Not the most glamorous link, but time is of the essence! Ran into some maddening PowerPoint issues after switching from Powtoon (I really love that software, but it wouldn’t let me have music + video sound, and I was committed), so I only have a very unwieldy PowerPoint version of my book trailer (still investigating online conversion tools).
So for now: in all its clunky glory: my Powerpoint book trailer for Radiant Child — apologies in advance for the heavy download:
UPDATE! After a lot of agonizing and QuickTime and iMovie researching, I was able to get a video version, though I lost some frames (?!) and the corresponding background song (Aretha Franklin’s “Chain of Fools,” which I read that Basquiat liked) (and it really goes nicely with the energy of Steptoe’s paintings). So play the movie and then, at 37, 38, seconds, play this song, to get the sort of gist of what I was going for.
(Couldn’t upload to this site because I don’t have a media plan. GROAN!)
Jason Reynolds’s Miles Morales Spider-man is a fantastic idea. A superhero tale about a nerdy mixed-up Afro-Latino kid from Brooklyn who also happens to be Spider-man? I’m there. Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite hit the mark — I’m hopeful the sequel (assuming it will be part of a series) will settle into its skin and balance the excellent family and relationships aspect with old-fashioned superhero action.
Let’s start with what I loved: Miles’s family, friends, and his neighborhood are awesome (yes, even the neighborhood is fully drawn). Miles is a likable hero — self-effacing, kind, caring, trying to be great, not sure how to be. He wants to succeed at school (despite distractions) and be the best he can be (despite distractions). His parents are rich characters, especially his father, who tries to steer his son to goodness, despite his own tangles with the rough side. I also loved Ganke, Miles’s best friend, a “burly Korean kid,” who loves video games, being a goof, and snacks. Ganke’s parents are going through a divorce, and even though Reynolds only lightly touches on this, we feel Ganke’s pain over the separation.
I also loved how community plays such a big part in Miles’s life; as Miles’s dad says “Helping your neighbors is the most heroic thing you can do, right?” His family, his dad’s old-timer friends, the neighbors, and the people on the street are all part of the fabric of Miles’s life. When Miles is fighting the warden and goes into the cat-o-nine-tails time warp, he hears:
Can you hear me? Hello? Can you hear me? Can you hear us? Listen to us. Listen closely. Our names are Aaron, Austin, Benny, Neek, Cyrus, John, Carlo, Sherman. Benji. Our names are Rio, Frenchie, Winnie, Alicia. Our name is Miles Morales. We are sixteen. We are from Brooklyn. We are Spider-Man.
Which emphasizes how community, family, friends make the person — make the hero, in fact, possibly, ARE the hero. It’s a collective effort. Which is really beautiful (and unusual in a superhero story).
Reynolds also grapples with the impact of your history and how it shapes you. Miles’s dad and uncle were hustlers: is Miles also fated to be a hustler? Does your history define you? Or can you write your own story, escape on your own (superhero) strength? Ganke and Miles discuss this:
“Uh…you think they’re messing up because of your last name?” Ganke asked.
“No. But because of what my last name means. I mean, what that part of me is. Like, what if I’m not cut out to be…I don’t know…good?”
These are important questions — and an important kind of story for teenagers. If this were just a story about figuring out who you are in the context of your past and future, I’d be all for it.
But the superhero plot and action throw things off. The plot is muddled — I kept feeling like I was missing something, like I’d picked up the series in the middle (in fact, now I’m wondering if you’re supposed to read the Marvel comics first, or if it’s like a comic, where you’re just plopped into the tale?). The momentum was chuggy: the climactic scene with the Warden felt like it came out of nowhere and resolved too easily. I was happy that Miles bested the Warden, but I didn’t really understand how we’d gotten here or what Miles was overcoming to do it. The evil cat storyline was confusing (still don’t totally understand who those alien cats were), and the plot line with Miles’s Uncle Aaron and just-discovered cousin Austin felt a bit tacked-on (even though I understand that Reynolds is trying to make a point about human possibility, the trap of the criminal justice system, etc.) (and his Uncle Aaron DID try and kill Miles, so he wasn’t totally innocent). I also had a hard time with Miles’s history teacher Mr. Chamberlain, who was so abusive and racist that he would’ve been fired or at least disciplined (especially at a fancy private school like Brooklyn Visions!). So you see, the plot had…gaps.
Basically Reynolds wrote a great New York story about a teenager — and crammed in a superhero story. In fact, the book’s back cover summary make this Spidey sidenote clear:
Miles Morales is just your average teenager. Dinner every Sunday with his parents, chilling out playing old-school video games with his best friend, Ganke, crushing on brainy, beautiful poet Alicia. He’s even got a scholarship spot at the prestigious Brooklyn Visions Academy. Oh yeah, and he’s Spider Man.
It’s an afterthought. We don’t see the impact of Miles being Spider-man beyond some web slinging. We see a hero who is shuttering his superhero alter ego, with no understanding of the implications of why he is doing this. We have no real stakes in Miles abandoning the role. But we do care about Miles. And that’s reason enough to keep going. Three and a half stars.
Reynolds, J. (2017). Miles Morales: Spider-man. New York, NY: Marvel Press.
Ooooh I can’t stop talking about Steve Sheinkin’s Bomb: The Race to Build — and Steal — the World’s Most Dangerous Weapon (I’ve gushed about it to at least four different people and every time I remember a detail, I’m ready to gush again). Bomb is the story of the making of the atomic bomb, and it’s a gripping, devastating thriller.
Sheinkin’s writing is brisk and spellbinding, placing you in the center of the action. How great is this beginning:
This is a big story. It’s the story of the creation—and theft—of the deadliest weapon ever invented. The scenes speed around the world, from secret labs to commando raids to street-corner spy meetings. But like most big stories, this one starts small. Let’s pick up the action sixteen years before FBI agents cornered Harry Gold in Philadelphia. Let’s start 3,000 miles to the west, in Berkeley, California, on a chilly night in February 1934.
I thought I knew the story of Robert Oppenheimer, the brilliant physicist who led the endeavor and Los Alamos…but I so did not. Did you know there were TWO spies for the Soviets on the Los Alamos team?! Did you know Norwegian resistance fighters foiled the Nazis’ plan for their own atomic bomb, which enabled the Americans’ success? Did you know Harry Truman didn’t like Oppenheimer?! These are just a few of Bomb‘s exhilarating stories.
Sheinkin is a former textbook writer who is “making amends by writing history books,” and he is really making amends. This is a page-turner, full of wonderful, tiny details that bring it all to life: “Szilard leaned his sweaty head out the car window”; “Nearly six feet tall, he [Oppenheimer] weighed just 128 pounds”; and “‘A tough young fellow who did not know what nerves meant,’ was how Sörlie described Lier-Hansen” (can you imagine?). Or that Oppenheimer smoked four or five packs of cigarettes a day (!). These tidbits give you a sense for everyone, even the German-born scientist Klaus Fuchs, who worked at Los Alamos but was also a Soviet spy (!!):
And Fuchs did open up a bit over time. He bought a beat-up blue Buick and gave people rides into Santa Fe. He tagged along on hikes and picnics. At one late-night party, he stunned everyone by downing a bottle of whisky and leading a conga line. Then he excused himself politely, stepped behind the bar, and passed out.
Or Sheinkin’s recreation of the Norwegian resistance fighters’ mission to destroy the hard water plant at Vemork, which the Nazis were cultivating to make their own bomb. How incredible is this writing?
[leader Jens] Poulsson took out his pipe and filled it with tobacco. “It’s time I told you the truth,” he said.
He lit a match and looked at the men. To prevent word of the secret mission from leaking out, he explained, they’d been told they were coming to Norway to train other resistance fighters.
“That was just a cover story,” Poulsson now informed them, touching the match flame to his pipe. “We’re here on a far more vital assignment—to help destroy the heavy water factory at Vemork.”
After the first mission fails, a second team is sent to rendezvous with Poulsson’s team and destroy the factory: ten scrappy Norwegians, tasked with taking down the Nazi hard water facility. As they are set to depart, leader Joachim Ronneberg’s stresses the importance of their endeavor:
“If anything should happen to me, or anything should upset the plan, everyone must act on his own with the goal in mind to complete the operation,” Ronneberg insisted. “In short, if fighting breaks out, everyone must act on his own initiative in order to complete the operation.”
All were in agreement.
“Finally, to repeat what we were all told in Britain,” added Ronneberg, “if any man is wounded, or about to be taken prisoner, he ends his own life.”
All agreed.
I mean, this is the stuff of action movies. It’s bonkers. You’re on pins and needles reading it, and honestly I couldn’t believe it was real.
One of the things Sheinkin captures so well is the tragedy of the endeavor: the world’s top scientists coming together to save the world, coupled with the utter horror of their creation. It’s such a rallying story — all these geniuses working together for the good of mankind, to stop Hitler — with the most chilling effects. Physicist Isidor Rabi recalled:
“Naturally, we were very jubilant over the outcome of the experiment,” Rabi later said of the mood among scientists that morning. “We turned to one another and offered congratulations—for the first few minutes. Then, there was a chill, which was not the morning cold.”
It was the chill of knowing they had used something they loved—the study of physics—to build the deadliest weapon in human history.
After their success, Oppenheimer did not support further weapons work, and warned against it in his farewell speech at Los Alamos in October 1945:
“If atomic bombs are to be added as new weapons to the arsenals of a warring world, or to the arsenals of nations preparing for war, then the time will come when mankind will curse the names of Los Alamos and Hiroshima.
“The peoples of this world must unite or they will perish.”
How heavy — and true — are Oppenheimer’s words?
Sheinkin captures this tragic arc of Oppenheimer, who gave everything to the United States and the Los Alamos project, and yet, only seven years later, in 1952, the American government rewarded his efforts by questioning his loyalty and revoking his security clearance (“‘Dr. Oppenheimer is not entitled to the continued confidence of the government,’ declared the AEC.”) He was crushed by the verdict; as his friend Isidor Rabi explained, “It achieved what his opponents wanted to achieve; it destroyed him.” It felt like a lesson on the brutality of (our) government; use people for all they are, then toss them away. (Also what else could Oppenheimer have done to prove his loyalty? He’d already passed the ultimate test, by creating the world’s most dangerous weapon.)
(My one issue with Bomb was its depiction of Harry Truman, who gave the order to use the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. He doesn’t get much page time, but I was left wondering if he agonized about that decision, or if he had regrets. It’s not his story, so I understand why this is glossed over, but it stuck in my mind.)
At any rate, five stars. More if I could give them. What a great way to introduce kids (and adults!) to history.
Sheinkin, S. (2012). Bomb: The race to build — and steal — the world’s most dangerous weapon. New York, NY: Roaring Brook Press.
Cover of A Wrinkle in Time graphic novel, courtesy of Amazon.
This book muddled me! I adored Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time as a child, and am a new (but ardent) fan of graphic novels, so thought Hope Larson’s adaptation was going to be a perfect book for me.
First, let’s start with the good. The drawings are well-done, and some of the panels are excellent. I loved the blue, white, and black inking; something about the black captured the mystery and depth of the universe, which Meg, Charles Wallace, and Calvin are exploring. Larson also illustrates love in a tender and deep way, when Meg breaks the spell on Charles Wallace.
Second, I liked how Meg was shown as a complex hero, with all her flaws. She is impulsive, fearful, and whiny. She’s a distracted student. She’s gawky. She’s not afraid to have a meltdown when she’s scared. But really, all this means she’s just a real kid, with all the complicated feelings of being a teenager (and one whose father is missing). And because of this realness, her eventual triumph feels all the more satisfying.
Third, and now, on to the rough (I know, it’s a quick transition). My main complaint is that the whole storyline felt incredibly rushed — honestly, sometimes I felt like panels were missing. For example, when Calvin, only shortly after meeting Meg and Charles Wallace, whoops, “How did all this happen? Isn’t it wonderful? I feel as though I were just being born! I’m not alone anymore! Do you realize what that means to me?” I was totally baffled. They’ve known each for no more than an hour, two, and he’s already expressing this kind of sentiment? Or when the three children tesser for the first time, they’re standing on the ground when all of a sudden, without any warning, they’re disembodied and floating through space. It’s discombobulating and disorienting; only later do we learn they tessered.
All the critical events felt stacked one on top of each other, robbing the book of momentum. The meeting with IT happens so fast, it felt drained of tension. (I remember finding IT so threatening in the book, but here, IT almost felt cartoonish.) Basically, everything felt skimmed over, so it was hard to feel invested, or feel much of anything.
Generally, it didn’t feel like a substitute for the original A Wrinkle in Time, but perhaps that was never Larson’s intention — so I’d recommend using this graphic novel in tandem or as a supplement to the original. But honestly, it’s been so long since I’ve read A Wrinkle in Time, it made me wonder what I’d think of it now. Would it still be so captivating? Would it make any more sense than the graphic novel? I’ll have to reread A Wrinkle in Time to find out. In the meantime, three stars for Hope Larson’s adaptation.
Larson, H. (2012). A wrinkle in time: The graphic novel. New York, NY: Square Fish.
In third grade, way, way back in 1982, my third grade teacher read us Bunnicula, the tale of a new pet who may just be a vampire. I loved it, and read at least one of the sequels (The Celery Stalks atMidnight), but the original has lingered in my memory as a classic spooky caper. So I was curious to read it from an adult viewpoint (36 years later!).
First, it’s quite SHORT! (Which perhaps explains why my third grade teacher chose it as a read aloud.) Just a breezy nine chapters, offering kids a nice little slice of (innocent) horror.
Second, I loved the Editor’s Note at the beginning, which sets up the tale:
The book you are about to read was brought to my attention in a most unusual way. One Friday afternoon, just before closing time, I heard a scratching sound at the front door of my office. When I opened the door, there before me stood a sad-eyed, droopy-eared dog carrying a large, plain envelope in his mouth. He dropped it at my feet, gave me a soulful glance and with great, quiet dignity sauntered away. Inside the envelope was the manuscript of the book you now hold in your hands, together with this letter…
How fun is that? It encourages children to suspend their disbelief and believe in magic (or more) — and just consider, Maybe there really are vampire bunnies! And more importantly — maybe the world is richer and more wonderful than we think. Maybe there are secrets afoot — maybe dogs can write books, maybe cats can read them. I also love that there’s no final explanation for Bunnicula: Is he actually a bunny vampire? (Seems so.) Where is he from? (Besides Translyvania.) Who dropped him off at the movie theater? (Besides the writer of the note.) The mystery continues!
Third, the characters are endearing, even Chester the cat who’s a bit of a grump. I love that Chester’s so passionate about exposing the bunny’s vampirism (stringing himself and surrounding Bunnicula with garlic). Harold, too, is a sweet-hearted, goofy dog, mostly interested in chewing shoes, eating Hostess cupcakes, and stretching out on his favorite rug (and not investigating vampire bunnies). Also, there’s also something charming about the pair of Chester and Harold, who are such a hapless, lovable duo. Like when Chester tries to use a steak to kill Bunnicula:
He dragged the steak across the floor and laid it across the inert bunny. Then with his paws, he began to hit the steak.
“Are you sure this is what they mean, Chester?”
“Am I anywhere near his heart?” he asked.
“It’s hard to tell,” I said. “All I can really see are his nose and his ears. You know, he’s really sort of cute.”
It’s nice for kids to feel smarter than the heroes — here they’re in on the joke that a sirloin steak isn’t the right kind of stake to kill a vampire.
Which leads me to my fourth point…Bunnicula is legitimately funny. There are so many little zingers, like when Chester is booted outside for misbehaving:
I looked over toward the cage, and there on the other side of the window was a pathetic tabby face looking in. His little nose was pressed against the window. I couldn’t hear him, but from the movement of his lips, I could see he was very unhappy. Poor Chester.
Or when Harold finds himself enjoying Bunnicula’s company:
One evening, I dropped by Bunnicula’s cage to chat. I’d found myself doing that more and more since Chester had stopped talking to me. Of course, Bunnicula didn’t talk back, but he was a good listener. I’d begun to think of him as a friend—a strange one, granted, but one can’t always choose one’s friends.
Or this little gem when Harold is trying to get Toby’s attention:
I ran over to Toby who was doing a picture puzzle on the floor and began to bark—something I do only in cases of extreme emergency, since even I do not care for the sound.
Clearly there’s a lot I liked about this book (I kept trying to wrap it up but had just one more thing to say). I keep thinking about this quote at the beginning, where Harold explains that his family treats him like an equal: “In our family, everyone treats everyone else with great respect for his or her intelligence.” That’s true for this book, too — even though it’s lightweight, it respects the reader and kids in general. Four and a half stars.
Howe, D. & Howe, J. (1979). Bunnicula: A rabbit-tale of mystery. New York, NY: Atheneum Books for Young Readers.
When I finished Javaka Steptoe’s Radiant Child: The Story of Young Artist Jean-Michel Basquiat, my first thought was, Every library should have this book. I loved it.
First, I loved the format of the drawings. As author and illustrator Javaka Steptoe explains in his author’s note:
Like Jean-Michel Basquiat, I used bits of New York City to create the artwork for this book. I painted on richly textured pieces of found wood harvested from discarded Brooklyn Museum exhibit materials, the Dumpsters of Brooklyn brownstones, and the streets of Greenwich Village and the Lower East Side. In this way, I invite my readers to create using the materials, people, and places in their environment.
How inspiring is that? I love the lesson of painting on anything, making art anywhere, using found materials. Seeing that style in both Basquiat’s and Steptoe’s work makes it feel possible for anyone. I think it speaks to this message:
Art is the street games of little children,
in our style and the words that we speak.
It is how the messy patchwork of the city
creates new meaning for ordinary things.
Art is created from everyday experiences, for everyday people. And it’s such an important message for kids about what is art, what constitutes art — and opening that up to a different definition. Steptoe says, “His [Basquiat’s] drawings are not neat or clean, nor does he color inside the lines. They are sloppy, ugly, and sometimes weird; but somehow still beautiful.” Isn’t that also a great lesson about both art and life?
Second, the colors Steptoe uses are so vibrant and full of life: it makes you feel how alive Basquiat’s work is. Fluorescent green, flaming reds and oranges, golden yellow, white, black, electric blue, all popping off the page. There are so many fun things to look at in the illustrations — like what Basquiat is graffitiing, reviews of Basquiat’s work, what Basquiat listened to while he painted, examples of his early drawings (Samson, Spiderman). You get a fuller sense for his life.
Third, the story gracefully handles Basquiat’s mother’s mental illness, a topic rarely covered in children’s books:
Back at home, Jean-Michel’s body heal, but his heart breaks.
His mother’s mind is not well, and the family breaks.
She no longer lies on the floor and draws with Jean-Michel,
but sits by the window, singing only to birds.
Jean-Michel is confused and filled with a terrible blues,
when Matilde can no longer live at home.
It’s heartbreaking — but how reassuring to see a hero struggle with parental mental illness and see him survive and succeed. Steptoe mentions in a postscript how his own mother struggled with mental illness, and he offers Basquiat’s story as “a catalyst for conversation and healing.”
(My only quibble with Radiant Child is Basquiat’s desire for fame. It feels like an empty desire and a somewhat complicated thing to present to children. However, it’s Basquiat’s story and true to his life, so it must be included. And perhaps it’s a point to discuss with children.)
Radiant Child offers so much to the reader: a rich and rewarding visual experience; an inspiring and heartbreaking story; and a lens on what art is and what it means to be an artist. Five very passionate stars!
Steptoe, J. (2016). Radiant child: The story of young artist Jean-Michel Basquiat. New York, NY: Little, Brown.
Que divertida! La Princesa and the Pea, written by Susan Middleton Elya and illustrated by Juana Martinez-Neal, is a rollicking retelling of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale about a princess whose royalty is tested by a pea buried beneath her mattresses.
First, this is terrific read-aloud book. The rhymes are so bouncy, and the sprinkling of Spanish words adds musicality and pep, like this: “The prince soon proposed with a golden anillo./ They married that week in the royal castillo” and “His madre was picky. She hoped for perfection/The prince was so lonely–in need of affection.” It just zips along…though somewhat to the detriment of the story.
Second, the storytelling feels a bit rushed, with a few logistical leaps. It’s confusing when the queen is requesting 20 mattresses for the girl’s bed (“She placed el guisante in the bed for their guest. / She yelled, ‘VEINTE mattresses!’ [Lofty request.]”); it sounds good, but if you didn’t know the story of the princess and the stacked mattresses, you might be confused. Why is she yelling for twenty mattresses? Or when it’s revealed that the prince planted pitchforks and stones to disrupt the princesa’s sleep, which is such a great twist, but it’s smushed together on the page where the pair gets married. It feels tossed off, so you don’t get to savor the prank.
Generally everything happens quite fast, like when the prince falls in love instantly (“She winked at the prince, who fell for her fast”) (I’ll say! He just met her!) or when the couple’s future is revealed (“The prince and his bride had hijos galore,/one for each mattress, and then had no more.”) (Then they had 20 children. The end.)
Third, the drawings are rich and layered, especially the textures, which are fantastic. Inspired by the indigenous people of Peru, Martinez-Neal uses patterns throughout the book, which add depth to the images. There are beautiful fabrics everywhere — on the clothes line, mattresses, blankets, the characters’ clothing. The illustrations are a pleasure to behold (and great way to discuss the culture of Peru).
Plus, the drawings reveal so much about the characters. The madre is squat and grouchy (though softens up with all those grandchildren at the end). The princesa is coy and easygoing; the prince a softie romantic. There’s a saucy cat, helping the madre with her devious pea plan, and the bevy of guinea pigs (or hamsters?) witnessing the antics. None of these are mentioned in the narrative; and it’s only in the illustrations that you glean these details.
I read this twice with my nephew, and we thoroughly enjoyed it (it’s really fun for the reader, to be honest). Four and a quarter stars.
Elya, S.M.. & Martinez-Neal, J. (2017). La princesa and the pea. New York, NY: G.P. Putnam’s Sons.
Neal Shusterman’s Scythe is gripping and serious and beautiful, and I thoroughly and totally recommend it (in fact, right after I read it, I forced my cousin to read it; texted three friends about it; and then talked it up to our school librarian). (Nerd. Alert.)
Scythe is a dystopian tale, set in the far future, where they have “conquered death.” Two teenagers, Citra and Rowan, are selected to become “scythes,” a position in society that decides who must die (since technology has cured illness and disease, but overpopulation remains a problem).
First, I loved the world that Shusterman creates. The idea of a “utopian” future, where disease and illness are no longer issues, where everyone has enough to live comfortably, and everyone is cared for, is a beautiful notion (though how quickly utopia slips into dystopia). The idea of a cognizant computer controlling society sounds simultaneously wonderful and horrible — wonderful to take decisions out of mankind’s hands; horrible in that life becomes merely pleasant, with few stakes. As Citra says, “With nothing to really aspire to, life had become about maintenance. Eternal maintenance.” Rowan considers the old days and the importance of becoming a Scythe:
What must life have been like in the Age of Mortality? Full of passions, both good and bad. Fear giving rise to faith. Despair giving meaning to elation. They say even the winters were colder and the summers were warmer in those days.
To live between the prospects of an unknown eternal sky and a dark, enveloping Earth must have been glorious–for how else could it have given rise to such magnificent expression? No one created anything of value anymore–but if, by gleaning, he could bring back a hint of what once was, it might be worth it.
Second, Citra and Rowan are wonderful, deep characters. They are both “made of the highest moral fiber,” as Scythe Faraday tells them, and it’s true. They’re both compassionate, though Citra is tough and rigorous, and Rowan is kind and empathetic. They both struggle with this new world, and doing the “right” thing. We relate to both of them in their quest to find the most humane, loving path.
Third, I love-love-loved the romance between Citra and Rowan. It’s so quiet, and forbidden, and incredibly romantic. Of course, their initial relationship is combative, and their exchanges are so sparky:
“I liked you a lot more before I knew you,” he told her.
“You still don’t know me,” she answered, which was true.
Finally, after months of training with Scythe Faraday, they become close, and Rowan finds himself thinking about her more and more:
She [Citra] was the type of girl who participates, and Rowan was the kind of kid who avoids. Their circles were about as far from intersecting as Jupiter and Mars in the night sky. Now, however, they had been pulled into convergence. They were not exactly friends—they were never given the opportunity to develop a friendship before being thrust into apprenticeship together. They were partners; they were adversaries—and Rowan found it increasingly hard to parse his feelings about her. All he knew was that he liked watching her write.
When they finally kiss, how romantic is this (hopeless, devastating) exchange?
She moved farther away on the bed, bringing her knees to her chest. “I haven’t fallen in love with you, Rowan. And now I want to keep it that way.”
Rowan got up and moved to the safety of the threshold before turning back to her. “It’s all right, Citra,” he told her. “I haven’t fallen in love with you, either.”
At the Scythe competition, when Citra gives Rowan immunity, they finally confess their feelings (in a hilarious flipping of the Empire Strikes Back declaration-of-love exchange between Leia and Han):
He thought he could not be more impressed by her. She had just proved him wrong.
“I love you,” he said.
“Same here,” she responded. “Now get lost.”
Oh what an ending (actually there’s one more surprise, but no spoilers).
I have to give this one five stars, as my heart raced just reading those romantic paragraphs again, and because I recommended this book to no less than FIVE people, and I have already read the sequel, Thunderhead (not as good as Scythe).
Shusterman, N. (2016). Scythe. New York, NY: Simon & Schuster.
A Different Pond, written by Bao Phi and illustrated by Thi Bui, is about an early morning fishing trip for a boy and his dad, but also, quietly, speaks to the Vietnamese American refugee experience.
First, the story is so simple, and yet so layered. Superficially, it’s just a fishing trip between father and son, but with more reflection, it raises questions: Why are they fishing so early? What does the little boy’s dad have to work two jobs? Why do they need to fish? Who else needs to fish, and what does this say about class and America? The little boy himself wonders about this:
I am thinking about what Dad told the bait man. “If you got another job, why do we still have to fish for food?” I ask.
“Everything in America costs a lot of money,” he explains. I feel callouses on his hand when he squeezes mine.
And in light of these confessions, we have to ask: Where is this family from? Why did they come to America? What did they sacrifice to make the journey? What is it like being an immigrant family here? It’s so important to expose children to all the different stories in the world, so they’ll see there’s more than just one way of being, that the world is more complex and diverse than their own experiences.
Second, the text itself is sparse and elegant (Phi is also a poet), like here, when the boy describes how his father talks,
A kid at my school said
my dad’s English sounds like
a thick, dirty river.
But to me his English
sounds like gentle rain.
It’s so lovely (and captures children’s cruelties). Or when the boy looks up at the early morning sky: “It is a little bit cold. I rub my hands together, yawn, and look up to see faint stars like freckles.” Phi also gently touches on the horrors of the Vietnam War in this snippet:
Dad tells me about the
war, but only sometimes.
He and his brother fought
side by side. One day, his
brother didn’t come home.
I look at the trees as we walk back
to the car. I wonder what the trees
look like at that other pond, in
the country my dad comes from.
Third, though the style of the drawings wasn’t immediately resonant for me (the brushstroke too broad, the faces a bit rough), there’s still a grace to them. The image of the boy and Dad driving to the bait shop, when the town is still asleep, surrounded by the emptiness of the streets, captures every early morning car ride I’ve had.
More importantly, the illustrations reveal the little details of this immigrant family, especially the end papers, which depict all the tiny things that make up their life: fish sauce in an old Miracle Whip jar, sneakers, a stuffed bunny, a bowl of noodles, an action figure, a legal pad, a hinge, a reel, a bobber. On diacritics, illustrator Thi Bui reveals why she drew these:
I wanted Vietnamese Americans to get to experience shared nostalgia, similar to what people felt for the Eighties watching the show Stranger Things, but with our specific ephemera, you know? Like the fish sauce in a mayonnaise jar, the hugging pillow, the hand-me-down clothes from the Seventies. People of color get erased from a lot of quintessential American stories, including the story of the working class. I wanted to reinsert them with a bit of the truth that I know.
Writer Bao Phi also explains, “The Asian American experience in particular is one of erasure, one of dismissal, and I hope this book is a small step in intervening in that.” What a beautiful mission for a book.
One additional note — I loved the dedications, which reveal so much about the book’s purpose, and its heart:
For my family, and for refugees everywhere. –B.P.
For the working class and all the young dudes. — T.B.
Obviously a wonderful book about families and the immigrant experience. Four-and-a-half stars.
Phi, B. & Bui, T. (2017). A different pond. North Mankato, MN: Capstone Young Readers.
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