Ginger. I discovered this word a childhood summer. And not in the Santillana notebooks that he enjoyed filling in every morning, but in the readings of The Five by Enid Blyton. During those vacations of I don't know what year, I decided to devour the 21 novels in the collection and, moreover, in order of publication. It was easy for me, all the volumes were well placed on a shelf in my older sister's room, an avid reader of the adventures of Julián, Dick, Jorge, Ana and the endearing dog Tim. And, despite the summer reluctance, my palate asked me to taste those gingerbread cookies that the five of the British stories celebrated so much. I didn't do it until a long time later, but I did finish the entire collection in one fell swoop.
Enid Blyton knew how to connect with children's audiences, perhaps because her protagonists managed on their own without adults bothering them. She, who was born just 125 years ago (August 11, 1897), awakened the reading habit of boys and girls of different generations. 600 million books sold in 40 languages! And her stories continue to be published and bought. Mind you, not in the same way. In recent years, different publishers have revised her work to eliminate racist or xenophobic overtones. Thus, we can find new editions that have included relevant changes to avoid hurting sensitivities.
Without going any further, last year the charity The English Heritage asked for its language to be reviewed. Five years ago, on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of his death, the British Mint refused to release a commemorative 50p, also citing homophobia and sexism. Her books indisputably transmit patriarchal values, with a sweet, frightened Ana, protected by her brothers, and who already points out ways as an efficient and dedicated housewife, while reproaching her cousin Jorgina (Jorge) for behaving like a boy. (a first time trans case?).
If we look at his life, things get even worse. The affable character that she transmitted from her responded to a great marketing campaign that she herself nurtured with care. In reality, she could get away with her ambition, she was teased by children (even her own daughters), she was vindictive and she was accused of using hired writers for her writing. Her case is not unique and it is the never-ending and tiresome story that we are living with the classics. To what extent should a reprehensible private life censor the work of a creator? Should we ignore the historical context or perhaps take advantage of the situation to better understand where we come from and what we still have to go through? Is it lawful to rewrite what we now consider socially objectionable? And, above all, why are some accused and not others? Undoubtedly, many myths are falling over time, although often we are the ones who decide to throw them overboard.
