The Indian in the Cupboard – written by Lynn Reid Banks, illustrated by Brock Cole
Doubleday, 1980
Re-reading the classic The Indian in the Cupboard by Lynne Reid Banks today involves a trip back in time. This is not to suggest that the starkly obvious prejudice embedded in the story of Omri, and his miniature plastic friend come to life, has disappeared, but its blatant presentation in a widely acclaimed middle grade novel would be far less likely. I interpreted it along two parallel tracks. One is as a simplistic story about civilization and barbarism, in which a British boy and his friend become enmeshed in managing a stubbornly independent American Indian. The other is as the fantasy of a boy trying to have control in his life, never possible in childhood, through the transparent vehicle of a miniature figurine. That is part of the obvious appeal in children’s books of dollhouses and toy soldiers, in children’s books like The Borrowers, The Doll People, Gemma and the Giant Girl, and so many others.
By 1980, when the book was published, the United States already had a well-organized and prominent American Indian Movement, and, among other landmarks, the searing revision of American history, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee had been available for ten years. In Britain, although changing perceptions of Indigenous peoples in the Americas were discussed, they would not have attracted the same level of attention. Nonetheless, Banks does show awareness of stereotypical misconceptions. When Omri meticulously creates a teepee for Little Bear, the Indian who is transformed by the turn of an old key in the door of a magical cupboard, he is deflated by Little Bear’s correction. As a member of the Iroquois, he lived in a longhouse. There are intermittent references to other offensive caricatures, including the viewpoint of the standard Western television show which Omri and his friend, Patrick, have Little Bear watch.
Little Bear, by that point, is accompanied by another plastic figure, his apparent nemesis, Boone. This gun-toting cowboy is as crudely depicted as Little Bear. For that matter, the World War I medic figure who is briefly made real spouts phrases just as cinematic and silly as those of Boone and Little Bear. Still, Little Bear is at the center of the picture and his propensity to violence when he is contradicted perpetuates the worst and most malicious quality, one which allegedly justified European control of the first Americans.
There is quite a bit of violence in the novel. Even though the weapons are tiny in scale, they manage to hurt people, draw blood, and nearly kill Boone. As if trying to convey that stereotypes are not only hurtful, but misleading, the cowboy turns out to be a gifted artist. There is no such mitigating surprise in Little Bear’s character.
When “his” Indian, (Omri also uses the possessive in identifying the cowboy), requests a spouse, there is subplot involving a visit to the local shop where Little Bear will choose a woman from among the miniatures Indians. The description of how Omri will place Little Bear and Bright Stars in the cupboard together is disturbingly adult, not to mention grossly sexist. The female toy is, if possible, subjected to even greater objectification than her male counterpart.
Having catalogued all those demeaning features of the book, the parallel interpretation would see it as a typical metaphor for childhood. Omri fights with his two brothers, is disappointed in his best friend, and has the ill fortune of a school headmaster who, confronted with living, breathing, toys, suffers an emotional collapse. There are no adults to help here, only childhood dreams and magic.
Imaginary Elevators 