Annotations

Curtis, Christopher Paul. (1995). The Watsons go to Birmingham – 1963. New York: Yearling. ISBN 978-0-440-41412-4

Kenny is a 10-year-old African-American living in Flint, Michigan with his family, known simply as the Weird Watsons. When 13-year-old Byron can’t manage to keep himself out of trouble, Mom and Dad decide it’s time to Grandma’s house. Traveling during a tumultuous time in the South, the Watsons arrive in Birmingham, just as history is about to be created. Hilarious and heartwarming, this adolescent work of historical fiction touches upon the tensions of race, explores the issue prejudice, and celebrates family values.

DuPrau, Jeanne. (2003). The city of ember. New York: Random House, Inc. ISBN 978-0-375-82274-2

Lina Mayfleet and Doon Harrow are twelve years old and growing up in Ember. With only streetlights and lampposts to light their way, the citizens of Ember live in darkness, with a perpetual nighttime sky devoid of stars. When the life-sustaining lights of the city begin to flicker, Lina and Doon must find a way to save the ones they love… or else. A magical and intriguing book nestled between adolescent science fiction and fantasy, Lina and Doon take readers on an adventure through the twisted underground tunnels beneath the city of Ember.

Peterson Haddix, Margaret. (1998). Among the hidden. New York: Aladdin Paperbacks. ISBN 978-0-689-82475-3

What if you weren’t ever able to feel the sunshine on your face or go to school with your brothers? What if you had to spend your days hidden away because your very existence is illegal? Meet Luke Garner, a twelve-year-old forbidden third child in a world where Population Police exert totalitarian control over everyone and everything. One day, Luke spies the shadow of a child in a neighboring home where he knows two other children already exist. Will Luke risk the safety of those he loves for a chance to meet another hidden child? The first book in the Shadow Children series will beg the reader to explore ideas of population, social responsibility, and freedom.

Prelutsky, Jack. (1984). The new kid on the block. Ill: Stevenson, James. New York: Scholastic, Inc. ISBN 0590-40836-4

Humorous and original, complete with nonsense words and silly pictures, Prelutsky’s timeless book of poetry will entertain young and old readers alike. From “Baloney Belly Bill” to “Homework! Oh Homework!”, this collection of poems is simple enough to read to young children and complex enough to analyze in the classroom.

Stuck in Neutral by Terry Trueman

Trueman, Terry. (2000). Stuck in neutral. New York: HarperCollins Children’s Books. ISBN 978-0064472135

Fourteen year-old Shawn McDaniel sees and hears perfectly well. He understands when people say “hello” and “how’s it going?” He has a remarkable memory for sounds and events. He even knows how to read, thanks to his sister’s passion for playing special education teacher as a child. The problem is… nobody knows this! Almost everyone thinks that Shawn is a “retard.” Those are his words, not mine. I’ll let him clarify: “Not a ‘retard’ like you might use the word to tease a friend who just said or did something stupid. I mean a real retard. Real in the same way that total means total. As in total retard: Everybody who knows me, everybody who sees me, everybody, anybody who even gets near me would tell you I’m dumb as a rock” (4). Shawn can’t talk, walk, or feed himself. He can’t ask to go to the bathroom or cheer on his favorite sports team. He can’t throw teenage temper tantrums or tell his parents that he loves the wonder and freedom of his grand mal seizures. He literally can’t move a muscle. Shawn has cerebral palsy.

Diagnosed with an I.Q. of 1.2, the equivalent of a 3 to 4 month old, Shawn lives in a silent world. His parents divorced when he was four years old because his father couldn’t cope with his son’s condition. After appearing on countless talkshows to discuss winning a Pulitzer for a story-poem he wrote about Shawn, Sydney E. McDaniel, Shawn’s dad, decides to interview a man from prison who killed his mentally handicapped toddler. The man claimed that it had to be done to end his son’s suffering. Convinced his father secretly wants to commit the same crime, Shawn silently screams for help, but will he ever be heard?

Thoughtfully written in the first person from the private thoughts of Shawn McDaniel, Stuck in Neutral by Terry Trueman is an invitation into an otherwise deathly silent world. The sympathetic reader can feel, see, hear, and understand everything that Shawn can. At times, he is nothing but a regular, raunchy fourteen-year-old: “I love it when Becky works with me, especially when she wears a low-cut top and has to bend over to load and unload me from this special standing contraption they put me in a couple hours every day. Her breasts are perfect: round and smooth and big.” Other times, Shawn is exceptional, and pain and fear seep through the cracks in his adolescent “voice”: “I wonder what it would be like to have a girlfriend. I even wonder what it would be like to love someone else more than I love my mom.” Trueman exposes Shawn for the emotional, sensitive human being that he is and not just another statistic in the mental health world.

The beauty of this book lies in the behind-the-author story. Terry Trueman is the father of a son named Sheehan with cerebral palsy. While Shawn is a character of fiction, his world is modeled off of the real life and presumed genius behind the mask of developmental disability that Trueman experiences every day with his son. Stuck in Neutral is both a social commentary and an inspiring story that isn’t colored black or white. Instead, it’s painted gray and shelved among novels that span both fiction and nonfiction. Further, Trueman uses his book as a vehicle to challenge stereotypes and touch upon the hardships of disability, as well as explore the meaning of unconditional love (and acceptance). Thus, Trueman struggles to reposition bricks between the walls of literary genres and surprisingly creates an entirely reinvented definition of the multicultural genre.

The Arrival

A silent story spoken through sepia-toned illustrations, The Arrival by Shaun Tan shares a journey. A man, his wife, and their little girl live in an impoverished city where their very presence is unsafe. In an act of love, the man leaves his family to search for a new home and a better life, promising to send for them soon. The Arrival is his story, exploring the nuances and niches in an unknown land of floating objects and foreign customs. Along the way, he encounters sympathetic strangers, each with their own unique survival tale, who offer unexpected assistance as he explores his unusual surroundings.

Contrary to the concept of traditional picture books, The Arrival isn’t just another 10 page book of cartoons for a 4 year old to spill spaghettios on. It’s designed for older readers to enjoy. The drawings illuminate emotions and symbolize ideas, sometimes sparkling brighter than words ever could. For example, as the family of three walk to the train station, there is a beautiful two-page drawing of the “city of immanent danger” as I call it. There is an eerie, frightening sense as the family escapes the vacant streets and a dark, shadowy dragon-like creature slithers in the sky between buildings. What is really causing such fear? Is it a creature or is this a mysterious symbol of something more foreboding? Perhaps war or famine? This isn’t the only instance of symbolism in the story. Tan uses the image of the continuous life cycle of a flower/plant in a series of 24 small pictures to show the change of seasons and mark the passage of time.

While The Arrival might appear at first blush to be a fantastical story with simple fictional characters and a magical dreamland, there are traces of truth in every curved line. This is a journey all too familiar to most immigrants. At the birth of the 20^th century, Ellis Island was flooded with families seeking refuge in a new country. They arrived to find that they couldn’t understand a word in their new homeland. Like the main character in The Arrival, they sought food, shelter, and a way of life so that their children could have a bright future.

I don’t know that I’ll ever understand what it truly means to be an immigrant, but what I do understand is the debilitating fear of the unknown. Prone to worrying as a young child, I often lived in fear of what would happen next. What if my parents never came home at night? Who would take care of me? What if my mom forgot to pick me up at school? What if I didn’t get into the one college I applied to? What if I never find someone who’ll love me? What if life always feels like such a struggle? Thankfully, my “what ifs” aren’t as paralyzing as they once were. Experience has trained me well for the inevitable stumbles, bumps, and broken hearts. Instead of allowing my past to enable dysfunction, I am able to embrace it. I am now an empowered individual, able to mold my life into the shape I want it to be. I recognize that his experience and my experience are drastically different, but both he and I must come to terms with the life we choose.

Like Luna and Jin, this unnamed main character seeks a sense of belonging. Even though he is alone and confused in his new space, he never quits. He hunts for knowledge that will sustain him on his personal journey. He is not entirely alone, however. A new little curious creature befriends him and remains an endearing, faithful companion as he strives to make a life for himself and his family. His beautiful story is wholly pieced together with bits of understanding and accepting in the end as he truly makes his arrival.

More Than Meets the Eye

American Born Chinese, by Gene Luen Yang, is a graphic novel made up of three seemingly individual stories that are woven together to create a powerful conclusion. Like three small streams trickling through the forest towards one almighty river, each touches one another and ultimately become inextricably linked. The first story is that of the Monkey King, which Yang purposefully twists into a Christian version of an ancient Chinese folk tale, complete with kung fu and the real hand of “God”. The second story treads amidst the footprints of Jin Wang, a Chinese American boy growing up in a primarily white suburb. The third storyline is about Danny and the torment he endures every year when his Chinese cousin Chin-Kee visits.

If it is read without mindfulness or careful thought, American Born Chinese can be dismissed as a frivolous attempt at exposing racism and stereotypes. By creating a character like Chin-kee, Yang runs the risk of readers taking what might seem like blatant social commentary, at face value, consequently further perpetuating existing stereotypes. However, Yang was quite aware of this when constructing his characters. In his blog on the publisher’s (First Second) website, Yang says, “In order for us to defeat our enemy, he must first be made visible. Besides, comic book readers are some of the smartest folks I've ever met. They'll figure it out.” He respects his audience and their ability to discern fact from fiction.

http://www.firstsecondbooks.com/authors/geneYangBlogMain.html

American Born Chinese, for me, is a crisp winter afternoon of laughing-out-loud and bathing in the bubbly sunshine of a coffeeshop window, pages of colorful comics and witty humor at my fingertips. As I turn the last page, a deluge of emotion strikes, and I know that, between the lines, beneath the words, near the warm core of this little book is a profound message. Prejudice, identity, acceptance, and gratitude paint the pages and beg the reader to search within for meaning that resonates at the level of the heart.

Near the conclusion of the story, the Monkey King visits Jin and shares his painful realization – “You know, Jin, I would have saved myself from five hundred years’ imprisonment beneath a mountain of rock had I only realized how good it is to be a monkey” (223). Perhaps we always want to be something we’re not. A child prays to be an adult by morning, a short woman longs to be tall, a man curses himself for studying English instead of medicine, and a monkey wishes he were a human? We always seem to seek that more beautiful other side in the hopes of a greater happiness. In the lightning-quick world we live in, it’s easy to lose sight of ourselves and the littlest things (and people) that bring us joy. As for me, I appreciate the classical music of 99.5 on a bad day, the kindness of strangers, watching my garden grow, peanut butter, the silent early morning summer sun, striped socks, and my animals (cats and kittens).

Yet, when I stop to look myself in the mirror and ask the question, “who are you?” empty eyes and a blank expression stare back at me. Most days, I think I’m still trying to figure it out. However, like Jin, I have a story to tell. Identity and cultural heritage mold us into complex creatures, and then experiences bend and twist us until we’re exactly where we need to be. We are all shapers and transformers of our own lives. Whether it’s a robot that turns into a motorcycle or a young boy growing into a man, either way, you’re bound to find “more than meets the eye” (28).

Who Am I?

Grant me the serenity

To accept the things I cannot change

The courage to change the things I can

And the wisdom to know the difference

Liam, originally comes from the name William which is German for “Will-Helm”/”Desire-Helmet.” This suggests the loose meaning “strong protector.” Somehow, it seems like an appropriately fitting name for a transgender adolescent. Liam is the identity that has kept her safe from the scrutiny of the public, the judgement of her parents, and the cruel misunderstanding that exists when people fear what they don’t know. Liam will protect Luna as long as she allows it.

A sensitive, thought-provoking novel about a girl trapped in a boy’s body, Luna by Julie Anne Peters tells the story of a transgender teen through his sister Regan’s eyes. Tortured with the silence of her brother’s true nature, Regan wrestles with the emotion and angst of being a secret keeper and the stress that accompanies that role. In her heart, she wants her brother to be happy and fulfilled, but at what cost? She also seeks simplicity in her own life, which is already too complicated. Together, they must discover the delicate balance between reality and fantasy and truth and trust.

In the upper righthand corner of the cover of the book, there is the cutout of a butterfly. As Regan reflects upon the sad, lifeless Liam, she realizes that when Liam morphs into Luna, he is, in essence, freeing himself from the chains of his male identity, like a butterfly hatching from a cocoon. This particular scene, coupled with a moment at the end of the book, allows the reader to “see” the transformation with depth and perspective – “Like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, I thought. An exquisite and delicate creature, unfolding her wings and flying away. Except in Luna’s case, the butterfly is forced to rein in her wings and reinsert herself into the cocoon every day. Every single day, she has to become this shell of a person” (126). Luna painfully stuffs herself into Liam’s clothes, classes, and demeanor day after day in order to avoid the inevitable punishment that awaits her in her true form. While the pain of the process is excruciating, the heartwarming ending of the story revisits the image of the butterfly and completes the transformation: “An aura framed her, a glow. Her whole body seemed to be backlit as she blew me a kiss. I felt it land, a brush of butterfly wings against my cheek. It lifted me up, away. All at once the weight of the world dissolved and I felt myself expand, grow. The same way Luna must feel to be free, I realized. She’d freed us both” (247-248).

Luna (and Luna) captivated my spirit and my mind. Her strength and charisma were unavoidably charming. I found myself a ravenous reader and finished the book in an afternoon. I am the kind of person who doesn’t necessarily have a healthy sense of fear walking alone in the dark in the city and is absolutely colorblind when it comes to the differences in skin color. I don’t care about gender identity or lifestyle choices. A person is a person and should be treated as such regardless. Perhaps, I loved this book because of the emotion it evokes. I have a tender heart and tremendous compassion for those who struggle.

As an adult child of an alcoholic, I find myself identifying with the typical characteristics of others like me – being super responsible, guessing at what normal is, judging myself without mercy, seeking approval/acceptance, taking myself too seriously, and most of all, feeling different from others. Like me, I know that Luna felt different from others. It wasn’t until she discovered Terri Lynn that she felt hope. I’ve had a similar experience in Adult Children of Alcoholics. It’s the power of connecting with people who have had a similar experience that allows one to change, embrace that transformation, and find serenity within. While I have learned a lot about myself in the last 6 years, I continue to unlock pieces of myself every day. I still don’t know exactly who I am, but I long to fly freely like a butterfly, like Luna.

This Space Intentionally Left Blank

I cannot attempt to creatively and imaginatively respond to a book such as A Long Way Gone by Ishmael Beah. The book screams quietly, yet passionately about violence, war, suffering, and anger infused with hope. Any thought or insight from my heart pales in comparison to the power of Ishmael’s prose. Thus, I am left with the things that intrigue me, haunt me in my dreams, and continue to claw at the fabric of my being. I don’t anticipate them letting up anytime soon.

To begin, memoirs and good nonfiction have always been my favorite genres to read. I still think about Kaffir Boy by Mark Mathabane which is a horrifying account of a boy growing up in the midst of the South African aparteid, as well as The Glass Castle by Janette Walls which centers on a young girl’s will to survive in a broken, transient family with parents who chose to be homeless. Perhaps it’s that “other” drama that renders my own pain a dull ache instead of a persistent sharp knife blade on the edge of my heart. Stories like A Long Way Gone inspire gratitude and educate readers about life on the outskirts of their own small world. Memoirs open windows and doors and eyes and ears to fears, realizations, and change.

Adding to the emotional impact of the events in Ishmael’s childhood are his intense words. A gifted writer, Ishmael remembers pieces of his past that others in the same situation might be too numb to notice. He colors his memories with a pallet of personified paints that make the images come alive. The forest in particular has a life of its own, richly described by Ishmael: “The branches of the trees looked as if they were holding hands and bowing their heads in prayer” (119). The forest sees suffering and keeps silent secrets. The natural world plays a significant role in Ishmael’s experience, as the trees were the company he kept most often. There are countless beautiful moments nestled in the cracks of a broken world: “The sun’s brightness painted our shadows on the ground” (116). It was often the night and the weather that saved Ishmael and his friends from certain death: “The path had ended, but we kept running until the sky swallowed the sun and gave birth to the moon. The bullets continued to fly behind us, but now their redness could be seen as they pierced through the bushes. The moon disappeared and took the stars with it, making the sky weep. Its tears saved us from the red bullets” (97-98).

It’s one thing to know about civil wars and child soldiers but quite another to read the firsthand, torturous details. Fueled by anger, sadness, and pain, children picked up guns and vowed to revenge the deaths of their siblings and parents. The bodies of young children were poisoned with drugs, keeping them awake for weeks at a time and transforming them into killing machines. At one point Ishmael even says “killing had become as easy as drinking water. My mind had not only snapped during the first killing, it had also stopped making remorseful records” (122). Their innocent childhoods were stolen from them and replaced with something less than human.

I hope one day to go to Africa. My parents have been to Ghana twice, which is only two countries to the east of Sierra Leone. They’ve fallen in love with the culture and the people. I dream of going to South Africa and volunteering at Boikrabelo, a community that models itself like a traditional African village and has an orphanage, a school, a medical clinic, and an organic farm. Education and sustainability are high priorities in a country where 1.2 million AIDS orphans struggle each day to survive. Reading A Long Way Gone reminded me of all of the work that still needs to be done in this country and around the world. I have plenty of emotion to spare. I need to remind myself to channel this energy and passion to those places that need it. I admire Ishmael for his eloquent strength, honesty, and quiet resilience. He is a true survivor.

Do You See What I See?

Nicollet Mall on a late Saturday afternoon in November: twinkling lights woven into the branches of barren trees, men and women scurrying in dresses and ties to Orchestra Hall, children skipping on the sidewalk, busses blasting by, the sun and her shadows playing hide and seek between the skyscrapers… Most days, I wish this was all I could see. Instead, the neurons are on rapid fire in my brain, my awareness hypersensitive to the point of exhaustion and I SEE… the half a dozen homeless people holding misspelled signs and begging for change, an illegal immigrant speaking Spanish to a small child the busstop on the corner, trash littering the street, the bitter, angry drug-addicted teen in my classroom, and the look of defeat on an elderly man’s face as he glances at the cussing youngsters at the back of the bus, memories of simpler times flooding his heart. Because it is all so overwhelming most days, upon rising in the morning, I look for hints of love and sparkles of hope in the most unlikely of places.

Good deeds are being done daily but often behind closed doors and out of the way. My mom is one of the most humble and generous people I know. Consequently, I was raised to give – everything from extra buttons and half-used crayons to clothing and furniture -- either to Haiti or Jamaica. Perhaps that is why one particular moment in The Circuit by Francisco Jimenez caught my attention. At the beginning of the story, Francisco travels with his family across “la frontera” to California. After arriving in the labor camp where they would make their home, Francisco and his older brother, Roberto, discover the train tracks running behind the camp. Everyday the boys would watch their favorite train tremble down the tracks around noon speculating its departure point:

“’I wonder where the train comes from,’ I said. ‘Do you know, Roberto?’

‘I have been wondering too,” he answered slowly lifting his head. ‘I think

it comes from California.’

‘California!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is California!’

‘I am not so sure,’ he said. ‘Remember what—‘” (7).

California is a symbol of hope, happiness, and freedom for the boys. So far, all they’ve experienced in the United States is hunger, anger, and frustration. However, one day, the Conductor leans out the window and drops a paper bag down to the boys. Inside they find treasures – apples, oranges, and candy! They conclude that perhaps they’re in California, afterall. It’s moments like these that remind us that diamonds exist in the dirt and that good people aren’t so few and far.

Written from the perspective of a child, The Circuit is an honest and innocent account of the lives of a migrant family. Children are plentiful; resources are not. Work is backbreaking; leisure is foreign. This book is everything you already knew about hardships of farming and more. Rather than read as a chronological story from the start of their journey to the end, this memoir is a somewhat fragmented selection of memories. At first blush, I was confused, thinking that this little book was like any other, but then I sought the source of my mistake. In the “Acknowledgements,” Jimenez confirms that it is a collection of short stories.

Immigration is a topic of contention in the United States melting pot. Compared to so many third-world nations, America is a superpower (and a superhero) with resources enough to save the world. It’s no wonder that people seek safety here. The Circuit ends as I expected it might - sadly, with Jimenez and his family presumably being deported. Francisco is pulled out of school, in front of all of the children, by an immigration officer. Readers are left with the echo of “this is him” in their ears and the image of little Francisco in the front seat of a car labeled “Border Patrol,” staring out the window as his brother awaits the same fate. A carefully placed last memory serves as an abrupt ending to a story that begs you to continue reading and thinking about these issues as they exist today. Where are those sparkles of hope? What is left to be seen?