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| Saturday, 7 February 2004 |
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The corrupting influence of English nursery rhymes by Nalin Fernando A few days ago I was honoured and invited as the chief guest at the end-of-term party of the village Montessori school hidden away among the paddy fields of Werapola about a mile from the main road to Wariyapola. The nursery school, a cadjan-topped, half walled shed that could house three double-bullock carts, has about 15 village children between three and five. Their fathers are looking after most of them at home while the mothers are working in the Middle East.
After I was served a piece of cake that had stood the test of time since the Sinhalese New Year and a cup of something which was a cross between weak tea and lukewarm faluda, I was forced to listen and see the little boys and girls perform various items of song and dance in Sinhala. It was a pleasant and enjoyable production. The encore or the piece de resistance was about 10 of them singing English nursery rhymes taught by their teacher whose knowledge of the English language, alas, was two out of ten. They sang: "Jack and Jill went uf the hill It was a valiant effort and was followed by a pantomime in which three little boys ran hither and thither with their hands over their eyes and three little girls chased them with large knives made of cardboard. The rest sang "Three Blind Mice" with gusto, the exact words of the nursery rhyme being immaterial. "Three bline mice And then the little girls caught up with the boys and used their knives in a frenzy of chopping and slashing while screaming blue murder. I left the party in a hurry saying that I had to get back to the plantation to count my nuts and referred to my scrap book containing cuttings of some of my literary efforts published many years ago and found one I had written for the Daily News in June 1976 titled "The corrupting influence of English nursery rhymes". In this article I refer to the sadism, violence and hostile behaviour advocated, gloated upon and vigilantly described in all nursery rhymes. This was the rubbish deep-rooted in our little minds by the very fact that we were taught and urged to appreciate them when I attended nursery classes. The only reason I can attribute to me not being taught rhymes and songs of the nature of "Ma bala karlay" or "Olu nelala, mala gothala" was the fact that my teachers had names like Miss Keyt and Miss Scotlin. I repeated to myself some of the popular nursery rhymes that are still taught to little boys and girls even in the wilds of Wariyapola and I did not have to strive hard to detect the violence and sadism in the words. Let us recall once again the saga of the three blind mice pantomimed by those little thugs with such vigour. Here are three harmless rodents (I wrote 25 years ago) with an inherent and pitiful disability, running hither and thither to find a morsel of food. What does the farmer's good woman do to them? She hasn't the compassion to put out a few crumbs. Instead she whips out a carving knife and hacks off their tails and, in all probability, watches with glee the severed tails wiggling on the floor. Now take the story of the old woman who lived in a shoe and had a whole brood of children "she didn't know what to do". It could be argued that during the period the verse was culled there were no planned parenthood procedures. But she had the children, dammit, and they were her responsibility. But what did she do? She gave the brats some soup. No bread or rice, just plain and simple soup, whipped them soundly and put the hungry tykes to bed. This is the rubbish taught to little girls in Sri Lanka, a country with a tradition of gentle motherhood even in the poorest social locale. What use "ma bala kaley, ammage ukule"? The fate of little Polly Flinders was no better. There she was, seated peacefully in front of some glowing cinders on a cold day in a room with no central heating, warming her pretty little toes. Then; Her mother came and caught her And whipped her little daughter For spoiling her nice little clothes. Or take this scenario. You are in your early teens. You have sold some outdated newspapers to the bottle man and bought a few cigarettes with the proceeds. The Old Man is at work and you are in his armchair enjoying a quiet but forbidden smoke. Along come your eldest maternal uncle, a senior citizen, and well-known in family circles to give unwanted pious advice. His first words on the evils of tobacco are hardly out of his mouth when you leap up from your leisurely position and kick him down the steps. Your mother rushes in from the kitchen and remonstrates. You silence her by reminding her about the nursery rhyme she taught you many, many years ago where Goosey Gander was stealing into a ladies chamber when he was caught red-handed by an old man. Goosey did not withdraw gracefully from his illicit adventure with a muttered and incoherent excuse. On the contrary, in wrath over an unrequited boudoir escapade he got the old man by his left leg and threw him down the stairs. You were far kinder. You merely kicked the old pest down three steps. No broken bones. Just temporary family disharmony. Think of the anti-social cant that is subtly wrought into a tender mind in an adult world already too full of larceny. The Queen of Hearts dutifully makes some tarts only to see them stolen by the Knave of Hearts. Tom, the piper's son, steals a pig and away he runs. Tom was beaten, no doubt, but he had already eaten the thieved pork. The theft was an accomplishment. If thieving and robbery is glorified, violence amounting to cruelty to children is routine in nursery rhymes. The baby is crying miserably. One does not sooth it. Instead, the infant is urged to put a finger in the eye. And a cradle hung on a limb of a tree, comes crashing to the ground "baby and all" probably killing, if not maiming, the incumbent infant. Encore for another sick verse. We are then told that King Charles walked and talked for half an hour after his head was cut off. The unhappy prisoners in the Tower of London are victims of sheer sadism. The bells of London are first allowed to peal musically and the prisoners are reminded of oranges and lemons (Bells of St. Clements') and two cakes and an apple (Bells of St. Whitechapel). Then they are given a candle to light their way to bed. Whammo! Here comes a chopper to chop off their heads. Adults of normal behavior look askance if a mischievous little boy ties a tin can to a cat's tail. He is as cruel as Little Tommy Thin who put a pussy in the well. Ding, dong bell and praise to Tommy Thin. And it is a good thing that at a tender age, one's appetite is not too finicky or else, think of eating a lunch after reciting: Tell tale tit! Your tongue shall be split, And all the dogs in town Shall have a little bit. Now think of a loving son, brought up decently and married off to a girl with a fat dowry. Within two years he appears before a stern magistrate accused of having acquired six more wives. Can his parents or the judge blame him if he suddenly recalled the adventures of the man from St. Ives who traveled on merrily with seven wives? We reach man's estate and we are told that Parliament is the Mother of Democracy. But how does this dictum hold when as a child we remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot. And the punch line that lingers; I know no reason Why gunpowder treason Should ever be forgot. There is even a hint of pornography in nursery rhymes. Take Jack and Jill as an example. Examine carefully their act of going up a hill to fetch a pail of water. Wells are dug in valleys not on top of a hill, which is usually an isolated spot. And what is all this "tumbling" after falling to the ground? It was, indeed, in the eighteenth century that Tom Jones "tumbled" on many a haystack with comely Jills. The story of Little Miss Muffet has a hidden and indelicate meaning. Could there be any doubt that the spider had seduction on his mind while the innocent little girl was seated on her tuffet. Think of Georgie Porgy, that unmitigated cad. Girls never cry when they kissed. He must have done something dastardlier than a mere smooch. And I dare you to say that dirt is in the eye of the beholder if I was to mention Little Boy Blue who blew on his horn. With the schooling age now raised to seven and the medium of instruction being Sinhala and Tamil, English nursery rhymes are not taught in schools. The youth of the future, unlike me and my classmates at prep school, are mercifully spared the horror of learning nursery rhymes. But let the Montessori teachers and Anglicised upper middle class mothers be forewarned of the implications of this alien indoctrination. |
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