Never Talk to Strangers seems a little 70s to me. I thought the new thinking was, Talk to some strangers if you are in danger: grannies, mommies with kids, police, store clerks. But there it is—the black-and-white version, subtexted Strangers Are Death—in Hattie Bella’s room, and she wants THAT book for bedtime.
I am not sure where the book came from. I don’t remember ordering it, and it doesn’t seem like the kind of book David would order either. I think maybe it was part of a Scholastic package deal, along with Everybody Gets Mad and Breaks Lil’ Sister’s Fingers Sometimes and When Teddy’s Silly Mommy Flew to Jamaica and Never Came Back.
Whatever the case, we read it. Strange animals follow nervous but smart-looking children. “If a camel smoking crack comes to your door, don’t answer! Your mom won’t mind! NEVER TALK TO STRANGERS!” “If a rhino who’s a wino says hi from poolside, swim, swim away! NEVER TALK TO STRANGERS!”
Each time, H. loudly and solemnly said it along with me: “NEVER TALK TO STRANGERS! NEVER TALK TO STRANGERS! NEVER TALK TO STRANGERS!”
The next day we went to the supermarket. She asked me to take her out of the cart so she could help me shop.
Then she proceeded to prance down the aisles in her ruby-red sparkly slippers, talking to every stranger she encountered, with me right behind, fascinated that this people-loving creature exploded forth from my shy, retiring, agoraphobic loins.
“EXCUSE ME! HI! EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME PEESE. HI!” If she got the slightest reaction from anyone, she would bow in a princely fashion, arms outspread, and yell, “HI! I’M HANNAH!”
I think she made a point to commune with everyone in the supermarket. Perhaps if they had strapped on Wino the Rhino or Cracky the Camel masks, she would have remembered the message of the prior night’s reading.
It’s a little alarming to see how exuberant she is. At the checkout counter, she beamed at the checkout girl and hollered, “OOOH! YOUR NECKLACE IS BEE-EW-TEE-FUL! MY NAME IS HANNAH!” Predictably, everyone within earshot was charmed. The usual grim reaper clerks turned to smile and wave. Meanwhile, pedophiles rushed to the stationery section to buy notebooks to write down identifying information.
What does one DO with a friendly Tigger of a kid? What do you SAY? There’s enough fear in the world for five worlds over.
Is there a better approach? At the very least, a better book?
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