The Childhood Book that Taught Me the Value of Others and Myself
The psychology of “The Little Red Hen”.
When I was younger, I spent a lot of my time at my grandparent's house. Ganga and Papaw (our family’s name for the two elders) only lived a few minutes away and when we would visit, I could hardly be torn away from them. My parents tell me that no matter how short a time it had been since I had last stayed the night, I would always make a fuss about staying again.
This was partly because of the endless stream of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and the allure of an upstairs (my home never had a second level). What was special about that home is that it was full of stories. My Ganga would read us an endless amount of books. She is credited with teaching the entire family to read. We — myself included — grew up following her finger across the page and parroting every word after she said it.
I was reminded of one such story the other day as I was walking the aisles of a Goodwill. Among the trinkets, old appliances, and people with masks on, I had found my way to the used books. I had just moved into my first apartment and wanted something to put on the coffee table. And there it was — The Little Red Hen. I read back through it, thumbing the pages and seeing the value that it had instilled in me. This 12-page book taught…
