There’s a popular trope in children’s literature which swept
the world with the arrival of Harry Potter et al. This trope centers on a child
destined to save the world from evil.
One way or another, this superhero discovers their
superpowers and, first resisting, disbelieving, trying to fit in, eventually the
child accepts their destiny as the chosen one.
Then, we’re off to the races. The kid succeeds only to lose
momentum, be plagued with doubts, find courage, and move forward to a
triumphant victory.
If this sounds messianic, it’s because this trope follows
that trajectory to a tee. For secular folks, this is either absurd or amusing
enough. For believers in sacred scriptures, it’s both familiar and obscene in
its conversion to Kidlit tales. I’m of the latter group, and reserve savior
stories to the land of spiritual metaphor and the realm of the mysteries.
Even as a child I disliked these stories because once I laid
the book down, I knew full well the world hadn’t been saved from evil. It never
gave me messianic notions that I, too, could be a savior. I also had an
instinctive recoiling from people I met who seemed to think they were such
chosen ones.
In the stories I write and the stories I love reading, children
(or adults) find a way to accept the ways of the world while vowing to do their
best to make a small contribution to bettering it. These sorts of triumphs not
only feel real, but they are inspiring because they are doable.
To quote, again, my late father: “Things being what they
are, we should try to make them what they should be.” My father thought
this was an example of a platitude, but the older I get the more it seems spot-on.
