many the tale “is the most deeply personal of Andersen’s stories, a
narrative that traces his trajectory from humble origins to a literary aristocracy
with a deeply servile attitude in relation to the real aristocracy” (Annotated, 114).
In relaying this story, Andersen insinuates that attention directed toward the
beautiful swan is better appreciated than attention aimed at the ugly duckling.
But I would argue that in both situations the “duckling” is objectified, for, as
Garland-Thomson contends, staring is a way to dominate another (Staring, 42).
The characters in these tales are not passive victims; rather, in different ways,
they make conscious decisions about their lives and must live with the conse-
quences of their actions, like the little mermaid. Alternatively, they use what-
ever resources they find in their environment, or their talents/skills, to liberate
themselves. They remain nameless but for Tiny who is renamed Maia, a name
that does not merely reflect her physical condition but solidifies her member-
ship in her segregated community of tiny people.

A Dominated Class

Typically, “main characters almost never have physical disabilities,” as Garland-

Thomson observes (Extraordinary Bodies, 9), but it is clear that in children’s
 Reading Disability in Children’s Literature 99

literature there are a few exceptions to the rule. In these tales, the characters
may be non-humans, but Andersen infuses them with human emotions. More-
over, Tatar reveals that critics “have seen mirrored in the tales the maker of the
tales” (Annotated, xix). Perhaps these autobiographical aspects may give more
credence to the depth of Andersen’s “outsiderness,” as projected onto his char-
acters (inanimate, animals, and “aliens”).4 Their “inferior status,” as they are
main characters in their own stories, is centerfold, thereby “eliciting responses
from other characters or producing rhetorical effects that depend on disabil-
ity’s cultural resonance” (Garland-Thomson, Extraordinary Bodies, 9).
Zipes postulates that throughout his life Andersen was “obliged to act as a
dominated subject within the dominant social circles despite his fame” (87).
This detail echoes the mermaid’s plight, for although famed for her dancing
skill within the human royal kingdom she is not necessarily part of the inner
circle. As Zipes concludes, Andersen’s “perspectives focus more on the torture
and suffering that a member of the dominated class must undergo to establish
her true nobility”; “voiceless and tortured, deprived physically and psycho-
logically,” the mermaid “serves a prince who never appreciates her worth” (96).
Although Zipes equates the mermaid’s species to a “dominated class,” I do not
necessarily consider it so. Rather, I believe that the mermaid finds herself in a
subordinate role only in the human world, where her status as an “Outsider”
positions her as such. She is different in this new community where she seeks to
be the spouse of their prince. It is important, however, to remember that in the
underwater world she is a princess with royal privileges and powers that may
be equated to those of the prince in his mortal world; and if she would only kill
him she would easily return to a home where she is not only cherished for her
talents but also valued. Therefore, her world can be considered a parallel. But
because she crosses over to the human world she is reduced to a dominated
person. Moreover, like most “outsiders” who seek acceptance from the dom-
inant culture (whether it be on grounds of race, class, gender, religion, sexual
orientation, or disability), she is powerless and relies heavily on her talents.
The mermaid, the tin soldier, and Tiny, as courageous as they are in their
pursuit of love or in their belief in love or acknowledgement of love that could
exist, linger at the margins of their fictional societies. These characters perhaps
search for love to make their lives complete. While one aspires to be absorbed
into the human community through marriage, and is willing to trade her voice
and body parts, and the second simply wishes to be with a “wife” whom he
mistakenly believes shares his disability, the third ends up with one of her kind,
4. Nikolajeva and Scott draw attention to Linda Lysell’s construction of Thumbelina as an alien in
her illustrated version (47).
100 Vivian Yenika-Agbaw

“a tiny little man” (12). In the end, the mermaid must accept her lonely demise,
whereas the tin soldier perishes in the fire with his love interest right next to
him, making his dream come true for the brief moment that they burn together;
Maia lives “happily” among the flower people who provide her with a new set of
wings to fly; and Ugly Duckling finds a home with the swans.
Looking at the tales in this way it is evident that these characters have lit-
tle value among the humans/animals whose cultural space they occupy. Little
Mermaid and Tiny both know of a society where they are cherished, but Ugly
Duckling learns about this only after his transformation into a swan. This detail
draws attention to a shift in power: wherever the characters are located as the
majority, they are intrinsically part of the dominant culture; when they are in
the minority, they are excluded and are constantly reminded of their otherness.
As is typical of nineteenth-century narratives, Andersen’s narrative voice over-
sentimentalizes the characters’ sufferings and pain, thereby legitimizing sympa-
thy. He does not withhold what is “wrong” with the characters, however. Rather,
the plots are driven by their otherness—what sets them apart and how those
around them react to their uniqueness. Moreover, in choosing to make them
non-humans, he insinuates that disability is not something to be wished upon a
human being. The narratives are steeped in what Garland-Thomson refers to as
a “dominant rhetoric of sentimental benevolence laced with Christian sympathy,
the traditional cultural discourse of disability” (“Cultural Logic,” 787). As char-
acters with disabilities, their problems are resolved in a simplistic manner: die
or join one of your kind. By dying and/or leaving the communities where their
disability sets them apart, they cease to pose any threat to the “normative expect-
ations” of that community” (Garland-Thomson, “Cultural Logic,” 783).

Visual Images of Disability

Visual images of these tales reveal illustrators’ imaginative, and at times pro-
vocative, interpretations of disability. In children’s literature, illustrations are
generally said to do several things: verify, elaborate, complement, extend, and/
or parallel texts (Galda and Cullinan 89; Schwarcz 14–15). However, in the light
of the postmodern era, it is increasingly hard to narrow down what illustrations
can do, for a lot depends on the illustrator. Nodelman poses a couple of relevant
questions: “[A]re pictures so readily understood? And are picture books really
so straightforward?” (70). Because of the popularity of picture books among
young children (the implied audience), many may answer these questions in
the affirmative. Nodelman and Reimer caution against this, though, pointing
 Reading Disability in Children’s Literature 101

out that our assumptions about the world and the subject deeply inform our
interpretations of texts. This can be inferred from picture book renditions of
the tales, four pairs published ten or more years apart: The Little Mermaid, illus-
trated by Laszlo Gal in 1983 and Rachel Isadora in 1998; The Steadfast Tin Soldier,
illustrated by Marcia Brown in 1953 and Rachel Isadora in 1996; Thumbelina,
illustrated by Susan Jeffers in 1979 and Brian Pinkney in 2003; and The Ugly
Duckling, illustrated by Thomas Locker in 1987 and Jerry Pinkney in 1999. All
eight selections are exquisitely illustrated by award-winning American (black
and white) and Hungarian professionals, who visually represent disability in
familiar and unfamiliar ways, reinforcing and/or interrogating power struc-
tures. One way they accomplish this is in their positioning of characters start-
ing with the cover art, which not only hints at a theme, but also an audience
(Nikolajeva and Scott 51).
In Gal’s The Little Mermaid, the cover art is a formal portrait of the mermaid
staring sideways pensively. The illustration, done in pastel colors, is framed,
creating distance between readers and the subject (Moebius 150). Around the
picture are four of the mermaid’s sisters, but at the bottom of the frame stand
two young male devilish figures, insinuating the low status of male characters in
the story (149). While the mermaid looks away in the portrait, she still appears
to be aware of readers watching her. This illustration sets the tone for the others
we encounter.
Within the frames, the elegant pictures accord each character human dig-
nity, in spite of their deeds. The mermaid, even in her struggles, elicits respect,
empathy, and admiration. Once transformed to a human, she lies naked at the
Prince’s feet, as though posing for a portrait. Gal’s illustrations emphasize her
femininity, thereby telling the story of unrequited love. Iram Khan observes
that Gal’s original cover, which was one of a bare-breasted woman, “was not
accepted in the United States because it would not have been good for sales in
the ‘Bible Belt.’ Gal had to cover the breasts with hair” (2). The illustrations may
be said to seem nonetheless provocative.
Isadora’s illustrations of The Little Mermaid work very differently. The cover
art features a prepubescent girl with sad eyes. Unlike Gal, Isadora evokes pity.
She uses vibrant and dark colors to capture the mood in different scenes. She
exoticizes evil characters like the witch, thereby accentuating the mermaid’s
innocence. Isadora’s representation aligns with dominant views of disability; it
reinforces the sympathy motif.
Brown’s and Isadora’s illustrations of The Tin Soldier also differ from each
other. Brown’s cover displays a black and white profile of the character super-
imposed on an orange background at the bottom right corner of the page.
102 Vivian Yenika-Agbaw

Moebius would interpret this as an indication of low status. Tin Soldier stands
on one leg holding onto his bayonet and appears to be in a vast empty space.
Brown’s illustrations invite such dialogue. For example, in one scene the tin
soldier engages in a staring contest with two blond boys just before one tosses
him into the stove. The relationship between a “starer” and a “staree,” Garland-
Thomson explains, can be complex, for while the eyes cannot help but stare at
someone or an object that is different, the starer most often feels uncomfortable
when the staree catches him/her staring (Staring, 84).
Though tackled directly in Brown’s illustrations, Isadora only makes intima-
tions about the colonial order. Her cover art displays a close-up of a sad-looking
Tin Soldier in a newspaper boat. With his legs hidden he can “pass” for an
able-bodied soldier. Siebers discusses the tenuous nature of such passing, not-
ing that from the “point of view of the disabled,” it “tells a story” to non-disabled
counterparts, “but each side expresses a desire, the desire to see disability as
other than it is” (119). Accordingly, this cover art raises a question: does Isadora
feel that children may not find credible the idea of a one-legged Tin Soldier as
captain, or is she representing him as someone with an inflated ego, as Moebius
concludes about close-ups of characters (150)?
Both illustrators highlight the Tin Soldier’s otherness; but Brown emphasizes
his low status consistently, whereas Isadora recreates a character that seems
larger than life. In addition, she exploits the irony of him not noticing her sus-
pended leg on the other half of a double-page spread, making his fixation on
the ballerina more dramatic (there is an able-bodied ballerina closer). They
both die without him ever finding out that the ballerina is able-bodied. We are,
therefore, left wondering about how he would have reacted had he noticed her
second leg.
As with the other covers, Jeffers’s and Pinkney’s approaches to Thumbelina
underscore different aspects of the tale. Jeffers’s cover introduces Thumbelina
as a bride-to-be, all dressed in a white bridal gown with the field mouse hem-
ming the seams, while the old blind mole sits nearby. Positioned in the center,
Thumbelina, in her white, well-tailored gown, contrasts with the rugged natural
environment. She is pensive as she stares up. In so presenting her, Jeffers may be
emphasizing Thumbelina’s subsequent role as the object of sexual desire. She is
represented, however, as childlike in other illustrations.
Pinkney’s cover, on the contrary, has a skinny black girl with a large head
staring at a flower. In the first picture inside the book, she is in a fetal position,
in the middle of a red flower, dressed in red, and staring at a woman I assume to
be her mother. Pinkney’s Thumbelina, at times, is older looking, even when she
manifests childlike tendencies. Her unusually large head adds to the mystique
 Reading Disability in Children’s Literature 103

of her persona. Represented as a little woman, she is sensuous just as she is tom-
boyish. Even as Pinkney represents Thumbelina from the start as a little person,
Jeffers leads us to believe otherwise. Like Isadora’s Tin Soldier, the appearance
of Jeffers’s Thumbelina evolves from that of a contemplative young bride to an
adventurous girl, a frightened lost child, and eventually to the elated bride of
the king of the flower people. As she undergoes these changes in representa-
tion, the illustrations perpetuate some stereotypes about people of short stature,
in the same vein that they reveal the subtle ways power relationships unfold
between the able-bodied and disabled, males and females, humans and others,
and big and little people/creatures. While both illustrators may target different
audiences, the colonial order that is evident in the original narratives persists.
Disability and power as represented in Locker’s and Pinkney’s illustrations of
The Ugly Duckling differ greatly. While Locker teases out the tension in subtle
ways within his framed pictures, which appear as single full pages, Pinkney
confronts it squarely in double-page spreads. The framed picture on Locker’s
cover is of an idyllic landscape with a lone duckling in the middle of a lake.
This image, which reappears inside the book, contradicts the narrative of the
duckling’s struggles. Alone in the lake, he blends with his natural surround-
ings perfectly, but this is before winter sets in, as the subsequent illustrations
reveal. Pinkney’s illustration spans both the front and back covers of the book:
on the front, Ugly Duckling hatches out of an unusually large egg; on the back,
his siblings stare at the spectacle with curiosity. Pinkney’s naturalistic pictures
in watercolor seem immediate, whereas Locker’s framed formal paintings dis-
tance the experience. Also, more so than Locker, Pinkney highlights the daily
tension and magnifies the stares the duckling receives.
While the seven illustrators do not interpret disability in the same manner,
they address in varying degrees the marginalized reality of the protagonists.
Even as some more than others continue to perpetuate old stereotypes, they
demonstrate the difficulties of representing disability in children’s texts.

Implications for Critical Literacies

Saunders and Kings posit that many underestimate the role that children’s texts
play “as an agent in creating, preserving and reflecting cultural attitudes” (1).
If we agree that texts indeed have the power to shape “cultural attitudes,” then
we need to pay attention to the ways authors use language (verbal and visual)
to encode these attitudes. Pothier and Devlin’s critical disability theory, which
insinuates that social models of disability do not go far enough in addressing
104 Vivian Yenika-Agbaw

the inequalities that exist in society, encourages the questioning of power rela-
tionships to foster an inclusionary citizenship. I take this one step further by
suggesting that we also interrogate signs of power in texts. And I assume here
that there are different kinds of texts. Theories of critical disability and postco-
lonialism, which serve as the frameworks for my analysis, provide alternative
lenses through which readers can read children’s texts that integrate characters
with disabilities. The four stories, therefore, stand as an exemplar in a reader’s
quest to rethink what Pothier and Devlin consider “a system of justice of ‘Just
Us’” (9).
Challenging the concept of liberalism for what they consider its inability to
“pursue substantive equality,” Pothier and Devlin argue further that “issues of
disability are not just questions of impairment, functional limitations, or enfee-
blement; they are issues of social values, institutional priorities, and political will.
They are questions of power: of who and what gets valued, and who and what
gets marginalized” (9). Thus, rather than pity these characters, it would serve
the reader better to rethink the signs of power that permeate each story, espe-
cially since conceptualizing disability as misfortune has “very specific implica-
tions;” for if the “starting point is misfortune, the first level of engagement must
be prevention” (Pothier and Devlin 9–10). In the case of the characters in the
fairy tales then, the toy maker should have bought more tin to manufacture a
complete tin soldier; the Little Mermaid should not have sacrificed her voice
and “fish tails” (141); Tiny’s mother should have wished for a child who looks
physically like her; and the duck should not have hatched an egg that obviously
looked different from her “normal”-sized eggs. But, of course, things do not
usually work this way.
Little reiterates that the society “promoted in today’s books is not that pro-
moted in the nineteenth century. Empathy with the handicapped is sought over
sympathy for them. Overt religious moralism has been replaced by a subtler
implicit didacticism urging compassion and acceptance” (184). But, is accept-
ance not what we should be advocating regardless of when the story was pub-
lished? Like Potter and Devlin, and Garland-Thomson, I see equality as the goal.
Furthermore, Potter and Devlin assert that the “challenge is to pay attention to
difference without creating a hierarchy of difference—either between the dis-
ability and non-disability or within disability” (12). One way to accomplish this
is by reading critically the power structures inherent in stories, paying attention
to how characters interact and share space as males/females, adults/children,
and as people with or without disabilities striving to participate as full citizens,
as Pothier and Devlin propose. To this effect, Garland-Thomson recommends
“academic activism, the activism of integrating education, in the very broad-
 Reading Disability in Children’s Literature 105

est sense of that term […] Scholars and teachers shape the communal know-
ledge and the pedagogical archive that is disseminated from kindergarten to
the university” (“Integrating Disability,” 23). Encouraging readers to examine
texts from critical stances is a good way to start negotiating pathways into aca-
demic activism. Critical Disability theory invites us to draw attention to these
differences, while reflecting on how they position characters with disabilities
as marginalized citizens, rather than dismissing them as fantasy that simply
requires a suspense of disbelief for entertainment purposes. Disability is real
even in fiction. “Social injustice,” Garland-Thomson notes, “gets stigmatized, in
part, through patterns of representation that impart subordinate status, that
perpetuate disrespect learned via stereotypical images” (“Picturing People,” 37).
It is imperative that we reject such ways of thinking, creating, expressing, know-
ing, doing, and living.

Works Cited

Andersen, Hans Christian. The Steadfast Tin Soldier. illus. David Jorgensen. New York:
Alfred A. Knopf, 1986. Print.
—. “Little Tiny or Thumbelina.” The Completed Collection of Hans Christian Andersen. Ed.
Lily Owens. New York: Gramercy Books, 1996. 6–12. Print.
—. “The Brave Tin Soldier.” The Completed Collection of Hans Christian Andersen. Ed. Lily
Owens. New York: Gramercy Books, 1996. 13–15. Print.
—. “The Little Mermaid.” The Completed Collection of Hans Christian Andersen. Ed. Lily
Owens. New York: Gramercy Books, 1996. 134–50. Print.
—. “The Ugly Duckling.” The Annotated Hans Christian Andersen. Ed. Maria Tatar. New
York: W.W. Norton, 2008. 99–118. Print.
Asch, Adrienne. “Critical Race Theory Feminism and Disability: Reflections on Social Jus-
tice and Personal Identity.” Ohio State Law Journal 62.1 (2001): 1–17. Print.
Blaszk, Martin. “Children’s Literature Needs to Portray Disability: Three Novels and How
they Show Disability.” Humanising Language Teaching 9.5 (2007). Web. 17 August 2010
“Definition of ‘Disability’ Under The Disability Discrimination Act (DDA).” Directgov. Web.
22 October 2009.
Dyches, Tina T., Mary Anne Prater, and Jennifer Jenson. “Portrayal of Disabilities in Calde-
cott Books.” TEACHING Exceptional Children Plus 2.5 (2006). Web. 22 October 2009.
Galda, Lee and Bernice Cullinan. Literature and the Child. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth Thom-
son Learning, 2002. Print.
Garland-Thomson, Rosemarie. “Introduction: From Wonder to Errors—A Genealogy of
Freak Discourse in Modernity.” Freakery: Cultural Spectacles of the Extraordinary Body.
Ed. Rosemarie Garland-Thomson. New York: New York UP, 1996. 1–19. Print.
—. Extraordinary Bodies: Figuring Physical Disability in American Culture and Literature.
New York: Columbia UP, 1997. Print.
106 Vivian Yenika-Agbaw

—. “The Cultural Logic of Euthanasia: ‘Sad Fancyings’ in Melville’s Bartleby.” American Lit-
erature 76.4 (2004): 777–806. Print.
—. “Integrating Disability, Transforming Feminist Theory.” NWSA Journal 14.3 (2002): 1–29.
Web. 11 September 2009.
—. Staring: How We Look. New York: Oxford UP, 2009. Print.
—. “Picturing People with Disabilities: Classical Portraiture as Reconstructive Narrative.”
Re-Presenting Disability: Activism and Agency in the Museum. Ed. Richard Sandell,
Joceclyn Dodd, and Rosemarie Garland-Thomson. New York: Routledge, 2010. 23–40.
Print.
Hollindale, Peter. Ideology and The Children’s Book. Stroud: Thimble P, 1988. Print.
Isadora, Rachel. The Steadfast Tin Soldier. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1996. Print.
—. The Little Mermaid. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1998. Print.
Irwin, Marilyn. “Seeing Different: Portrayals of Disability in Young Adult Graphic Novels.”
American Association of School Librarians. 2010. Web. 1 July 2010.
James, M.R., trans. The Steadfast Tin Soldier. Illus. Marcia Brown. New York: Charles Scrib-
ner’s Sons, 1953. Print.
Jeffers, Susan. Thumbelina. New York: Dutton’s Children’s Books, 2005. Print.
Joosen, Vanessa. “Disenchanting the Fairy Tale: Retellings of ‘Snow White’ Between Magic
and Realism.” Marvels and Tales: Journal of Fairy-Tales Studies 21.2 (2007): 228–39.
Print.
Khan, Iram. “The Censorship of Canadian Children’s Literature.” Canadian Content. 1999.
Web. 26 August 2010.
Little, Greta, D. “Handicapped Characters in Children’s Literature: Yesterday and Today.”
Children’s Literature Association Quarterly 10.4 (1986): 181–84. Project MUSE. Web. 9
November 2009.
Mitchell, David T. and Sharon L. Snyder. Narrative Prosthesis: Disability and the Dependen-
cies of Discourse. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P, 2000. Print.
Moebius, William. “Introduction to Picturebook Codes.” Word and Image 2.2 (1986): 141–58.
Print.
Murray, Elizabeth and Sarah Jacobs. “Revealing Moments: Representations of Disability
and Sexuality.” Re-Presenting Disability: Activism and Agency in the Museum. Ed.
Richard Sandell, Joceclyn Dodd, and Rosemarie Garland-Thomson. New York: Rout-
ledge, 2010. 155–67. Print.
Nikolajeva, Maria and Carole Scott. How Picturebooks Work. London: Routledge, 2006.
Print.
Nodelman, Perry. “Decoding the Images: Illustration and Picture Books.” Understanding
Children’s Literature. Ed. Peter Hunt. New York: Routledge, 1999. 69–80. Print.
Nodelman, Perry and Marvis Reimer. The Pleasures of Children’s Literature. Boston, MA:
Allyn and Bacon, 2003. Print.
Norton, Donna and Saundra Norton. Through The Eyes of a Child: An Introduction to Chil-
dren’s Literature. Columbus, OH: Pearson, 2011. Print.
Paul, Lissa. Reading Otherways. Portland, ME: Calendar Islands, 1998. Print.
Pinkney, Brian. Thumbelina. New York: Greenwillow Books, 2003. Print.
Pothier, Dianne and Richard Devlin. “Introduction: Toward a Critical Theory of Dis-Citi-
zenship.” Critical Disability Theory: Essays in Philosophy, Politics, Policy, and Law. Ed.
 Reading Disability in Children’s Literature 107

Dianne Potter and Richard Devlin. Vancouver: U of British Vancouver P, 2006. 1–22.
Web. 11 September 2009.
Probst, Robert. Response and Analysis: Teaching Literature in Secondary Schools. Ports-
mouth, NH: Heinemann, 2004. Print.
Rosenblatt, Louise. The Reader, the Text, and the Poem: The Transactional Theory of the
Literary Work. Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 1994. Print.
Rubin, Ellen and Emily Watson. “Disability Bias in Children’s Literature.” The Lion and the
Unicorn 11.1 (1987): 60–67. Print.
Russell, David. Literature for Children: A Short Introduction. Columbus, OH: Pearson, 2009.
Print.
Saunders, Kathy and Lynn Kings. “What Disability Studies Can Do for Children’s Litera-
ture.” Disability Studies Quarterly 24.1 (2004): 1–8. Web. 9 November 2009.
Schwarcz, Joseph. “Relationships between Texts and Illustrations.” Ways of the Illustrator:
Visual Communication in Children’s Literature. Chicago, IL: American Library Asso-
ciation, 1982. 9–20. Print.
Siebers, Tobin. Disability Theory. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P, 2008. Print.
Snyder, Sharon L. and Brenda Brueggeman. “Introduction: Integrating Disability into
Teaching and Scholarship.” Disability Studies: Enabling the Humanities. Ed. Sharon L.
Snyder, Brenda Jo Brueggemann, and Rosemarie Garland-Thomson. New York: Mod-
ern Language Association P, 2002. 1–12. Print.
Tatar, Maria, ed. The Annotated Hans Christian Andersen. Trans. Maria Tatar and Julie
Allen. New York: W.W. Norton, 2008. Print.
—. The Classic Fairy Tales. New York: W.W. Norton, 1999. Print.
United States Department of Education. Building The Legacy: IDEA. 2004. Web. 20 October
2009.
Zipes, Jack. “Hans Christian Andersen and the Discourse of the Dominated.” When Dreams
Come True: Classical Fairy Tales and Their Traditions. Ed. Jack Zipes. London: Rout-
ledge, 1999. 80–110. Print.
Zipes, Jack, Lissa Paul, Lynne Vallone, Peter Hunt, and Gillian Avery, eds. The Norton
Anthology of Children’s Literature: The Traditions in English. New York: W.W. Norton,
2005. Print.
 NEW BOOK
Anatomy as Spectacle
Public Exhibitions of the Body from 1700 to the Present
Elizabeth Stephens
ISBN 9781846316449 • £55.00

An examination of public exhibitions of

human anatomy from their first appearance
in the early 1700s to the present day.
While public anatomical exhibitions might
seem to occupy a marginal position in
the histories of popular culture and of
medicine, their distinctive intermixing
of the medical and spectacular has
made them an influential and intensely
productive cultural space, an important site
for the popularisation for new ideas about
bodily health and care. This book traces
the influential role of such exhibitions in
popularising a distinctly modern idea of the
body as something requiring constant work
and careful self-cultivation—an idea which
continues to shape the contemporary
fascination with practices and possibilities
of self-improvement.

A pleasure to read, this well-written book

offers many thoughtful and provocative
reflections on anatomy and exhibition and will
appeal to a wide range of scholars concerned
Dr Elizabeth Stephens is ARC Research
with disability, culture and medical history. Fellow at the University of Queensland
Professor Maria Frawley
The George Washington University Representations: Health, Disability, Culture and Society, 5
272pp, 234 x 156mm, 17 b&w illustrations, cased
Forthcoming June 2011

Liverpool University Press Distributed in North America by

Tel: 0151 794 2233 University of Chicago Press
email: lup@liv.ac.uk email: custserv@press.uchicago.edu
www.liverpool-unipress.co.uk www.press.uchicago.edu

View publication stats