Tag: reading

Giving a Young Woman Her Voice

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.

Color of Grief

All the Blues in the Sky – by Renée Watson
Bloomsbury Children’s Books, 2024

Sage is a thirteen-year-old girl whose best friend is killed by a reckless driver. This terrible event happens on Sage’s birthday. The terms “losing” someone, or “passing away,” would be completely inadequate to describe the shock, numbness, and internalized rage that follow the accident.  Renée Watson’s verse novel gives Sage a voice in each chapter, narrated from the unaffected perspective of a person confronting emotions that would level a strong adult. With the same sensitivity to the process of growing up shown in her other works (which I have reviewed here and here and here), Watson creates characters who are vulnerable, but also strong.

In All the Blues in the Sky the experiences that test Sage are not the ordinary, but still difficult ones, of every adolescence, although those experiences, such as having divorced parents, are the framework for her growth.  Her parents are supportive, as is Aunt Ini, her surrogate grandmother.  She even has the benefit of a grief counseling group facilitated by Ms. Carver, who is nothing if not patient and professional. Mr. Dixon, Sage’s dedicated math teacher, offers slightly irritating, but totally sincere, life lessons: “Understanding angle relationships in math will help you understand your personal, real-life relationships…There are people –like transversal lines – that cross paths with you, only for a moment.”

There are other people in her life who are grieving.  Zay’s grandmother has died, and she admits relief at the end of her suffering. DD’s brother was killed by the police.  Ebony’s father had a heart attack. Sage is forced to constantly evaluate which types of death are hardest for survivors. No one has been able to answer this question.  Her friend’s death was abrupt and senseless. Sage never had a chance to say good-bye. Other survivors had to helplessly watch a long period of illness preceding a death.  Another troubling part of Sage’s role, which is only implicit in the novel, is her specific relationship to the person who died. She is not a sister, mother, or child, but a friend.  When a relationship is not formally recognized, the most profound sadness can seem somehow less important, although her friend’s family certainly honors Sage’s role in their loved one’s life.

For almost the entire book, Sage’s friend remains unnamed.  There could be many narrative, and psychological, reasons for this choice.  Articulating her name is too difficult, too final.  Nameless, she is both a real person and a tangible symbol for anyone who has grieved.  Words cannot capture the friend’s unique qualities, although Sage gives many examples of their closeness, and even of the tensions that leave her with unresolved guilt.  But specific, mundane, questions are more important than generalities: “What will her parents do with the posters on the wall?” Sage asks, “What will they do with her jean and T-shirts and sweaters/ and sneakers and sandals and socks and leggings and bracelets/ and earrings…”

Sage grieves, but she also falls in love, and begins to fulfill her dream of learning to fly.  More losses are in store, and Watson never minimizes their depth with platitudes. “If I live long enough to be an adult/and if I have children when I am an adult/I will tell them as much as I can about all the loss…” The phrase. “If I live long enough” from a girl of thirteen is terrible, but Sage’s resolve to tell her children the truth is something of a triumph.

Not Scary, Really

This Book is Dangerous! (A Narwhal and Jelly Picture Book #1) – written and illustrated by Ben Clanton
Tundra Books, 2025

What is the difference between Narwhal and Jelly, the sea creature duo from Ben Clanton, when they appear in a picture book or in their previous format, graphic novels (see here and here and here)? This is not a rhetorical question. While in This Book is Dangerous! they inhabit a larger format with a somewhat more intense narrative pace, they still have the same lovably sincere personalities.  There is a narrower range of characters and fewer digressions. Jelly is focused on his fears, given the title of his picture book debut.

Jelly is rendered in Clanton’ inimitable style, with a touch of Ed Emberley simplicity. His inverted eyebrows and down-turned mouth ask the reader what on earth, or in the sea, is going on: “UH…DID YOU READ THE TITLE OF THIS BOOK?!” The redundant punctuation tells you just how terrified he is.  Soon he is caught in a maze of signs urging caution, peril, and the need to stop. Jelly believes that the reader can help him to decode them and offer advice.

There are sea serpents with sharp teeth and a cannon which may or may not be non-functional. Jelly is actually transformed into a dark red cannonball, as Clanton extends the character’s legs, opens his eyes wide, and reverse the direction of the eyebrows.  Children relate to artwork that seems to contain elements of their own.

The drama settles down, and the book briefly returns to the idiosyncrasies of the graphic novels.  A page entitled “SOME NEARBY ITEMS” also reminded me The Everything in the Whole Wide World Museum: With Lovable Furry Old Grover, although the stakes are higher. Jelly needs support, but he may have some problems depending on “PRICKLY UNDERSEA PINEAPPLE,” or “RANDOM CACTUS.”

Jelly becomes angry, disappointed with the reader who, as in The Monster at the End of This Book, does not seem to understand the gravity of his problem. After all, someone who cannot help him extricate himself from danger is as dangerous as the book itself and all the horrors it contains. When Jelly finds some courage, along with ingenuity, and a bit of luck, he feels calmer, safer, and happy to meet his old friend Narwhal for a nostalgic ending.  His warning not to read the book over again is not to be taken literally.

Writing Is Heroic

The Trouble with Heroes – by Kate Messner
Bloomsbury Children’s Books, 2025

“I’m still sad and I’m still angry sometimes, because so much stuff isn’t fair and grief is totally on that list.” That sentence, from a letter to a dead woman whose gravestone he defaced in a moment of rage, is by Finn Connelly, a boy in middle school. His father, a New York City firefighter, survived 9/11/2001, only to succumb years later, during the Covid-19 pandemic. This novel in verse, by acclaimed author Kate Messner, is getting excellent reviews. Instead of just adding to them, I will make a few points about some questions that the book raises.

It seems counterintuitive that novels in verse should have become so popular. Reading poetry is not in the mainstream of middle-grade or young adult literature.  Having read many of these books, it has become obvious that the most attractive feature of this genre maybe its short length. Each chapter is a short poem, often, but not always, in a conversational or free verse form.  The Trouble with Heroes is not this kind of facile example, which relieves the author of the obligation to create a narrative with continuity between each part. Simply dividing sentences of prose into shorter lines does not add up to poetry.  Whenever I read an accomplished book in verse for young readers (I have, for example, reviewed other examples here and here and here), I am impressed that the author has thoughtfully crafted a distinctive voice for a range of characters, often using a variety of metric forms.

Middle-grade literature is full of angry kids. Childhood and adolescence provide many reasons to be angry, and Finn’s motives are severe enough to grant him a kind of instant empathy. Still, vandalizing someone’s grave is awful, and needs to be met with a strong response. Should that response be a punishment, an opportunity for growth, or perhaps a mere acknowledgement that being a victim does not excuse victimizing others?  Finn earns the reader’s respect, not because his life is unbearably sad, but by his honest, caustic, and introspective reactions to everything life has thrown in his path. We would still feel sympathy for what he has suffered, but that emotion alone does not make a character worth the reader’s attention for over 300 pages.

The adults in Finn’s life are imperfect, from his mother, worn down by her own burdens, to his supportive grandmother, to the teacher who expects him to turn in poems about heroes. One truth that emerges from Finn’s story is that each person is trapped in his own experience, which can never be fully shared. At the same time, Finn struggles, and learns how to accept the flawed, tarnished, human beings who care about him.  Whenever adults do their best to impart survival skills, learned from their own experiences, the author needs to weigh the validity of the child’s response.  Finn is not obligated to be fair, but Messner succeeds in creating a character whose contradictions are believable.

Finally, there are recipes in some of the poems.  I was relieved by that, because Finn enjoys food, and his family bakery plays a role in the plot.  I was afraid he was going to be thrown into mountain climbing in the Adirondacks because Edna, the woman whose grave he vandalized, had touched people’s lives through her commitment to hiking.  The outdoors are not necessarily the ideal setting for every single human being to undergo life-affirming epiphanies. How appropriate was the choice, by Edna’s daughter, to enforce hiking as an alternative to more punitive consequences? Readers may differ on the answer, but I appreciated the references to other areas of Finn’s life that did not involve potentially brutal geography, wild animals, and a mother’s totally realistic fears for her son.

D.E.A.R. (Drop Everything and Read about Stella and Marigold)

Stella & Marigold – written by Annie Barrows, illustrated by Sophie Blackall
Chronicle Books, 2024

Stella and Marigold are each brave, in their own way. Marigold is the younger of the two sisters, but it would be inaccurate to call her a “pest.” This first in a series of adventures about two sisters is not merely an homage to Beverly Cleary, but Beezus and Ramona are somehow omnipresent in the best way.  Cleary virtually invented the portrait of sisters as a complex, and yet easily identifiable, story for young readers.  Annie Barrows‘ narration appeals to exactly the right level, and Sophie Blackall’s gorgeous colored pictures create an unforgettable image of the girls, from Marigold’s birth to their imaginative channeling of pioneer children in a snowstorm.

Each chapter is a showcase for Stella and Marigold’s unbreakable bond and their boundless inventiveness.  Their understanding parents are the perfect audience, and also are there to guide them when a situation demands adult intervention.  In “Lost and Found in the Meerkat Mound,” a trip to the zoo with their father culminates in a visit to the “crabby little animals who live in big groups under the ground.”

After the rather sedentary turtles and the hilarious gibbons, the meerkats should offer a calm conclusion to the day. Instead, Marigold gets lost in the special tunnel built to give children a good view of the habitat.  At home after Marigold’s rescue, the sisters draw pictures; Marigold’s is an appropriate angry swirl of black lines. Stella’s simple reassurance that “Everyone gets lost sometimes. Even grown-ups,” is not enough to make her sister feel better, so she “reminds” her of when the Vice President had visited their city and benefited from Marigold’s assistance. Marigold accepts the truth of the story, not because she is gullible, but because her trust is so deeply rooted.

Less dramatically, “The Lucky Half” converts the visit of a plumber to retrieve Marigold’s purple hairclip. When the girls’ mother is less than thrilled at this turn of events, Stella devises an alternative explanation to carelessness. The bathroom is the only room in their house with magic powers, enabling all the mundane items there to move independently. She even provides the odd detail to make her story somehow more credible. Her response to Marigold’s asking if toys also had this superpower, is an emphatic “no.” The magic only applies to clips, toothpaste, and brushes, and only for “four minutes each night.”  Stella, like Barrows and Blackall, knows exactly how to make a story believable through the perfect combination of details.  The book is dedicated to Lore Segal, “who knows about kids and stories,” granting that author the same kind of honorary status as grandmother to Stella and Marigold that Beverly Cleary holds.  Fortunately, there is more to look forward to in September, when the second book in the series is released.    

Fairy Architects

The Tallest Tree House – written and illustrated by Elly MacKay
Running Press Kids, 2019

Fairies usually live in tiny, beautiful, dwellings. Sometimes these are made of obvious materials: leaves, twigs, moss, and other natural elements. Often a child who loves fairies created them, or at least happens upon them and lovingly interacts with their inhabitants (for example this and this). In Elly MacKay’s The Tallest Tree House, there are two fairies, no humans. Both fairies have architectural aspirations as does this mouse). Their names are Mip and Pip, and they are somewhat competitive; at least Mip is. She actually challenges Pip to a contest: “Whoever makes the best tree house by sundown wins!” This impulsive idea doesn’t take into account the fact that Pip is currently reading a book about architecture. 

Elly MacKay’s illustrations are theatrical; she describes her method in inspiring detail (I reviewed another of her books here). Looking at her cut-out figures, carefully placed in stage settings, I was reminded a bit of the Cottingley fairy episode, a well-intentioned fraud when two girls in early 20th century Britain convinced a credulous public that they had photographed fairies. Of course, there is no fraud here; Mip and Pip are real and they create their own home. But the delicacy and care involved in bringing them to life seem related.

Even looking at the two friends, Pip seems more serious. In addition to his reading, he has a tall, pointed leaf for a head covering. Mip, in contrast, sports a comically oversized mushroom cap.  Pip draws blueprints based on his planning.  He carries a, presumably, well-stocked toolbox and uses a pulley. The sight of Mip’s obviously fragile tall tower worries him, because he cares about her more than he does about winning. Eventually, they work as a team, together completing “a winning piece of architecture.” 

Several qualities set this book apart in children’s fairy literature.  There is the tortoise and hare allusion, and the friendly warning that you need technology as well as patience to build a fairy house.  The composition resembles a theater set, and even includes sound effects, such as a terrifying BOOM in huge font when Mip’s shoddy tower collapses.  The book is not unique in excluding human observers, but it does feature an unusually independent fairy world.  Next time you build a house for fairies, read Pip’s book and bring along some simple machines.

Miigiwe – Giving Away is Good

An Anishinaabe Christmas – written by Wab Kinew, illustrated by Erin Hill
Tundra Books, 2024

Finding a children’s book that may be identified as an instant classic is not to be taken for granted. One book that fits that category is An Anishinaabe Christmas. It brings to mind Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas in Wales, the versions illustrated by both Edward Ardizzone and Chris Raschka, not because of any direct similarity, because the books are very different. Both classics evoke a particular, but also universal, immersion in childhood. You leave the book, and return to it, with a feeling of peacefulness without sentimentality.

A young child from an Indigenous community is going with his parents to visit their extended family on the reservation.  It is winter solstice, an inseparable element of their culture’s celebration of Christmas. Baby, as he is called in the book, looks serious, even puzzled, as his mother and father bundle him up and get ready for their car trip. Their evident excitement is in contrast to his hesitation; this experience is typical of childhood. He is concerned that Santa will not find him away from their home. The cultural signifier of this gift-giving figure so common in the West then transitions to the specific deep roots on the Anishinaabe people.

As they drive from the city to the country, the family passes a sign warning not to feed the bears. This prompts a memory that connects Baby to her heritage, and to the natural world that is part of it. Her father repeats the story of how he and other adults had formed a protective circle so that a lost bear cub could find its home. The idea of communalities between humans and animals is organic to the picture, without any ideological explanations. “The bear has a family?” Baby asks. Of course it does, and the father not only answers, but uses the opportunity to introduce words in their native language. (Wab Kinew includes these terms in a glossary at the end of the book, along with an explanation of the cultural syncretism combining Christmas with Indigenous traditions.) The bear also has makwa, family, although it is distinct from the human one.  The bears’ makwa  will “snuggle up in their dens with their babies for Christmas.”

One thing the bear cub will not do is craft a gift for his grandparents, Kookom and Mooshom. The picture of this project is composed of carefully spaced elements, each one of which represents something important: creativity, love, simplicity, focus. Glue, scissors, a red paper heart, become a concrete expression of miigiwe, that Baby’s father has explained: “That means ‘giving away.’ And it’s good.”

The pictures by Erin Hill alternate outdoor panoramas, domestic interiors, and framed scenes of specific activities. A view of the family seated around a wood stove is set an angle and viewed from a slight elevation. Relatives embrace, but there is empty space between different sections of the picture.  Kookom and Mooshom are thrilled to see their grandchild, but they listen carefully to his narration of the car trip. He has processed the truths his father communicated and his repeats them, with understanding, to the older generation. Do you have grandparents? Are you a grandparent? Do you remember your grandparents? You will never forget these scenes.  The family goes outdoors, where they sing about the poetry of winter while playing drums. Whatever winter holiday you celebrate, An Anishinaabe Christmas will resonate as strongly as that chorus.