Lights at Night – written by Tasha Hilderman, illustrated by Maggie Zeng Tundra Books 2025
There are two families observing the rhythms of the year in Lights at Night. One is human and the other canine, specifically foxes. Dream-like images with changing shades of color include realistic details, both natural and cultural. Children experience the wonder, but also the reassurance, of the four seasons and their special features, from football in autumn to storms in spring. While the fox family does not kindle holiday lights around the time of the winter solstice, they also appear to respond to the changes. Tasha Hilderman’s soothing poetic text complements Maggie Zeng’s visual immersion in the excitement of one year. Children find joy, not boredom, in the repetition of familiar events.
A powerful storm is just unsettling enough to make the shelter of home more of a comfort. Crayon drawn strikes of lightening emanate from a house, enclosed in a photograph, and also cross its border. Inside, a strong of lights and beds configured as tents add the sense of drama that children like. Note the plush fox in a small sleeping bag. The fox family lacks the domestic props, but is just as attuned to the environmental changes. Of course, animals’ lives are more closely defined by the seasons. In spring, “new babies arrive with the stars.”
Campfires come in summer; riding the bus to school and harvesting wheat are tied to autumn. One of my favorite images in the book is a natural and unobtrusive celebration of multicultural holidays. Christmas trees, Diwali lights, a Muslim family welcoming visitors, and a Kwanzaa lamp grace the neighborhood, along with a Jewish family’s observance of Chanukah. If you look closely, you will see that the correctly depicted nine branch chanukiyah (menorah) has its candle farthest to the left partly obscured by the window frame. This is not an error, just a small visual element lending authenticity to the way in which someone placed the lights, which must be visible from the outside.
At the end of the book, the two children share an album and a box of crayons. The volume is open to the photo with lightning, enhanced by the children’s artwork. The actual fox looks up the moon.
Trouble Dog: From Shelter Dog to Conservation Hero – written by Carol A. Foote, illustrated by Larry Day Eerdmans Books for Young Readers, 2025
There is a lot of action in Trouble Dog. There is also an abundance of information, a likeable main human character, and a surprising amount of humor. Carol A. Foote has combined two real-life conservation dogs into one fictional hybrid named Tucker. Caught in a cycle of adoption and rejection, he is always returned to the animal shelter that has given up on placing him. Then, along comes Laura, a classic heroine who refuses to give up on an unlikely pet who has driven everyone else to distraction. Larry Day’s pictures are full of action and color, setting a motion Laura and Tucker’s journey from trouble to success.
The opening end papers introduce Tucker in some typically frenetic canine activity. Then it escalates, as every home the shelter finds for him is subjected to chaos. Tucker manages to overturn an aquarium and books in one place. He grabs a girl’s sweater and won’t let go. A man attempting to read his newspaper looks enraged as Tucker grabs it and leaves a litter of overturned items in his wake. When we next see him, Tucker is a lonely prisoner in a cage, “watching everyone pass him by.”
Laura is a sturdy figure with a ponytail, flannel shirt, and jeans. She is as no-nonsense as Mary Poppins, and she also intuits something about Tucker that everyone has missed. His energy can be put to good use. Even though her home is quickly as disordered as every other place Tucker has been, she has a vision and the practical sense to implement it. Dogs, as readers learn in Foote’s detailed backmatter, have a highly developed sense of smell. Laura observes Tucker carefully and evaluates his routine and abilities. She isn’t just kind and patient, but methodical, as well.
Eventually Tucker gets a job, or a series of jobs. The details in the text are embedded in words as colorful as the pictures. “Tucker’s first job was to find rosy wolf snails in Hawaii.” (image). He travels the world, sniffing out “moon bears in China, mountain lions in Chile, and elephants in the jungles of Myanmar” in a narrative as exciting as one by Jules Verne, but rooted in the truth. In a two-page spread, Tucker crosses the gutter between pages. An elephant marches ahead of him, dwarfing the dog in size, but not in energy. Three researchers form a determined row in the background, to his left. The image captures the cooperation necessary for Tucker to succeed in helping scientists to learn about species in need of protection.
Not every outing produces results easily. In Zambia, Laura’s optimism is tested, looking for cheetah scat and coming up short. When Laura insists that “I trust Tucker,” who finally leads them to the right location, she is not relying only on her affection for the dog. Through hard work and astute decisions, she and Tucker have become a team.
Four pages of additional information and photographs are organized in a question-and-answer format, giving the bigger picture of how conservation animals, as well as other service animals, provide essential services. A selected bibliography is accompanied by an oval portrait of Laura and Tucker relaxing at home. I hope that no one misses one title, by Alexandra Horowitz, Inside of a Dog: Young Readers Edition: What Dogs See, Smell, and Know. Just parenthetically, the title refers to the famous quip usually attributed to Groucho Marx: “Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.” It’s definitely not too dark to read inside this book.
Returning the Sword: How a Japanese Sword of War Became a Symbol of Friendship and Peace – written by Caren Stelson, illustrated by Amanda Yoshida Carolrhoda Books, 2025
There is an understandable connection, for many readers, to books that promise a hopeful vision of reconciliation after conflict. I have read and reviewed many books in this category. While I respect the principle of deriving a positive lesson from a disastrous historical event, I have difficulty with facile messages of friendship in the absence of context. Returning the Sword has beautiful illustrations by Amanda Yoshida, and the text by Caren Stelson is obviously the product of sincere beliefs. She is a serious author committed to writing about important topics. However, I am troubled by the book’s almost complete absence of accurate information about Japanese aggression before and during World War II, and its depiction of the Japanese people as the sole victims of that conflict (as was also done here).
Stelson relates the story of Orval Amdahl, a man who served in the U.S. Marines during World War II and in the postwar occupation of Japan. He was horrified by the death and destruction wrought by the atomic bomb, a response shared by people throughout the world. Although more people were actually killed in the firebombing of Tokyo, inflicting death by radiation poisoning in the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki was conceived as a different category of weapon, one to be avoided ever again.
The decision to use that weapon to end the war, while one with terrible consequences, did not occur in a vacuum, but readers would never learn that from the book. Reporting Captain Amdahl’s reaction in Nagasaki, Stelson writes that “The city had been destroyed by a terrible bomb,” and “So many people had lost nearly everything important to them in this terrible war.” The starving children he meets, and the other civilian victims, had been living under a fascist regime that inflicted torture and murder throughout the countries they occupied, and upon the Allied soldiers who fought against Japan’s imperial forces. The Rape of Nanking, the Bataan Death March, the abuse of Korean “comfort women,” and other atrocities, are completely absent, not even indirectly suggested in an age-appropriate way. I am not suggesting that these sources be directly presented to children, which would be totally inappropriate, but they could be offered as a context for adults sharing the book, since Japanese suffering is uniquely at the center of its message.
Like many soldiers who served in the Pacific, Captain Amdahl returned home with a souvenir sword. This item continued to plague him psychologically, and he ultimately decided that he would like to return it to, as he interpreted it, its “rightful owner.” Stelson describes the swords as works of art and family treasures. The craftsmanship used to create them is somehow allowed to displace their actual purpose as symbols of military might, and also, to a lesser extent in World War II, as actual weapons used to perpetrate atrocities I prefer not to describe here. The U.S. military leaders who encouraged soldiers to appropriate them are cast as heartless. Captain Amdahl enters a room where the swords are “piled eight feet high,” and selects one to take home. This scene struck me as an inversion of the often-described encounter between the liberators of Nazi concentration camps and the bodies they discovered. The swords themselves are personified as lifeless victims.
Eventually, Captain Amdahl contacts Tadahiro Motomura, the son of the sword’s owner. Mr. Motomura writes of how his father did not talk about the war, but expressed his sadness at the loss of his sword: “At the end of the war, it hurt him to give it up.” (Without describing atrocities, the author might have suggested the incomplete nature of this statement. Even a mild indication of its irony, such as “The Japanese had caused great suffering in the countries they occupied. Still, Mr. Motomura felt sad about the loss of his family heirloom,” would have been closer to the truth.) Unlike in Germany, where an incomplete, and ultimately truncated, version of denazification was U.S. policy, in Japan a decision was made, in the context of the Cold War, to avoid forcing responsibility on the defeated nation. The emperor remained as a figurehead and there was virtually no educational program to ensure that the Japanese understand anyone’s suffering other than their own.
Captain Amdahl and Mr. Motomura believed that their personal reconciliation had embodied the idea of “peace with honor.” Perhaps if they had each come to terms with the historical realities that brought so much destruction, culminating in the terrible choice of using an atomic weapon, their decision would have been more meaningful. The book’s visual beauty, and even the ideal of reconciliation, could prompt a serious discussion with children about the consequences of both totalitarianism and violence. Historical facts and the idea of accountability would need to be part of that dialogue.
Tales from Muggleswick Wood – written by Vicky Cowie, illustrated by Charlie Mackesy Bloomsbury Children’s Books, 2025
Nostalgia sometimes carries a negative implication. When applied to culture it can imply that an author, artist, or film maker is steeped in the past to the exclusion of present realities. Tales from Muggleswick Wood is not vulnerable to that accusation. While this delightful collection of five stories is certainly an homage to older classic tales, it is also a lively and artistically distinguished work. Whether or not young readers are reminded of Winnie the Pooh and the Hundred Acre Wood, Brian Jacques’s Redwall series, or Jill Barklem’s Brambley Hedge, they will be entertained and educated.
The book’s endpapers feature a detailed map, by Kathryn Rathke, of Muggleswick. This includes not on the woods of the title, but the village, grange, mere, and other settings which will appear in the stories. Vicky Cowie’s clever rhyming text recalls its roots in British and American children’s books, as would be expected, since the framing device of the narrative is Granny’s tales, told at her grandchildren’s request. “The Magic of Muggleswick Wood” opens with a portrait of the characters holding hands, their backs to the reader. The girl and her gnome friend, Neville, share a Christopher Robin and Pooh companionship, although Neville is somewhat less naïve than Pooh, which is helpful when gargoyles and a fairy ring appear.
The stories are not uniform in tone. “The Biggest Blooming Beetle” has an outsized insect rather than fairies, and “The Secret of Snittington Hall” returns to the supernatural in the setting of a grand home. “A magical brownie of secret descent” is a helpful friend to Lady Plumcake, asking only for porridge and honey in return for his efforts. Nonetheless, an ill-treated brownie can quickly transform into the much less pliant “beastly boggart.” “Kevin the Kelpie” explores the dangers of relying on the title character for transportation, if you are an imp, gnome, or wood nymph requiring a ride to the Big Blackthorn Bash.
Charlie Mackesy‘s ink and watercolor illustrations, like those of Quentin Blake and Edward Ardizzone, use caricature, ranging from gentle to somewhat frightening. Each character’s distinctive traits emerge from delicate brushstrokes and changes in hue. Mrs. Plumcake ponders how to respond to rude Mr. Pratt, her arms crossed and world bubble above her encasing the essential items: honey, a horseshoe, and a ten-pound note. Fairies and gnomes are easily identified from their roles in folklore, but not limited by them.
Perhaps the darkest tale in the book, “Melvin the Mole,” relates the problem of Major Hugh White, who is plagued by a bothersome mole in his garden. Melvin has “teeth like daggers,” but also a “soft velveteen” coat. Is he a pest or simply a creature caring for his family? Major White is convinced of the former, and engages a “professional mole catcher” by the name of Mr. J. Thatcher. Before describing the type of caricature used to depict him, I would like to state categorically that it is certainly unintentional on Mr. Mackesy’s, or Ms. Cowie’s, part:
Mr. Thatcher was thin, a grim sort of chap, with a long moleskin coat and a matching flat cap. His curly red sideburns came right to his chin, and he smelled like the juice of a week-old dustbin.
Mr. Thatcher bears a marked resemblance to both Shylock and Fagin. Each quality in isolation would be much less resonant; it’s the combination in one image that brings to mind antisemitism tropes. To place him in context, his exaggeratedly long nose is only slightly longer than Major White’s. His flat cap might be worn by anyone, but as part of the total costume, along with the long coat, sloping brow, and especially the red sideburns, it is difficult to separate each suggestive element of the drawing. Some Orthodox Jewish men and boys wear long sideburns, payot, or payes, in fidelity to Jewish law. While an adult Jewish man who wore them would most likely also have a beard, they are still an unmistakable signifier of Jewish identity. The reeking of filth is another alleged Jewish quality, rooted in the Middle Ages, but prevalent in 19th century Europe. There is a picture of Mr. Thatcher pointing at a sign advertising the noxious refuse he will use to destroy moles. In this picture his features are even more exaggerated, his eyes hooded and his nose enormous.
This one section of the book did not, however, compromise its value for me. It is a beautiful work of art for children deeply imbued with respect for the literary past and innovation in the present. We are all vulnerable to stereotypes communicated in childhood, and I am sure that is explanation for their appearance in this wonderful book.
It’s hard to keep track of all the novels, movies, and other varieties of allegedly Jane Austen-inspired works (there are children’s biographies of her as well, such as this and this). Some of quite good, a few excellent, and others teeter on the border between obtuse and exploitative. Chieri Uegaki’s Kimiko is an outstanding young adult novel that adults will enjoy, as well. (I also reviewed an earlier picture book by her.) She is a true heir to Jane Austen, not in the sense of attempting to replicate the novelist’s Emma, but in offering how own distinct version in conversation with the 19th century masterpiece.
Emiko Kimori is a Japanese Canadian high school student living in a spacious and idyllic home on the Pacific coast. Her parents died when she was very young, but the memories she is too young to have retained have been transformed into an almost spiritual presence in her consciousness. She lives with Ojiichan, her grandfather, a character endowed by Chieri Uegaki with a level of wisdom and patience that, in the hands of another author, might lack credibility. Yet, like every person in Emiko’s life, from the closest to the most tangential, he is utterly believable.
If you remember your Jane Austen, Emma Woodhouse is engaged in well intentioned matchmaking, motivated by genuine concern for others, but also
unacknowledged arrogance. Uegaki’s Emiko is also consumed with helping her friends find the partner who will complete their happiness, and a controlling element definitely plays a role in her machinations. She is also kind, sensitive, and sometimes able to examine her actions with some critical distance. She has been friends with Kenzo Sanada since they were children, enjoying the embrace of his family and the peace that being with them confers. “Kimochi ii,” as Emiko explains this warmth, “floats through my mind…The closest I can come to explain what I mean…is that…it makes my spirit feel at ease.”
All novelistic characters have an ethnic identity, whether as an integral part of the narrative or a kind of default, of less significance. Uegaki weaves Japanese culture throughout the book, with a graceful conviction of its importance. She is not taking readers on a tour, but inculcating a feeling of interest and empathy. Whether describing foods in detail or naturally choosing phrases that are the best way to convey the events and her responses to them, Emiko is at ease in two intersecting worlds. She shares with Ojiichan the ritual of offering incense at the butsudan (altar) to honor deceased family members, closing her eyes in front of their photos and requesting guidance. She and Ojiichan also bond watching Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina.
There are several surprises for readers. Like Austen’s characters, Uegaki’s are three dimensional. A friend, like Harumi, may be oblivious to her own needs. Jun, the stepson of Emiko’s aunt, Mitsuko, is brimming with both pride and prejudice that place him on a dangerous course. Kenzo’s basic decent strength is never in doubt, but, like everyone, he needs to find a counterpart.
There is a scene that epitomizes the way that Uegaki translates Austen into Emiko’s movement towards growth. Mitsuko prepares to help Emiko transform one of her mother’s kimonos into a prom dress. First, she dresses in the kimono and traditional accessories, then poses for a picture. Finally, Ojiichan blesses the project: “I am happy for you to do as you wish, Emiko. I think your mother would be as well, knowing you are taking something of hers and making it your own.” Then it’s time to “deconstruct” the kimono and recreate it into something new. Emiko eventually learns both how to scrutinize the past and present, and how to start from scratch.
Together We Are Family – written and illustrated by Emily Hamilton Bloomsbury Children’s Books, 2025
Wonderful children’s books each have their own outstanding qualities. There is no one formula for producing the authenticity and beauty inherent in a distinctive picture book. Emily Hamilton’s Together We Are Family features a tone of empathy with kids, simplicity that is not patronizing, and pictures that are reminiscent of children’s artwork without mere imitation.
In the opening picture, the mother lowers her body slightly to speak with her daughter, a young girl using a walker. The mother’s words are enclosed in a speech bubble bordered by unconnected dashes rather than a continuous curved line. “You are you and I am me. Together, we are family.” There is nothing trite about those words to a child. The facing page shows family portraits framed and posted in their home. Each scene captures a moment: a bird carrying off part of a girl’s ice cream cone, a father holding one daughter and an older daughter’s face peering over the bottom of the photo, sisters on the beach with their back to the viewer.
Hamilton’s illustrations are rendered in watercolor and pencil, along with Photoshop. Simply using media that children might also prefer, including colored pencils and paint, does not necessarily convince readers that the illustrator identifies with their point of view. The primary colors and naïve brushstrokes need to be accompanied by a sense of identification. In a terrific two-page spread, Hamilton presents a bird’s eye view of a family that embodies the metaphor of finding their way together. Sitting around a floor mat designed as a town with roads connecting the community, each family member chooses a different activity, but they are working in harmony. The father “drives” a red car in a traffic circle, while one child drives a similar vehicle on her mother’s pants leg. The mother builds a structure with blocks. The younger girl, who is moving a toy alligator, which seems more fanciful and less related to the overall purpose of the game, is just as integrated into the scene.
Frustration is also part of a child’s life, as Hamilton visualizes without judgment. Putting on her shoes is a challenge for the young girl, as is climbing stairs without the aid of her walker. As with all children, whether or not they have special needs, anger can erupt unpredictably, as “the moods that catch you unawares.” While her older sister calmly picks up a piece of fruit at their picnic, the younger girl, frowning, tosses a sandwich into the air. The chaotic merriment of a party is off putting to the child, who stays close to her mother watching the scene with some discomfort. Anyone, young or old, who has ever experienced frenetic social activity as less than an unalloyed joy will relate to this scene.
In a sensitive author’s note, Hamilton explains how her daughter’s disability has influenced their life as a family in specific ways, but she emphasizes how all families inevitably cope with difficulties through support and love. Together We Are Family resonates with that truth for all readers.
Little Shoes – written by David A. Robertson, illustrated by Maya McKibbin Tundra Books, 2025
Many Indigenous children, in both Canada and the U.S., suffered the trauma of being removed from their families and placed in residential schools funded by the government and often controlled by different Christian denominations. Deprived of their heritage, and often subject to physical and emotional abuse, these children would be lost to history if not for concerted efforts to publicize their experience and to demand restitution and atonement. Little Shoes is a picture book by acclaimed author David A. Robertson (see my reviews here and here and here), a member of Norway House Cree Nation, illustrated by Maya McKibbin, of Ojibwe, Irish, and Yoeme heritage (Robertson and McKibbin have collaborated before). They have taken on the weighty task of presenting a catastrophic loss to young readers, but also offering hope and determination. With poetic text and images of family life that are both familiar and mystical in tone, they have achieved this goal.
The endpapers feature constellations, introducing a central theme of each person’s place in the universe. James, who understands the principles of astronomy from his science class, opens the curtains in his room to the moonlight. He asks his mother to clarify how and why his feet remain firmly on the ground if the Earth is spinning in space. The answer is only one of several which his mother will frame truthfully, and also use to elaborate on other questions which will naturally follow. She reassures him that his Kōkom’s, (grandmother’s) explanation about their origins is valid, but adds, “even though you’re from the stars, your home is right here with me.”
The love between a parent and child, and the enveloping warmth of his community, are anchors in James’s life. His intense curiosity places demands on a parent who is obviously committed but exhausted, when he returns to her room with a request to hear about “every single constellation,” His own attempt to visualize and trace them in the night sky is insufficient. The dialogues between children and their caregivers are open ended, and the book swerves from the dimensions of the cosmos to the specific history of injustice that remains unresolved.
James and his kōkom set out for one of their frequent walks, but his time it is transformed into a march. A daily experience becomes a metamorphosis, and his grandmother takes on the role of teaching about a part of their lives that is far more difficult to internalize that the motions of the planets. The little shoes of the title are those of Indigenous children whose deaths are acknowledged by Kōkom with the haunting phrase that they “had gone to residential school but had not come home.” Shoes as a metonym for children who have died seems to capture a sense of a life that is unnaturally cut short. Other articles of clothing are perhaps less universal, and small shoes also reflect the scale of the children relative to adults, both those who loved them and those who inflicted torture. A similar allusion to this loss has been used in many memorials to child victims of the Holocaust. (Of course, while some of those children, like the Indigenous victims, died of abuse, neglect, and disease, many were murdered immediately upon arrival at a death camp. Chronicling atrocities requires acknowledging both what they share and common and how they differ.)
Robertson and McKibben do not attempt a simplistic response to James’s fears. He interprets the frightening facts through the lens of loneliness, asking his mother how his own grandmother had coped with the deprivation of her isolation in the residential school. His mother responds that her sister and she had “cuddled,” paralleled by McKibbin’s image of mother and son sharing the same physical contact. Their bond is unbreakable, even if mitigated by anguish. The honesty of Little Shoes is an antidote to fear.
The Rehearsal Club – Kate Fodor and Laurie Petrou Groundwood Books, 2025
Kate Fodor and Laurie Petrou’s new middle-grade novel, about aspiring actresses and quirky kids, is quite a production. Alternating between two eras, it does not involve time travel, but rather involves a mystery in the past which contemporary characters have committed to solve. If this description sounds somewhat formulaic, the novel transcends the very formula that frames its story. While several familiar elements are there; the magic of theater, coming of age narratives, sibling and friendship rivalries, and intergenerational tensions, they avoid all the clichés associated with this popular literary and cinematic tradition.
The Rehearsal Club is a wonderful book.
Paloma “Pal” Gallagher is a twelve-year old girl who has just moved from Arizona to New York City, where her older sister, Naomi, is pursuing a career in theatre. Pal’s parents are both librarians, and her mother has a new job in the New York Public Library system. Pal is outgoing and socially awkward at the same time, but she finds a crew of similarly category-resisting friends who provide one another with mutual support. The women’s residence where Naomi lives has a long history, but is now facing financial extinctions. Chapters set in 1954 follow two young mid-century characters, Olive and Posy, with contrasting personalities and different approaches to finding success on Broadway. Meanwhile, in the present, Pal’s parents take off for a librarians’ conference and Pal, temporarily and surreptitiously, moves in with Naomi, and becomes part of her distinctive milieu.
The authors capture perfectly the competitiveness and camaraderie of theater life, in both the past and present. If it seems idealized to have such striking differences between Olive and Posy, the resolution of their dreams as parallel, more than intersecting, actually works. At every point when the reader is asked to suspend disbelief just a bit, a surprise intervenes. There are so many antecedents for the idea of conflict mixed with solidarity in this setting, that adding a new element seems improbable. Melanie Crowder’s Mazie, for a young adult audience, is also inventive in simultaneously paying homage to clichés while dismantling them, and Shira and Esther’s Double Dream Debut by Anna E. Jordan plays with mistaken identity and explores Yiddish theater.
Characters age in The Rehearsal Club. The young and insecure Olive becomes an ageing grande dame with some decidedly unattractive qualities, but also a core of honesty and toughness. In fact, she reminded me a little of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, for those qualities as well as for her impatience with the idea of patronizing children. Young people need to learn from older ones, and, fortunately, the advice offered by people with more experience actually has value.
As the authors explain in their afterword, there was a rehearsal club in New York. That reality was an inspiration for the story of Pal, Olive, Posy, and all the others determined to break a leg and perform to great acclaim. But only the imaginative and skilled approach of Fodor and Petrou allowed brought the script to life.
Taro Gomi’s Big Book of Verbs – written and illustrated by Taro Gomi Chronicle Books, 2025 (Original Japanese edition, 2020)
Children like to move, whether they are playing, responding to instructions, or participating in daily routines. Unlike for many adults, those routines do not yet seem perfunctory or automatic. In Taro Gomi’s Big Book of Verbs, the artist breaks down those actions, labels them, and imbues them with individualized characters.
Why dedicate this type of children’s dictionary exclusively to verbs? Taro Gomi’s Big Book of Verbs is more inclusive in its parts of speech. As Gomi points out in his brief introduction, “There are so many things to do and explore! Have you done some of these things?” Of course, you have, and Gomi encourages readers to think carefully about each action’s meanings, whether rejecting a breakfast food, fighting with classmates, or boarding a bus.
Gomi’s signature style features people with simple features that express a lot. Each word is numbered and corresponds to a picture. “Harvest” demonstrates the effort involved in pulling a plant from the ground. A day at the swimming pool encompasses a range of emotions, from fear to happiness. Sometimes feelings are more subtle. While the child about to leap from the diving board may be a bit frightened, she is also simply ready to “prepare” for her leap. Gomi never romanticizes childhood; both adults and children will appreciate the way that he portrays reality. Conflict, discomfort, and frustration are tied to actions, but so are joy, silliness, and determination.
There are a number of humorous surprises tucked into the book. At the zoo, there are some lions who are as selfish and angry as the human visitors. (There’s also a calm elephant family, and monkeys having a great time.) An indoor arena features people skating, playing soccer, dancing ballet (“twirl”), and, as part of these interactions, defining both “apologize” and “forgive.” Yes, those are action words, too. The camping scene includes someone sleepwalking.
As in many books of this genre, including Richard Scarry’s classics, the possibilities of finding new elements of interest seem infinite. Why is that boy breaking a fence in the farm scene? Is the child drawing in his classroom tired or triumphant when he holds up his crayon? Two apes are relaxing near a t.v.; the one reclining defines the word “chill.” As Winnie-the-Pooh famously stated about bees, you never can tell with verbs.
Adi of Boutanga: A Story from Cameroon – written by Alain Serge Dzotop, illustrated by Marc Daniau Eerdmans Books for Young Readers, 2025 (originally published in French, 2019, Translated by the author)
Adi of Boutanga is an important book. That quality would not necessarily make it appealing, let alone essential, to read, but there are many other reasons why it is just that. A voice that resonates with the truth, beautiful illustrations and innovative graphics, a compelling story, and a deep sense of conviction will all enfold the reader in its narrative fabric.
Adi is fourth grader living in a nomadic community, the Mbororos, in Cameroon. Although they are traditionally herders, their economy has changed; Adi’s father transports passengers on his motorcycle and her mother sells Makala (doughnuts) in the marketplace. Adi’s identity is defined by family relationships: “I prefer to stay the big sister of Fadimatou, Zénabou, Youssoufa, Daïro, Souaïbou, and baby Mohamadou.”
Children cannot control their own lives, even to the limited extent that adults are able to do so. Adi loves attending her school, which she describes as a “gift” to the village by Mama Ly and Monsieur, generous benefactors. The process of learning to read may seem inherently magical to many children, but Dzotop captures the poetry of this experience and gives Adi a voice:
Before the school was given to our village, words were invisible to us. We
could hear them, but we couldn’t see or touch them. I even thought a
a strong wind might steal them as soon as they left our mouths. But that
wasn’t true.
Although there may seem to be a fable-like quality to the book, the characters are not generic. Adi’s mother embraces her daughter’s individuality, responding to Adi’s frequent laughter with the suggestion that her daughter has “swallowed a thousand weaverbirds.” But the warmth and protectiveness of Adi’s life is shattered when her uncle arrives to inform the family that, although still a child, she must marry. Her father and uncle assume opposite patriarchal roles, one caring and the other transactional. “They throw words at each other. Words that hit like stones.”
Saving their daughter means that Adi’s parents must send her away. She goes to Boutanga, where her benefactors have established a school for girls that fosters creativity and dignity. Even if this solution is not a global one, it is enough for Adi and an example for all. Eventually, when she has arrived at the point in her young adult life when she is able to choose, Adi finds love with a man who respects and understands her. Mastering language has been a key to her growth, “catching words… putting them in the right order and making sure they say the right thing.”
The book is not composed only of words, but of images that organically emerge from the culture which they represent. Pages with illustrations alternate with blocks of text set against traditional fabric patterns. Human figures allude to sculpture but have kinetic movement. Earth tones are the setting for the book’s quiet drama, with deep blue sea and red skies framing Adi’s journey. Adi of Boutanga is not a moral lesson, but a work of art that interweaves modern aspirations of freedom for women with the unique threads of a specific culture. It is a book to read, share with children, and read again.
Imaginary Elevators 