Chuck It

 I started reading Peanuts when I was quite young. At the time, it was quite easy to do because Peanuts were pervasive in the world in which I lived. T-shirts, stuffed toys, posters, bed sheets, lamps, and all those comic strips. By the time I got around to reading, the gang had already been around for twenty years. You could read the daily strip in the newspaper, then go directly to one of the dozens of collections available wherever paperbacks were sold. A great deal of my reading practice came through those books. I learned words like "security" and "psychiatric" in order to enjoy those cartoons. 

No one questioned the appropriateness of a seven year old entertaining himself for hours at a time reading about Linus and Lucy, Schroeder, Snoopy, and Good Old Charlie Brown. God how I hate him. That's not an appraisal, by the way. I'm just quoting the very first strip Charles Schulz introduced us to that funny round-headed kid. "Here comes good ol' Charlie Brown. Good ol' Charlie Brown...Yes sir. Good ol' Charlie Brown. How I hate him." By the time I caught hold of him, the zeitgeist had a pretty firm grip on Chuck. A boy of some indeterminant age whose companions rarely shifted to much more than simple acceptance of his existence. A literal dark cloud seemed to hang over him on most days, and even his dog rarely seemed to give him the respect he deserved for taking care of him for all those years.  

Even the most insecure character by his own admission, Linus Van Pelt, saw fit to lecture Charlie Brown on self-esteem. I am reminded of Chuck Jones' assessment of two of his most famous characters. He said that Bugs Bunny is who we wish we were, and Daffy Duck is who we really are. That's how I felt about Snoopy and Charlie Brown. Snoopy was off flying his Sopwith Camel or traveling to the moon, while Charlie Brown was down here on earth experiencing the effects of gravity first hand. There was no escape for Chuck. 

I consumed all these images and tropes, but one that only recently resurfaced was that of the grease traps. Each summer, Charlie Brown would be packed off to summer camp, causing him no end of suffering. Not the least of which was the aforementioned grease traps. Through some twist of cruel fate, Charlie Brown seemed to be regularly assigned to the onerous kitchen detail of scrubbing out the grease traps. Why would a child of any age be subjected to such a cruel punishment? It's enough to set a kid off in search of psychiatric help, though why you would choose to receive therapy from one of your chief tormentors is perhaps only understood by good ol' Charlie Brown. 

How I pity him