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A review by ebonyutley
Ramona Quimby, Age 8 by Beverly Cleary
3.0
Recently, I’ve been shocked, disappointed, horrified by a re-read of some of my favorite books as a kid. So when I saw Ramona Quimby, Age 8 at the free little library, I had to revisit. I remember loving this book. I really wanted to not hate it as an adult. I am happy to report that I didn’t hate it. I can see why Beverly Cleary won all the awards she did for her children’s books. She was all up in the mind of an 8-year-old.
Most of the book is in Ramona’s mind. Not much actually happens. As an adult that loves plot, at first, I wasn’t sure what kid me saw in this book. Then I realized that Ramona’s anxiety about all the things summed my kid existence. She worries about her parents, her teacher, her friends, her responsibilities, her behavior. Everything that happens in the adult world is internalized by Ramona. Same as me. Well, hell, then and now. I must have found comfort in that familiarity as a child. It must have been nice to know that my worries were shared by my favorite heroine in a story where everything worked out okay in the end. It’s not a fairy tale (which I didn’t dig as a kid) but a slice of everyday life where there are good days and bad days, but everything works out okay.
I also had no memory of how working class the Quimby’s were. Like, no memory. Perhaps, because it seemed so normal. My parents never told me how much money they made. We didn’t spend the night at other people’s houses so I didn’t have anything to compare my existence to. My aunts and uncles lived pretty much like we did. I suppose I would have thought the Quimby’s life was as it should be.
As an adult, I read novels about families with various levels of class privilege, but it doesn’t stand out to me. The author sets the scene and I rock with it. I suppose that the emphasis on a broken car and not enough money to pay the bills or eat at the burger joint stands out now because as a kid no one talked to me about money. Adult me still thinks we should shelter kids from class. Which is ridiculous and also not completely how I grew up if I loved this book. Again, this book is important because the Quimby world is so normal. It’s not a fairy tale, it’s not perfect, it’s not lifestyles of the rich and famous. That banality must be comforting for kids. It must have been for the me I’m remembering through Ramona Quimby, age 8.
Most of the book is in Ramona’s mind. Not much actually happens. As an adult that loves plot, at first, I wasn’t sure what kid me saw in this book. Then I realized that Ramona’s anxiety about all the things summed my kid existence. She worries about her parents, her teacher, her friends, her responsibilities, her behavior. Everything that happens in the adult world is internalized by Ramona. Same as me. Well, hell, then and now. I must have found comfort in that familiarity as a child. It must have been nice to know that my worries were shared by my favorite heroine in a story where everything worked out okay in the end. It’s not a fairy tale (which I didn’t dig as a kid) but a slice of everyday life where there are good days and bad days, but everything works out okay.
I also had no memory of how working class the Quimby’s were. Like, no memory. Perhaps, because it seemed so normal. My parents never told me how much money they made. We didn’t spend the night at other people’s houses so I didn’t have anything to compare my existence to. My aunts and uncles lived pretty much like we did. I suppose I would have thought the Quimby’s life was as it should be.
As an adult, I read novels about families with various levels of class privilege, but it doesn’t stand out to me. The author sets the scene and I rock with it. I suppose that the emphasis on a broken car and not enough money to pay the bills or eat at the burger joint stands out now because as a kid no one talked to me about money. Adult me still thinks we should shelter kids from class. Which is ridiculous and also not completely how I grew up if I loved this book. Again, this book is important because the Quimby world is so normal. It’s not a fairy tale, it’s not perfect, it’s not lifestyles of the rich and famous. That banality must be comforting for kids. It must have been for the me I’m remembering through Ramona Quimby, age 8.