About five-sixths through an interesting interview in June’s Esquire featuring Mia Farrow, I was appalled to read the following statement: 

“And I won’t let [my children] read junk. They’re not gonna read The Baby-Sitters’ Club, not when they could be reading Treasure Island or Tom Sawyer. That’s not gonna happen.” (p. 101, John H. Richardson, Hearst Publications)

 My jaw hit the floor and my ire rose instantly. And NOT just because I was a die-hard fan of the Ann M. Martin series. But does it really matter what kids are reading, as long as they’re reading?

 I was lucky as a girl because my mother never censored my reading material. It made me into the well-read woman I am today. Yes, I did read The Baby-Sitters’ Club and Nancy Drew and Sweet Valley Twins, but I also read The Call of the Wild, Heidi, Black Beauty, The Hobbit, and many other classics. The point is I read them voluntarily and enjoyed them. Reading literature under duress dishonors the art and gives kids the wrong idea about reading. It’s not a punishment; it’s a right and a pleasure.

 Why is it that our culture finds it uplifting to belittle valuable pieces of art? Why is it that Kristy’s Big Idea is less important than Tom Sawyer? Was it the era it was written in? The context? The plot? Because I know I learned a lot more from Ann M. Martin than I ever learned from Mark Twain, including – but not limited to – an appreciation for the written word. And I know that I am not alone. 

Recently I had the honor of passing down my vast Baby-Sitters’ Club collection to the younger sister of a friend of mine, and I felt so proud that I had done something to inspire the next generation of readers – and, just maybe, writers.

 And I guess the saying is true: Mia Farrow’s junk is another girl’s treasure, because the little girl loved them.