Where is Terabithia? Katherine Paterson When I returned from Japan in 1962, I went to New York City to study at Union Seminary there. I had every intention of returning to Japan after my year at Union was over, but in February a young minister from a church in Buffalo came to Union for a continuing education program. In my weekly letter home, I made the mistake of mentioning that I had met such a person. At this point I had had exactly one very public, and as far as I was concerned, very casual lunch with the fellow, but my mother at once leaped to the most drastic conclusion possible under the circumstances. She rushed to tell her best friend the dreadful thing that had occurred. Katherine had gotten herself involved with a preacher from Buffalo. "Why, Mary," said Helen, "that's lovely. If Katherine marries him she'll stay in this country. She won't be going back to Japan all by herself." The text was written in 1583 by the monk Fray Bernardino Sahagun and is one of the first books printed in this hemisphere. Until now it has never been translated from the original Nahuatl, the Aztec language. In 1523, two years after Cortez's military victory, monks were sent from Spain to consolidate the conquest of Mexico. And this they did. In the next five years, one million Aztecs were converted to Christianity; in twenty years there nine million converts. Bereft of their gods, which the Spaniards had toppled from the pyramids and demolished, the Indians turned to the monks and embraced the new religion with fervor. But they missed the elaborate processions and ceremonies that had accompanied the old Aztec religion. To fill this gap, the monks introduced miracle plays, of which The Spirit Child is one. It is the story of the Nativity. In it are the volcanoes, which the Aztecs believed to be the entrances to Hell before Jesus was born. And when Jesus was born, three suns shone over Tenochtitlan, the capitol of Mexico. Mary went to Bethlehem on foot. There was no donkey for her to ride, for prior to the coming of the Spaniards, the only domestic animals the Aztecs had were dogs and turkeys, and in 1583, when the text was written, the Indians were forbidden to ride the horses, mules, and donkeys introduced by the Spaniards on pain of death. In conclusion, I would like to quote from a book on Chinese painting—The Tao of Painting, by Mai Mai Sze: " . . . the literal aim of painting [was the magic that] happened when skill with brush could transmit the spirit to silk or paper." This is what I am trying to do. "But," replied my mother, "I've been to Japan. I've never been to Buffalo." I share this story with you to indicate the weird brand of parochialism that existed, and perhaps still exists, in my family. We're forever put off by people that find exotic the places we call home, whether they are in upper Jiangsu Province or Northern Shikoku or Southeast Virginia. But the idea of leaving home and heading for a place called Buffalo, New York, seems on a par with Columbus setting sail west for East India. Let me remind you that it was not that John was either Presbyterian or a pastor that bothered my mother. She herself had been married to a Presbyterian pastor for thirty nine years. It wasn't even the actual city of Buffalo that she was objecting to. She'd never been to Buffalo. What was bothering her was the idea of Buffalo, which conjured up vague visions of snow and ice, but which she couldn't really picture. Buffalo was simply not real to her. [End Page 153] Flannery O'Connor, whose words about writing have meant a great deal to me, has said that fiction is "incarnational." By "incarnational" we mean that somehow the word or the idea has taken on flesh, has become physical, actual, real, We mean that the abstract idea can be perceived by way of the senses. This immediately makes fiction different from other kinds of stories. The fairy...
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