Forgive Me, Little Black Sambo... I Let You Down !

On my last birthday, my adult kids and I got talking about… of all things, books. Somehow the discussion turned to favorite children‘s stories, perhaps because reading was such a big part of our family’s life from the time they were born. For until they could decipher the written word for themselves, they were read to at every opportunity by either me or their Mom.

For some reason I mentioned that, “The Story of Little Black Sambo,” a classic by Helen Bannerman, was a book that was loved and cherished by all youngsters when I was a child. I found a copy on the shelf, and asked if they remembered me reading it to them when they were little. They looked at me blankly, and I immediately sensed their answer. “Nope.”

I was shocked and a little embarrassed I had somehow omitted that book from the vast selection we had shared during those early years. And I couldn’t help feeling some guilt that I had cheated them of a delightful literary experience, one I recalled so fondly from my childhood.

How could it have happened? Why, by the time they were preteens, had the book all but disappeared from school reading lists, most bookshelves, and even from my conscious recollection? The reason was profoundly simple. Little Sambo and his family were BLACK. And despite the story being full of family values and strong life lessons, oversensitive adults of the time branded it as politically incorrect and racially insensitive. In short, they thought it a bad influence for impressionable young readers.

It made no difference to them that Sambo came from a loving, secure, “traditional” family with a mother and father whose first priority was the health and welfare of their child.

It counted for naught that the family was portrayed as stable and upper middle class. His parents were both ambitious and self-sufficient in every way, with more than enough wealth to buy beautiful clothing at the Bazaar to lavish on their boy.

The critics seemed unimpressed that little Sambo modeled poise, bravery, and presence of mind beyond his years in the face of danger. And it was worth nothing, that through cleverness and steadfastness of purpose, he righted every wrong that had been committed against him, by story’s end.

Likewise, “concerned” adults seemed to ignore that the tale of Black Sambo showed young readers the ultimate folly of being consumed with petty jealousy and superficial vanity as the tigers were. Neither did they value its message, that using one’s brain to solve issues instead of resorting to violence, is the most productive way to live one's life.

When all was said and done, then, its redeeming qualities added little to the book’s survival. And over time, “The Story of Little Black Sambo” was ultimately pushed into silent obscurity, irreparably tainted by political condemnation that was proffered by adults, in the name of doing good.

In retrospect, I acknowledge contributing to Little Black Sambo’s demise, as well, no matter how unintentionally. My failure to share his story with my own kids surely dealt as critical a blow to his longevity, as the ranting of his most harsh critic, in the most public of arenas.

What’s most regrettable, is this. It was adults who were offended by young Sambo‘s story. We children cared little about their grownup constructs of prejudice, racial animus, or political correctness. Instead, we cherished each page of Sambo’s jungle adventure. And it was there we became friends, and quickly grew to love him… simply because he was one of us.