When Katie and I were chatting about “siblings” as the theme for our November posts, I immediately thought of Flowers in the Attic (1979) by Virginia (V.C.) Andrews. It’s a story of four children, Cathy, the protagonist, age 12 when the novel begins, her older brother Chris, age 14, and twin siblings, Carrie and Cory, age 4, who, after the death of their father are imprisoned in an attic by their cruel grandmother and greedy mother intent on regaining her vast inheritance. They are locked away for years, and though they are given clothes, toys and books, they are starved for love, affection, sunshine, fresh air and even food. The four of them become a family of their own; Chris and Cathy take on the role of mom and dad to the twins and the two older kids love the twins like they were their own children.
So, yes, I thought, recalling the story more than 30 years after I read it, this novel is about the importance of siblings in the lives of teens—especially illustrated, as with the best of every YA novel, in the most extreme, intense and shocking story. (Ahem, Hunger Games, anyone? Where we read about government-sanctioned death of innocent children?)
But anyone alive and reading in the ‘80s also knows Flowers in the Attic was subject to ban after ban after ban. It’s no surprise that the recent cadre of overzealous anti-book crusaders have ensured the story stays hidden. You know, like the children. It was (and continues to be banned) for a plethora of reasons: the four children are a product of incest between their mother and her half-uncle, her father’s much, much younger half-brother. Then there’s the clear-eyed commentary from Cathy as she grows from a child into a young woman, who, among many other things, is also a sexual being. This, it seems, worries those puritans out there, as society always tries to control, shame or vilify a woman’s sexuality. Oh, and a rape scene between brother and sister.
It’s heady stuff. Dark themes of abuse, neglect, greed and guilt are heavy. And incredibly engaging, intriguing and thought-provoking.
It’s why I remembered it all these years later, the first book that came to mind even though I have read hundreds of YA novels in the years since. But the reasons why I remembered the story made me stop to think.
I didn’t remember it for its incest, rape, or even sexuality. I didn’t remember it for all the details of the children’s abuse and neglect. I remembered it for the love. I remembered Chris and Cathy’s struggle to step up for their absent mother to act as parents to the twins. I remembered Chris and Cathy opening up to each other, for lifesaving emotional and mental support. I remember the extraordinary lengths to which the four of them went to make the most of their horrific situation. I remembered their resilience.
And this is what the anti-book crusaders want to take away. For decades, people feared what would happen to children if they got their hands on books with “bad ideas”. They still do—hence the current censorship crisis.
Yet I’m living proof that there was no basis for that fear. I read it as a young teenager. I was enthralled. I read all the sequels. Yet I did not turn to incest in my own life, nor did I lock my own children away. I did not turn into a religious zealot, the way their grandmother was, nor did I ever turn my back on my own children’s needs.
If anything, I became more empathetic. Maybe not because of this one book. Maybe because I’m a reader in general. But I learned how vile people can be—the truth lives in the real world—and I learned how to understand and show empathy for those who have been abused. Why should we shun Cathy and Chris for their errors in judgment or “sins” when they themselves were appallingly abused? Let me be clear: I am not condoning rape or abuse of any kind. But I am promoting understanding. We need to ask why the characters in our pages do what they do. We don’t have to agree. We don’t have to like it. But it helps us prepare for when we try to understand people in our lives. When it counts.
Because ultimately, Chris and Cathy are fiction. They’re not real.
Couldn’t we use our collective fear and revulsion to stop abuse of this kind—or any kind—in the real world instead?
Yet we can’t stop what we don’t know.
Flowers in the Attic showed me, a sheltered, middle-class kid, the monsters that are out there.
More importantly, Flowers in the Attic showed me, a sheltered, middle-class kid, the love that is out there, too.