The Swallows’ Flight

First of all, I warn you that this is a very long piece, unusually long. Why? This is a book that means a great deal to me as a reader, particularly as a Jewish reader, because it begins to grapple with questions I was asking about 20 years ago—and I’ve been looking for books dealing with these questions for about that long, too. Books like that don’t get quick and light reviews; books that make you think and mean that much to you deserve context, they deserve thought and analysis.

It is tempting to say this book is an original and powerful exploration of growing up in unprecedented times, but that would be to diminish it. I could say it’s a book of historical fiction set over the course of the period before, through, and in the immediate aftermath of WWII in Britain and Germany. That sounds dreary and like a book it is Our Very Stuffy Duty to Read, though, and this is not in the least a dreary, dutiful book. It is, against all odds, a book with quickness, humanity, and humour, it is deft and feels light to read—even as it is weighty with meaning and tells you of heartbreak and pain, as well as of hope for tomorrow.

One of the remarkable things about Hilary McKay’s writing is, in fact, how hard it is to pin down what’s remarkable about it in words. I still haven’t reviewed her novel The Time of Green Magic because it’s so incredibly beautiful, funny, and it’s a powerful reading experience in a way I can’t quite nail in words. So I gave up before I tried and now I’m cleverly slipping my recommendation in here to ask you to read it. (Read it aloud to your family, that’s my advice. It’s how I did it, and it was the single most successful read-aloud we’ve had as a family. I think it’s the closest we’ve come to a new Diana Wynne Jones or Joan Aiken book in a very long time.)

But I’m sliding away from this, her latest, The Swallows’ Flight (out in the USA on October 19) because that’s another one that’s hard to nail. However, since Hilary McKay generously mailed me an advance proof to me from England despite crazy Covid-and-everything-else messing up the mail service, I just can’t give up and not tell you about it. Besides, it’s so new and meaningful I need to add my voice to the chorus of recommendations. And there was something so incredibly powerful about reading it during the Covid-19 pandemic. It was a complete challenge to that first, reductive reviewer impulse: what is “unprecedented”, after all? (A side note: pandemics are not unprecedented, nor are political upheavals in the midst of pandemics. Please.)

I have to start with the book that technically precedes The Swallows’ Flight, originally titled The Skylarks’ War in the UK, published as Love to Everyone in the USA (with an unbelievably lovely cover by Rebecca Green), and then, when released in paperback in the USA, the paperback used the UK title and cover art. I’m only going into all that because you have to read it, and you should know there are two titles and two covers but the same wonderful book, so don’t get (too) confused—just read it.

I’ll be upfront: you do not technically need to have read The Skylarks’ War to understand The Swallows’ Flight. The stories are distinct, they will stand alone (again, rather like Diana Wynne Jones’s style of writing, if you think of her Chrestomanci books). That said, you will better appreciate The Swallows’ Flight for having read the first book, both in terms of appreciating the characters and in terms of immersing yourself in the nuances and the impossibly straightforward intricacies of Hilary McKay’s style of telling you a story. Besides, it’s a wonderful book and you won’t regret reading it. Even if she does smash your heart to pieces at one point I won’t mention. (I just re-read it to get to write this from a fresher memory and I cried all over again.)

In The Skylarks’ War, Hilary McKay takes us through the period leading up to WWI and through the war with a set of characters who are so vividly real you look up from the book expecting them to be sitting across from you, doing schoolwork or figuring out meal planning despite rations. At the end, you’re sad the book is over because you’ve come to love them so much you just need to know what they’re doing tomorrow. Oh, and you’ve also lived through the horrors of WWI, incidentally, and yet… not incidentally at all; it’s in the marrow of the book. A taste? I’ll give you her description of the Western front: “The line was the shape of a long, lopsided smile. A ravenous, expectant smile. A greedy, unreasonable smile, considering how very, very well it was fed.” (p. 214 in the hardback, US edition of Love to Everyone.)

This style (the vivid characters, the tangible reality of life, and the sense of history being contemporary) is definitely the background to The Swallows’ Flight, but Hilary McKay pushes the envelope with a calmness and fearlessness that’s breathtaking although I can sort of imagine her reading that and saying briskly, “Nonsense. I just told the story, you know.” (When I finished reading the book I wrote to her to say that I greatly admired her use of silences and deliberate pauses in the book and she replied that, oh, no, the silences are mostly where she got stuck. I blinked, and I’m going to be terribly arrogant and argue with the actual author: There’s so much richness to those pauses and silences that it reminds me of my impulse in university to write an essay about the vivid use of silence in King Lear, thinking of Cordelia, and how I related Shakespeare’s silences to Berlioz’s powerful rests in La symphonie fantastique… But I digress.)

So Hilary McKay, to our great delight, writes more for us about those friends from The Skylarks’ War! And yet, The Swallows’ Flight does not open with our friends in Britain. She begins in Germany.

I feel like inserting a comic book sound effect:

WHAM!

That’s a shocker, after reading a WWI book about these English folks and falling in love with them, isn’t it? Facing the onset of WWII in Germany??? How and why and—

And now I’m going to tell you a story.

I don’t really remember how old I was when I learned about the Holocaust. Too young, I expect. I vaguely remember hearing the name “Hitler” and saying: “who’s that?” And my sister, amazed, replied, “You don’t know who Hitler was?” And my parents shushed her and tried an explanation. Over time, though, I know that I learned too much, too young, because I got scared at nights. I’d hear a dog and see a light through the window at night and as a shadow passed I’d think of the Gestapo knocking on doors. Also, I found my mind grinding on a question: “What about the ordinary German soldiers? Not the Gestapo, not the SS. What about those who were drafted to fight on the front lines, willing or unwilling? Who were they?”

I remember feeling guilty for wondering that. If they were fighting for Hitler, they were Bad People. Brainwashed, maybe? But there’s no possible way they were Ordinary People, because Ordinary People are Good, and if they were Good People they would have refused, would have gone in the Resistance, would have stood up to the regime. They can’t have been Good.

Of course, as I grew, my impressions did, as well: “How do Good People come to do Bad Things?” I grew even older, like actually 16 years old or something, when you’re definitely so grown up, right? And I soon learned that was an entire topic of research, with studies and data and all that stuff. But still I gnawed on my questions periodically: “But who were the ordinary soldiers, infantry, foot soldiers being sent out? Why did they fight?” And I still got occasional bouts of sleeplessness, and I still thought of the Gestapo at night if I read a book or saw a movie about the Holocaust. And I don’t think I ever questioned directly why people (“people” being, by nature, a group of individuals) were talking about historical groups of “people” as indistinct masses entirely lacking in individuals.

This is where we have a montage of calendar sheets whipping across the screen as we advance towards the 2020 elections…

And now we’re in 2020 but we’re looking back towards 2016, saying things like, “Remember people saying Trump wasn’t really racist? Remember people saying he wouldn’t try to sway or overturn elections? Remember when it seemed alarmist to talk about the rise of fascism in a country like the USA?” Ah, nostalgia! I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye, facetiously. What we may have elided from memory is that at the time of the 2020 elections, many celebrities started to come out to push people to vote in such numbers that the outcome would be indisputable. And after the attack on the Capitol, a second flood of messages went out.

One of the most famous clips was Arnold Schwarzenegger talking about his painful past, growing up after WWII, among, as it were, Ordinary People who had fought for a terrible regime.

To me, this was important in taking a wobbly step towards answering my childhood questions: people just did the next thing and the next thing, he said, and found themselves fighting for Hitler, and then, in his words, “I was surrounded by broken men drinking away the guilt over their participation in the most evil regime in history.” He continued, “They were in physical pain from the shrapnel in their bodies, and in emotional pain from what they saw or did.” Oof.

I’m a Jew. That means that to me, the immediate story was always that set of his last words: “what they saw or did,” those participants in Hitler’s regime—what they did to my people. But I needed to know how they did it, because the secondary story was always “could it happen again?” Living through 2020 felt just a tad bit too real for comfort. So what we need, in my view, is to answer those difficult childhood questions of mine about the ordinary people—not, I want to state firmly, as Research Questions on How Good People Did Bad Things, but as individuals, as Schwarzenegger described. I’m sorry, scientists (talking to my husband here) but data sets can’t predict individuals’ feelings, and feelings can and do precipitate surprising actions.

Let’s have an analogy. I was recently doing some research on music as therapy for a side project. That means I inevitably encountered the “Mozart is so good for babies!” chirpy research. One item I read took it quite far, one might say, if you’ve got my sense of humour, hilariously far, because it did consider the next questions. Questions like: hm, maybe you could use other Classical music with your babies? There are composers beyond Mozart, right? But the author sort of balked there: be careful these non-Mozart composers aren’t overstimulating their tender brains, this book added anxiously. I wasn’t sure, based on the book, what was acceptable. Consier: if you’re pregnant, that tender zygote may get badly overstimulated by… I wasn’t sure about that bit, honestly, maybe Gluck’s Orfeo would be just too much… and then… OK well the book didn’t say what would happen if the fetus were overstimulated by this untested, non-Mozart-music. I got the impression that had the author encountered the question of what pieces by Mozart to introduce your fetus-to-child-to at what ages and when you can move from, say, the clarinet concerto to opera, that author may have needed to be handed the sal volatile and shown to a fainting couch. Could we distinguish between the stimulations of Papageno and Sarastro? What about Don Giovanni vs The Magic Flute? I have no idea. Neither did the author, I assure you.

I’m guessing we’re all giggling together here, unless I’ve offended you, in which case… I’m sorry, but to me it is very funny. It’s utterly absurd to treat the entire, diverse musical oeuvre of such a composer as Mozart as a single unit, isn’t it? Hah! And every other composer as another unit, to be treated with caution? That’s adorable, really.

Fine, but Mozart was one composer and both Eine kleine Nachtmusik and his Requiem come from the same person with the same mind and the same brain though at different times. They are, in effect, more of a unit than masses of individuals who were all treated as a single mass in warfare—but weren’t.

So why do we treat the entire non-Jewish population of Germany as a unit to be researched and understood like a data set and then get shocked that we don’t understand the situation?

Hilary McKay did something phenomenal to balance that “People As Big Data” scenario:

She didn’t write a Holocaust book. Instead, she looked and said “the Holocaust is not my story, but I can train a broader lens here.” This is a historical fiction book set in the period around WWII in Britain and Germany. This book does not directly address or describe the Holocaust at all, which makes perfect sense coming from a non-Jewish author, and is the only proper way to grapple the question of the war and the individuals of the story, as well as that “ordinary people” question. (To reassure readers: yes, she does contend with the situation of the Jews, including British Jews’ and non-Jews’ reactions to Kristallnacht, with a sensitivity for which I was grateful as a Jewish reader, but she very firmly states it is not her place to tell the story of what Jews suffered, so she doesn’t.)

OK so after way, way too many words of background I’m getting to the book. I’m extremely sorry, but this was all necessary, at least to me.

Hilary McKay’s approach is extremely direct: rather than dealing with Germany, Britain, and the world as a whole, she gets to know people. Her way of doing that is that of the storyteller or novelist: her cast of characters is a few family units who know each other. By showing us a tableau of individuals with different personalities, abilities, backgrounds, sympathies, and sensitivities forming relationships with each other across a single timeframe and a variety of geographies she is able to do much, much more than any analysis which treats the generality of the human population like so many data points or a colony of fruit flies to be analyzed en masse.

Hilary McKay builds these relationships between families and their friends in Germany, then over in Britain. As war is declared, boundaries blur and people travel, relationships break and are formed. Characters grow, develop, learn, mature, cry, and are bowed with grief. Because we see them as people, indeed they really are people, our minds stretch to see how people in Britain and Germany reacted to their time and space in new ways.

I’m feeling myself get excited here because Hilary McKay exemplifies the value of imaginative literature here. It’s an exercise for the brain—what Diana Wynne Jones calls a way of training our minds to solve problems. Imagination isn’t merely escape from reality, though it can be, and that’s a matter of value in its own right. Better yet, though, it’s a way to cure hurt and solve problems with those two words: “What if…?” By going “Well, what if we put this sort of person in this sort of situation…” an author can imagine a world and come up with an answer to how such and such would even go.

This is where I’m going to write in two branches. First, I’m going to try to write a relatively brief (hah, but really I am— if a little late) review of the book in general terms, spoiler free. Next, I’m going straight to the spoiler zone in order to analyze a few points of plot and character to pieces. (I’m telling myself this is legitimate because I made my husband read this book before I wrote it up and after we discussed it, I felt there were points that merited extra attention. OK, I’m definitely into this book, let me talk, got it?)

The structure of this book isn’t the traditional, straightforward, lyrical narrative of The Skylarks’ War, which very much follows Clarry, at least initially, and only later quietly fractures, with the war, into other characters’ points of view. The Swallows’ Flight, from the very beginning, is splintered into numerous parallel narratives. Practically speaking, there are all of the lovely characters we met last time, and surely we need to catch up with them—but then why start in Germany? And who is the dog who shows up? And why? Hilary McKay throws us off-balance, from the first page, by wrapping us in love, trust, and intimacy while we’re expecting to go into warfare and instability. And that, in and of itself, is a destabilizing act. Then the trust and openness break into silences and troubled thoughts, as war comes once more. As we progress, each chapter break sends us elsewhere in time, space, and character viewpoint, but with such Hilary McKay’s brisk, confident narrative voice and style it’s never confusing. The march of the book takes us through increasing tension in Germany: our characters there start to lower their voices or simply refrain from discussing certain things, and ultimately are sent to war. In Britain, we’ve been busy falling in love with the kids of our friends from the last book—only to see them head off to war, too. And that dog? The dog pulls it together, all in the life of a dog.

It’s a beautiful, woven book. Not a pure “and then” narrative, but more like the Bayeux Tapestry: moving from scene to scene, all in an overarching tight shape. In true Hilary McKay form, you won’t find a single extraneous word.

To get more into the nitty gritty now.

Hilary McKay starts with a new character, Erik, who has rescued a nest of baby swallows, and when he’s trying to feed them insects to keep them alive and bring them up so they can fly away, he recognizes he needs to recruit helpers. He swaps his own small treasures for insects, and thus makes friends with Hans, who is so taken by the swallows that he helps find insects without swapping for them. They watch the birds fly away, Erik almost tumbles out the window from exhaustion since he’s been hunting insects and feeding the baby birds nonstop, Hans pulls him back… and they become fast friends.

So we start with a pair of fast friends. They can tell each other everything. Just like Erik, who lives alone with his mother since his father died for Germany in WWI, can tell his mother everything, and she trusts him absolutely.

Except, of course, these warm, loving ties can’t extend to perfect confidence in Hitler’s Germany.

Fraulein Trisk, Erik’s neighbour, he notices, is no longer there at some point. He asks his mother after her, recalling that she used to light her stove on Saturdays. No, his mother says, flustered, on Sundays, definitely not on Saturdays. Erik is quiet, recalling that Trisk is a Jewish name.

That’s an example of one of the silences I remarked on above, that Hilary McKay uses so deftly.

Another:

Ruby Amaryllis never tells her brother, Will, she forgives him for his jealous nastiness to her as a child. He never tells her he is sorry.

And the power of their reconciliation is one of the most beautiful, truly breathtaking moments at the end of the book. I will be honest: I did not think she could pull that off. I was so angry at Will. And yet their reconciliation was moving and believable. We, the readers, can still be angry at Will, and yet, with Ruby, forgive him. Just as, in life, we may forgive a wrong, but the memory of the wrong still provokes a surge of anger.

How does Hilary McKay navigate these multifaceted plots with a variety of viewpoints punctuated by potent silences?

Like this: You, the reader, know full well that it’s hard to say: “I get it now. We had to make up with each other. It was a two-way street, and I wasn’t ready, either. I’m ready now. Are you?” Ruby couldn’t, quite. Neither could Will. They found their own language, and we got to listen in. That’s not to say they’re ideal, in fact. It’s to say, actually, that they’re imperfect. A full, open, wordy heartfelt conversation would be a therapist’s ideal conclusion for them. They’d cry, probably. But this was far more real to the characters, and to the reader.

Erik and Hans, too, have a complex conclusion. They’re beautiful characters. We have to face that they’re Germans, they were fighting on the wrong side. There is, as my husband said, a bit of idealization in their being moved out of the action early (I won’t say how, even as I’m spoiling things here), but it’s necessary to understanding who they are, no matter how improbable the circumstances. And yet—poor Hans. At least Erik knows his mother was (silently) doing the right thing. Hans is grieving his lost sister who was, in part, miserable she couldn’t do more of the wrong thing. An extra burden to bear. And one which is entirely, completely unspoken. And believable, deeply true even if the characters are fictional.

We never see, in action, the ends of some of the characters’ stories—but they, too, feel far too true. Uncle Karl. I will say no more.

Diana Wynne Jones repeated, forcefully, in the essays and speeches I’ve been reading in the glorious volume Reflections: On the Magic of Writing that it’s important to know your characters intimately—but you shouldn’t feel obligated to share every detail; if you know them well, everything will come across. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this more potently than in reading The Swallows’ Flight. In this brief book, I travelled far and deep with every character, and learned an enormous amount about the real powers of imagination and character. The essential importance of fiction to understanding reality, to learning history, is boundless, and I feel that too often we say treat it as a very nice way to keep children engaged, you know, and get them interested in reality, where reality is supposed to be data sets which teach us to reduce real people to blocks in a row of a study. Well, everyone has a story. Hilary McKay reminds us of that with a vigor for which I’m grateful.

Hilary McKay’s characters, as she knows them and you will know them, are very human. This means they’re heartrendingly imperfect. Hans, again, has to grapple with a wide variety of types in his family. We see the flaws alongside the warmth. I’m imperfect. You’re imperfect. Hilary McKay would fully admit she’s imperfect.

But one thing is perfect in my eyes: Finally, someone took the step to think the hard, uncomfortable thoughts about being flawed, struggling humans in the inhumane landscape of WWII, on the wrong side.

Two books of Black voices

I’ve been sitting on these two for a while, waiting for a chance and the words. These came to me from Candlewick, and both are impressive books: The Black Friend by Frederick Joseph and Box: Henry Brown Mails Himself to Freedom by Carole Boston Weatherford and illustrated by Michele Wood.

I want to write about them in the same post for two reasons: a) While they are very different in the experiences they narrate, each gives foundation and visceral depth to the other; b) Given the differences, I like that they show there is really no excuse not to read Black voices. One spoke to me more than the other as an audience; both taught me a lot. There’s a book out there for everyone.

The Black Friend, by Frederick Joseph, is fundamentally a kind of personal memoir with lessons one could draw, geared towards middle school kids: Grade 7 and up according to the Candlewick website. But what I loved in it is that it’s not just a collection of his own experiences, but a broader story. Frederick Joseph practices listening as he preaches it, notably by sharing his platform of the written, published page with others: he includes conversations with Africa Miranda, Jamira Burley, Saira Rao, among others, and includes lists of people to research, books to read, movies to watch, music to listen to in order to broaden our own understandings, enrich our experiences. I love the exemplification of sharing, listening, absorbing. There is nothing in the world more powerful than demonstrating that you care by caring. The book also includes a very good “Encyclopedia of Racism” at the back (a glossary of terms bolded throughout the book) which is clear, compact, and worth the price of admission in its own right.

Now, I rarely review a book that I feel doesn’t speak directly to me, where I don’t feel that I’m the audience intended for the book, but this is a case where I did feel a bit lost, and yet I’m reviewing because: a) I think it’s important enough that I want to talk about it anyway, b) I don’t really care that it didn’t speak to me because I learned from it anyway, c) I think we need more books like this one, there’s definitely room for more, and if we create buzz, there will be more demand! Yay!

When I say it didn’t speak directly to me, I mean that in a specific way: everything that matters about it certainly did speak to me. There’s a case where a substitute teacher fundamentally (I suspect deliberately) misunderstood Frederick and his school friend, Fatimah, in Grade 2 (my daughter’s grade last year, probably why this incident stuck out to me), accusing them of cheating on a test because they both got a perfect grade. She forced them to retake it under her direct supervision during recess, neither made a perfect grade (who would, under the circumstances?), which she took as evidence of prior cheating, and made a lot of additional comments, including (oh I got mad at this): “You can be the ones to get your families out of your neighborhoods, but not if you’re cheating yourselves.” I closed the book and took deep breaths after that whole episode. (If you’re a teacher reading this, I know you’re not that kind of teacher, but I’m going to say this anyway: As a teacher, your job is to elicit and bolster what your students have to offer the world. Don’t ever shut them down because they’ve got what you don’t. Learn from them.)

I was a bright kid who occasionally had teachers who resented my brightness. I never, of course, got that level of treatment– I’m white and I know it helped me. Seeing it ramped up to 11 like that burned me to read.

So: these stories of incidents which clearly caused Joseph pain at the time (and I know must have hurt in the retelling– I want to thank the author and all those he interviewed for reliving these episodes for us) are told clearly and provide visceral, emotional understanding, whatever your age and background. This would be a fantastic book to read in an early high school class for that reason– it would generate brilliant conversations between teachers and students.

Where I was at a disconnect was honestly a mere matter of style, which mattered but still taught me something. Frederick Joseph uses music and movies and pop culture to bolster his narrative and give support to certain arguments. Chapter 2: “We Can Enjoy Ed Sheeran, BTS, and Cardi B” is a particularly excellent example, as it discusses something I consider an important point for teachers, in particular, to understand. In Joseph’s words: “In countries like America, where most aspects of culture are controlled by white people, their culture has become the norm or mainstream.” What this means is that white people who understand popular culture feel that they’re super on top of things, but really only get “mainstream” (white) culture, while Black people absorb their own AND white “mainstream” culture. In short: they know more because they have to get the white field as well as their own. He proves this point anecdotally through an experiment. He has a diverse group of friends over to listen to music, playing a variety of mainstream white artists, everyone would have heard them and could sing along. Non-white artists mostly went unrecognized by his white friends, but non-white friends were familiar with the music.

Problem for me: I grew up with an understanding of music that ended with Gustav Mahler. I can tell you that Richard Wagner was a complete jerk on every level, basically invented the Aryan ideal of white, Germanic manliness– and also was so very sensitive he could only wear silk or satin underwear– but the points Joseph was making about Nelly required a bit of research. I was totally out of my depth because not only was I ignorant of the non-white music he referenced, I… also didn’t know the white stuff. (Cue memories of sitting at the edge of the school cafeteria because I had no idea what was going on and didn’t even fit in with the misfits. Remember my story about researching transmission of folklore? Yeah, that was me. But at least no one called me a terrorist– another story in The Black Friend.)

That said, even though I was way out of there on the cultural references, I appreciated his perspective on the issue, because what he says about his type of music is true about mine– and then some. The Classical music world (my darling baby, I love it so much) is woefully ignorant of the entire history of Black composers and musicians. (Did you know Jessye Norman sang Sieglinde at the Met, though? She’s phenomenal, and the experience of watching her is enhanced by the gut-deep knowledge that if Wagner had been alive to see and hear her, it would have killed him to experience her brilliance.) I only really started to think seriously about this problem by reading articles by the wonderful scholar Dr. Kira Thurman and following her tips to learn about such figures as George Bridgetower and Joseph Bologne, Chevalier de Saint-Georges. I’m dropping those notes here not to show off, but because I want to prove that there is good, diverse material out there the white Classical music world is ignoring. (Children’s book world: there’s picture book biography material out there in those names. Hop to it.) And I say “ignoring” rather than “ignorant of” because given the work of such people as Dr. Thurman, the information is there. If you’re not using it, you’re ignoring it.

Every story in The Black Friend felt a bit like that to me as I read, on a personal level: I got something from everything he wrote, but I knew, honestly, that this is a book for middle grade and high school kids who will thoroughly enjoy adding all his music ideas to their phones. And I hope they will.

One last note: it will, it absolutely will, drag up memories and stories for you, whoever you are. That substitute teacher story combined with a racist-relative-story reminded me of the time my husband and I were looking to go from keeping the Changeling with our wonderful part-time babysitter to putting her in a small home daycare. It was a deeply emotional experience for me; the babysitter was a friend, a companion, the person I’d trusted with my baby for so long. We found a potential daycare, and, wonder of wonders, the daycare was looking to hire an assistant and was interested in hiring our babysitter! Get her a stable job right away and ease our kid’s transition and keep in touch with her? Win, win, win!

Until it all fell apart. The daycare owner turned out to be horribly racist. Our babysitter’s first language was not English and the daycare owner kept criticizing it. (NB: Our babysitter worked hard on her English, she was basically fluent, and as a pedantic academic I will tell you that Madam Daycare Lady made several common grammar bloopers of her own while I’m relatively sure her Spanish was nonexistent.) Further, she made snide remarks about our babysitter’s family and her mother (I will not go into the babysitter’s family situation here, but suffice it to say I was livid— I knew the mother and you cannot find a mother anywhere who did more for her family).

We did not send our daughter there. The lady semi-apologized to us (not to the babysitter, the one she’d harmed, but us, because she was losing our money) and said she “really wasn’t racist.” This is about 6 years ago so I’m not 100% sure what we replied, but I hope we said, “Oh, but you are.”

There’s one thing, though, that, after reading The Black Friend, I know now I would do, wish I had done, for the babysitter. I was upset that she’d had to go through that experience. I was horrified by it. I brought her tissues as she cried in my living room and said she’d rather not work with the person. I told her she certainly shouldn’t consider working with her, and my daughter would never go there.

I don’t think I said: “And I’m so sorry we brought you there, that we put you in that situation.” Today, I hope I would take that level of responsibility. Whether or not it was deliberate, she was there because I made the introduction. I would like to acknowledge that.

And I hope that you, too, will read this book and consider your own responsibilities.

Box, the story of Henry Brown, a man who was born enslaved and mailed himself to freedom, is told in haunting, lyrical, thoughtful verse by Carole Boston Weatherford with art by Michele Wood, an illustrator whose work reflects and enhances the geometry and layers of the text. I was so incredibly impressed that I immediately gave my daughter’s school library the copy I was sent for review and bought my own.

To me, this was a book which drew out every layer of beauty and suffering in a way that was intuitive both to my soul and my training. The poetry is exquisite in its own right, and the levels of meaning and nuance in form and substance elevate it further.

The book tells Brown’s story in a series of sixains to reflect the box as a cube, which are each a poem alone, but also part of a growing narrative. The thought, the detail, and the skill are stunning, and the way the poetry draws you in is as immersive as any storytelling, while simultaneously using poetic techniques to evoke emotional and thoughtful responses.

Teaching note: You could use these during April, Poetry Month, pulling a few sixains out to show how you can take an manipulate a form. “Letter” is a poetic letter in six lines. “Manifest” is a poem of six words, six lines, meaning each one-word line has a LOT of work to do, pulling the whole six words into a punch to the gut. “Family” is longer, more lyrical, more diffuse. Can your students choose a form and use it in three different ways to do three different jobs?

Why do I suggest this for April, Poetry Month, not Black History Month, you wonder? (But you could do both.) You know the answer already.

Poetry, like music, is not just the “mainstream” white material Frederick Joseph so correctly points out we white audiences keep going back to. Add to that “mainstream” material! Read Gwendolyn Brooks and, yes, Carole Boston Weatherford!

As for the illustrations: the textures and colours are incredible and evocative. There’s a contrast between the softness and fluidity Wood uses in representation of family and sorrow (especially, to my mind, as Henry loses his wife, Nancy, and their children in “Snatched”), and the geometric lines as the box is built and mailed. I love the use of lines and textures for quilts vs formal textiles, for wood vs brick. And the potent, brilliant colours call to mind some strange, lovely blend of Vincent van Gogh and Ashley Bryan.

Once again, a thank you to Candlewick for the review copies. I felt quite humbled by the level of skill, emotion, and impact these books held.

The Past Is Red

It’s been ages since I wrote about a book for grown-ups. This one, The Past Is Red (to be released July 20, 2021; if you use that link, you can request a signed and personalized copy from a fabulous indie book shop!) unequivocally, is for grown-ups. But I’m still recommending it to you, and to everyone.

Cover art by John Hendrix

How it happened was this:

Catherynne M. Valente is one of my favourite authors working today, and though I first encountered her as an author of novels for kids (Fairyland—soon being released in a boxed set!), she, like Neil Gaiman, is very much an Author of Many Kinds. In fact, the reason I started reading her books was due to a Neil Gaiman blurb, and I really felt a kinship of wildness in their work as I read: “Let me do all the things ever” they seem to tell you.

So she writes poetry and novellas and that chonky fantasy series and science fiction and basically everything but gritty realism. I hope she never does write gritty realism because I’d end up reading it and my system couldn’t take the shock.

In June 2018, Subterranean Press published a gorgeous collection from Cat Valente, The Future Is Blue, and the title novella of the collection, well. You could say it was a success, but since this is my blog I’m going to say my reaction: I’ve never been quite the same person since. It was shattering. Partly it was shattering because of the devastation and hope and heartache of the story, but in large part it was because I do not read stories about “what happens when human beings have literally trashed the planet to the point of the collapse of civilization and those who are left are living on a floating mound of garbage called Garbagetown.” I know books about devastation and post-apocalyptic nightmares are out there—for other people, not for me. But I read it, voluntarily, and I thought it was beyond good, I thought it was magnificent, and I still haven’t recovered from the shock.

When The Past Is Red was announced I was hardly surprised—of course there had to be more. (Though my daughter immediately asked “Will there also be The Present Is Purple? Blue and red make purple! And Past and Purple alliterate.”) I pre-ordered it, but I was scared. I mean… I barely survived The Future Is Blue. “I have until July,” I thought, morosely, “then I’ll see if I make it.”

Then another book by Cat Valente was announced that got me so excited that I wrote to Tor to see if I could get a review copy. It was a gamble: who’s crazy enough to give a kids’ book reviewer a Grown-Up Book to review? Especially from an author as popular as Catherynne M. Valente? I made my politely stupid and absurd pitch, but the publicist actually replied without laughing in my face and kindly offered me not only that book (review to come—in the future) but this one. I helplessly said “yes, please and thank you.” And thought to myself “welp I’m screwed, this is it.”

First I’m going to tell you: this book is beautifully designed, and it has The Future Is Blue before The Past Is Red, all in one tidy volume, in case you missed the Subterranean Press physical edition (you can still get the collection as an ebook). The cover art is insanely well done, by John Hendrix.

Second, despite my fears, I’m actually still alive, even though I did have crazy dreams after reading The Past Is Red.

The Past Is Red may tell a terrible story of the dregs of a bloated, overgrown, and ultimately depleted world, but it’s an oddly hopeful, beautiful, healing story about loss, death, and spiritual resilience despite apparent resignation.

And, in the face of Covid-19… I couldn’t help thinking it was the ultimate guide to creating and maintaining loving relationships in the face of the most drastic social distancing. Ostracized, left behind, and loathed on a physical and spiritual level, our protagonist, Tetley Abednego, never loses sight of how the depths of humanity are available to everyone, even on a floating pile of garbage. Unlike the fuckwits who trashed the earth and wasted our world, she knows who and what we can be, with or without a jacuzzi. Unlike the inheritors of the fuckwits who continue to hate her because they want to be fuckwits, Tetley looks herself and her world in the eye and knows that there is enough.

Tetley was never even supposed to make it through childhood, and she was, over and over again, not supposed to survive, she wasn’t even wanted. By the end of The Future Is Blue, she’s the most hated girl in Garbagetown. Despite that, she is the unflinchingly realistic voice of affirmation and acceptance in the face of hatred— even her own hatred— everyone needs to hear.

There is hope, life matters, and you, in and of yourself, are enough. Sure, we’re all garbage, but we’re beautiful garbage. And we matter.

It was the most devastating form of healing I’ve endured. Tetley totally screws with you, along with herself, in her telling of this story, but she is the most sympathetic and unflinching narrator I’ve met in a while. You will hurt. But not out of Tetley’s malice; out of her honest, brutal love for humanity.

There are so many books out there, for kids and for adults, about the importance of saving this one, precious planet. But I would argue that absolutely no one drives home the genuine importance of this planet and this life better than Tetley, even as she shows us the expendable garbage of our world.

Read this, and yes I do recommend a pre-order from Print in Portland so you can get a signed copy, and then pick up some Sy Montgomery and let the value of every life, everywhere, wash over you.

Israel and Palestine: Part III

In Part I we talked about authorship, in Part II we talked about precise use of language. Here, in my final piece, I’m talking about how to write responsibly about the Middle East, with a return to children’s literature.

WHEN WE LOSE PRECISION AND FOCUS, WE ALL LOSE

The consistent problem with all of the terms and behaviours I listed in Part II? They’re attempts to sideline the political issues, and, counterproductively, just end up reinforcing them. Say “apartheid” or “genocide” and the Jews of North America rise in outrage to say: “But no, we’re the ones who were there first, we were always first! We’re the truly indigenous population, we were the ones who were oppressed, we faced the genocide—” and next thing you know it’s no more than fisticuffs about who has the greater right to the land, historically, and…

People are hurting today without anyone getting anywhere, which makes the whole situation not merely annoying, but frustrating and angering, because these are political issues.

So, the issue with that knee-jerk use of “human rights issues” terminology? An editorial comes out with the word apartheid, and every organization floods my inbox (despite my having unsubscribed) with campaigns to reply. Enough people do, and the next thing you know, every journalist starts writing “I’m going to get a full inbox for saying this, and, no I’m not an anti-Semite…” And do you even know how awful the optics on that are? They’re bad. Really bad. “The Jews control the media” level bad, and not because of someone sending around The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, but because we, ourselves, are genuinely so paranoid we can’t stop ourselves. (I’m only focusing on the Jews of North America here because I am one. I know perfectly well we’re not alone in this, but I’m not going to speak without authority about others’ inboxes.)

“But would you have us let genuine anti-Semitism lie?”

Well, let me ask you? Does this type of alarm and indignation help the Jews of North America or help American relations with Israel? What about helping the Palestinians, who, by the way, also do genuinely need help? No, no it does not. There’s genuine anti-Semitism within every bit of North America, if you want to know, and we do have to vote it out of power, but inundating every opinion piece in the New York Times or an obscure college’s alumni magazine or whatever it is with a letter-writing campaign due to either real or perceived anti-Semitism will only ever serve to reinforce the view that we’re being absurd, not to be taken seriously.

The racism in Israel is genuine, so is the Islamophobia. The anti-Semitism and anti-Zionism in the Arab world is bad, too. And the best thing for everyone is to treat politics as politics, and look to actually help out with genuine attempts at real negotiations if they are in a position to do so.

BACK TO LITERATURE THEN

OK, so what does any of this have to do with children’s literature? Was that just an entry point to talk about voice, sharing perspectives, shutting up when you don’t know something, trying not to speak for other people, and not letting outrage over perceptions get in the way of an honest story? Was it just so I could invent the Mac Barnett Duck Test, which may have been my greatest idea ever?

Yes and no.

I recently saw a book deal (and I’m not going to identify it, so don’t ask) that royally ticked me off. It didn’t seem like a great or necessary book to begin with, the premise was weak, and the author has (elsewhere) spoken out against “Israel” (in quotes due to imprecision, again—I hope by now you recognize the myriad ways that this imprecision in language causes undue tensions and rifts) in ways that were imprecise, aggressive, and truly dishonest, which makes me question the author’s ability to write for children with the honest precision I’d associate with the Mac Barnett Duck Test. I’m being as veiled as I possibly can for the very simple reason that I do not want to be an attack dog, or to lead anyone else to attack. That means I did not engage with the author regarding the issues, and I do not suggest anyone else do so. If, indeed, the book turns out to be as lacking in merit as I think it is, hopefully it will implode; political issues aside, the world doesn’t need more lackluster books.

But I was frustrated because we really do need good books that handle sensitive topics with honesty, genuine thoughtfulness, and impeccable research. Books like Peter Sís’s Nicky and Vera but about the Middle East.

And I’m asking you, if you’re an author or an editor, an illustrator or an agent, I genuinely don’t care if you’re Jewish or not (though, hey, more good Jewish voices would be amazing), Muslim or not (same story there, though) to put yourself in our skins and think about this. It may be, in fact, that we really need an outside perspective here, we’re so emotionally entrenched. I have no idea, and will have no idea until I see what a really good book surprises me with. Books about the conflict, books about the history. Or, perhaps, books of or about Jewish and Muslim poetry, a literary history which is gloriously, poignantly intertwined. What a magnificent book that could be!

But I want more books that are real, honest, true, and have an unfinished quality because this is an unfinished story.

CONCLUSION

For the rest of us, who are not authors, and who are unlikely to write glorious books about the Middle East:

Do not rise to the bait of politicians who would deliberately provoke racial violence (I’m looking at you, Netanyahu, as well as at Hamas as a whole), and while I can’t really expect an audience outside of my group, I would say Jews of North America have got to do a whole lot less talking and a whole lot more listening. (I’d say this goes for most of humanity, though.)

Vicious anti-Semite that I am to my own people, I would say I’ve noticed if there’s one thing Jews have got in common it’s a complete inability to shut up, but we should practice. Really, we should. And maybe when we do talk, we should speak with our neighbours? Not at them?

Shut up and listen, and do some real, logical thinking about what the ultimate goal is, and how to achieve it. I guarantee, fellow Jews, that calling every journalist out there an anti-Semite is not going to secure Israel’s peace and stability.

If the goal is lasting stability and peace, which, to my mind, is the ideal outcome, and if you disagree, we’re probably not talking on the same page, it’s not going to happen overnight. The best way to get there is to confront nuances and realities, not to subsume them beneath flaming generalizations.

Take several steps back, calm down, and do not respond to everything you see with an aggrieved shriek, do not write snarkily and pointedly on your social media that “I see you, people who are speaking out/not speaking out.” Don’t shame people for responding in a complex way to a complex problem. Complicate yourself, don’t simplify others.

And consider sitting down with a cup of tea and reading something else. It’ll be all right.

Israel and Palestine: Part II

In the first post in this series, I started with a very exact quote from Madeleine L’Engle to exemplify what happens when an author writes with authority, but with either incorrect information or a deeply problematic approach. Here, we’re talking about using language with precision, and I don’t just want you to think about the articles and news reports below—think about picture books. The absolute master of precision in language today is—drumroll—Mac Barnett. Consider his book The Wolf, the Duck, and the Mouse, illustrated by Jon Klassen. Marked by repetition (“Oh woe!”), it has humorous cadence. But in few pages, each with few words, Mac Barnett establishes characters’ voices (especially the briskness of Duck), and one stunning example of precise vocabulary when the duck says, “I may have been swallowed, but I have no intention of being eaten.” OK! Well, then. Everyone laughs, but Barnett has everyone thinking: “What do these words mean? What is the duck telling us, and why does it matter to the story?” If every journalist and op ed author out there were given the Mac Barnett Duck Test, every discussion of conflict over Israel and will-there-be-a-Palestinian-state would be vastly improved.

PRECISION

When I see articles and discussions about “Israel” or “Israel-Palestine” there’s always so much missing. Is a given article talking about the actions of the IDF in Gaza, or are we talking about the current government (whatever it may be today) and its political bungling (whatever it may be today)? Perhaps we’re talking about the police, which is a word that has additional charged feeling in North America right now, which you’ve gotta know people are exporting with North American understanding to apply exactly the same metrics to the police in Israel, and though I personally doubt they’re much better I do know they’re different. Perhaps, however, we’re talking about Arab populations in Israel—but maybe the Arabs in question are those in the territories outside the borders? Wait, when we say “Arabs” are we talking Christian or Muslim Arabs? Are we, perhaps, forgetting the intensely nuanced and diverse populations of the entire area and all of the charged feelings altogether?

I know the answer to only one of those questions, pretty much.

WHAT IS “SUPPORT” AND WHOM SHOULD I “DENOUNCE”?

Let’s start with a thought exercise: When are you asked to “Support Sweden!” or “Denounce Finland!” Sweden did an absolutely crappy job of handling the Covid crisis, right? Did you “denounce” it? I sure didn’t, because I figured, as I figured in the USA, which, by the way, also did a crap job, that there was a pretty complicated situation going on with key figures who were mismanaging things. Sweden-the-country had very little to do with Anders Tegnell. Sweden, to break things down carefully, is a country: a chunk of territory within artificial borders human beings like to set up so they can fight about where the imaginary lines run with other human beings. The people of Sweden enjoy a democracy, and they elected people, and who’s in charge of what got arranged following the elections of people to do the decision-making. To put it a bit more seriously and plainly: being a democracy, which is not a perfect system, they did what they did based on where they are at this moment in time, just as we did in the USA. We had a dreadful election in 2016 and the repercussions were simply disastrous in terms of the mismanagement of Covid despite the valiant and imperfect efforts of truly heroic people. I wouldn’t “denounce” the USA, nor would I “denounce” Sweden, so why would I, and why should you, “denounce” Israel or whatever the equivalent terminology for “Palestine” is?

What about “support”? Surely it’s OK to “support” someone! Again, Israel is not “someone,” and I feel stupid even typing that. No, I do not “support” Israel except in that I think it’s fine for it to exist and I’m glad it’s there, absolutely. And I regret that there is no equivalent State of Palestine, by the way. I wish with all my heart that there were a strong, stable, and happily kvetchy State of Palestine. Having got that out of the way—why should I “support” or be asked to “support” Israel every single time someone criticizes anything about “it” and I have to put “it” in quotes because I DON’T KNOW WHAT “IT” EVEN IS HALF THE TIME.

Does a university hire a probably mediocre academic who undoubtedly got hired due to being better at applications than most better academics (believe me, that happens a lot) and who knows how to write a snappy “controversial” piece in a journal somewhere? Write to the university! Support Israel! (NB: Israel really won’t vanish in a puff of air because someone wrote a snappy piece. It didn’t happen last time, it won’t happen this time.) Does a journalist write a thoughtful piece critiquing a military action of the IDF that, honestly, was necessary but wouldn’t have been necessary if the government had had the sense to be more diplomatic? Write a letter to the editor! Support Israel! (NB: think about why you’re asking me to do that.)

What about “Support Palestine!” Well, look. There’s the pretty obvious issue: there is no State of Palestine to support yet. There are territories where the Palestinian people live, where various bodies are in charge, such as Hamas or Fatah. It’s all very messy and complex. It would, without a doubt, be much better for everyone if there were a State of Palestine with jobs, a democratic government, elections, medical care, public education, etc. The thing is, it doesn’t exist and I find it hard to support what’s demonstrably nonexistent. As I just said above, I, personally, wish it did exist! So, when we’re told “Support Palestine!” many folks feel very righteous for saying it because, well, Palestine should exist. Right? OK, but since there’s no agreement, to put it mildly, as to what we’re being asked to support (i.e. are we supporting the hope for the existence of a state, are we supporting people who are Palestinian, are we supporting the eradication of the State of Israel and a return to pre-1948?), many who are met with the demand to “Support Palestine!” blink silently in question… and others fulminate, imagining that they’re being asked to see their relatives deported from their homes and the State of Israel turned into… hmmm. What?

Again, think logically. When I’m told that Israel is a colonial power which shouldn’t exist and we have to “do something about it” I wonder what there is to return to. Pre-1948? There was no actual Palestinian autonomy, I’m afraid. Probably Britain doesn’t want to get involved here… they’re having enough issues with Brexit. There’s no Ottoman Empire since, you know, WWI, and if we want to go really far back—Italy and the Vatican would have to fight it out and I think that’s not likely to go anywhere. Without being too glib (oh, too late), there’s nothing to go back to, meaning the only way out is forward. So what’s going forward, what’s the goal?

Honestly, a good chunk of the issue is that the goal is not clear. There doesn’t seem to be agreement as to a goal, on the “Palestinian Side” if there is a “Palestinian Side.” It’s an enormous question built on politics, geography, and history, and most articles I read don’t seem to want to talk about that, even to say, “I recognize X, Y, and Z but am limiting this discussion to A, B, and C.”

What does all of that mean, then, the analysis of terminology above? Well, as I just said: the political landscape and history are fraught. The logic of terminology is hard to cope with. Most articles, especially opinion pieces, do not like to acknowledge or grapple with that… So they don’t, and readers and activists never respond calmly because the fraught history is emotionally charged. Politics and political history are hard at the best of times, and this… this is a question of “well ok what historical landscape in which territories and for which group of people at that historical moment?” Which is, clearly, not the easiest of scenarios.

OK SO WHAT ABOUT HUMAN RIGHTS AND OPPRESSION

So the easiest thing to do, and the laziest, and aren’t we all so lazy? (Yes, yes, we are!), is to duck political history altogether and say, no! This isn’t political history at all! (I’m so sorry, my friends, but it really is.) It’s a matter of human rights and discrimination! Well, it is. But it is in the context of political history. And that’s the issue: who’s talking about which form of discrimination at what point, and if you want to “do something about it,” how is that best achieved with the most lasting results?

Watch:

The Palestinians are being oppressed! OK, which Palestinians? Those who are Arab Israelis of Palestinian background in, perhaps, the area of Jerusalem? They have voting rights, healthcare, etc. Are they discriminated against? Often they are! They’re subjected to racism, Islamophobia runs rampant in Israel as in North America, and the erasure of Arab Christians has always bothered me. All of that is true. It is equally true that they have MKs who advocate for them, and their healthcare is equivalent to Jewish Israelis. They get parental leave like any other Israeli, better than most Americans. So we have to differentiate their situation from the oppression of Palestinians outside of Israeli territory, in which case we simply can’t evade political history because it comes right back to who has the rights to which territories. In short: who’s in charge, who’s doing the oppressing, and in which situation does which group have the right to claim rights to oppress whom on which square foot of land? That’s complicated and if your goal is simply stability then you either have to wipe out one group altogether (that’s called “genocide”) or else you have to concede that it can’t possibly be figured out without negotiations and compromise, really, it just can’t. And, my friends, I’m going to make you all mad: I have heard everyone—liberal Jews, conservative Jews, Arab Christians, Arab Muslims, American Muslims—try to get around negotiations by claiming human rights, but it simply won’t work that way. Even if we don’t think it’s “fair,” labelling a political situation “just” a humanitarian crisis is not going to get you out of the realities of negotiations and politics. Every humanitarian crisis also has political issues inextricably entwined, from antiquity to the present day, from the Reconquista to Darfur. There’s no way out of it.

OK, what about another one? Criticism of Israel isn’t anti-Zionist, it’s anti-Semitism masquerading as anti-Zionism! This one gets at me personally, boy does it ever, in large part because I’ve heard that since I was at least 12 and I tried to accept it, really, I genuinely did, hearing it from people I love and trust, but… it doesn’t compute, it really doesn’t. That’s not to say that no one uses Israel as code for Judaism, criticizing Israel gratuitously for the sake of getting at Jews. But let’s not forget that many “supporters of Israel”—see above: what does it mean to “Support Israel”?—use it as a barb against Jews and Judaism, too.

Criticism of Israel, again, depends on the day and the situation, it just does. Are we criticizing the IDF? Well, that’s one situation: we can discuss their policies, methods, leadership, all of which changes with general circumstances. But they’re the military, responding to military threats; they do not have very much (if anything) to do with the negotiations around running Israel or talks with the Palestinians. So what about the political leadership, which depends on who’s elected when and by whom? Was criticism of Ehud Barak anti-Semitic, or is criticism of Netanyahu anti-Semitic? What about criticism of Israelis? Which Israelis? Settlers? For what it’s worth, I’ve been criticizing the settlements since I was 14 or 15 years old, starting high school, and arguing with my teacher that it looked pretty freaking disingenuous to claim to have the moral high ground in peace talks while tacitly or explicitly permitting settlements to spring up all over the place. That was at my most conservative phase, my friends! If you think I wasn’t “supportive of Israel” then, if you think I was anti-Semitic, I don’t think we’re seeing eye to eye today, because you’re not even reading this, you’re in your own little world.

The only “Criticism of Israel” I can concede is inherently, every time, problematic is “Criticism of Israel for existing at all in today’s world.” Which, by the way, I differentiate from “thinking Israel shouldn’t have been permitted to exist, but accepting it’s a done deal and must be dealt with.” Fair enough, I feel that way about lots of things! However, saying it needs to cease to exist today? That’s problematic, for sure, because, well, Israel does exist, and, again, it’s a hard thing to deal with logically: what would the return to pre-1948 look like, and, given that it’s impossible, does your interlocutor just want to eradicate the State of Israel, period? If that’s the case, you’ve got bigger problems, there, and that’s actually worth looking at—depending on whether the interlocutor is worth your effort to begin with. (Hint: Do they have power to eradicate Israel altogether? Then pay attention.) However, 99% of the time I see screeching emails in my inbox about “criticism of Israel as anti-Semitism,” I look and find that it is not inherently anti-Semitic by any stretch and the hawklike glare at any criticism is so entirely counterproductive I’m simply boggled at its prevalence.

BE CAREFUL WITH THAT LANGUAGE

However, the problem is that we’ve sunk so far into this “but it’s a human rights issue not a political issue” that it’s dizzying to keep up with. Let’s look at more of the language regarding human rights:

Apartheid is a biggie. I was taught that any reference to Israel as an apartheid state is automatically wrong and anti-Semitic. I still don’t like it, I consider it unclear, unhelpful, and unnecessarily divisive, but I’ve started to approach it differently because it’s become prevalent enough that people who are otherwise logical and open to conversation use it and I think it’s more important to have the conversations than it is to shriek about terminology. Here’s what the OED says:

“Name given in South Africa to the segregation of the inhabitants of European descent from the non-European (Coloured or mixed, Bantu, Indian, etc.); applied also to any similar movement elsewhere; also, to other forms of racial separation (social, educational, etc.). Also figurative and attributive.”

It started in South Africa, in other words (the word literally means “separateness” or “apart-hood”), and the situation there simply can’t be logically extrapolated to be comparable to Israel. Arabs within Israel, as I said, vote and have rights. Palestinians outside are in a bad way, but they can’t vote in Israeli elections for the simple reason that they aren’t Israelis, have their own government and issues, and their own system, messy and inadequate as it is. But there are certainly forms of racial and religious separation, there is plenty of racism (institutional or not) and, yeah, ok, figurative and attributive… well, there we are. It’s used, I’m not happy about it, and I wish people would think more critically before application of the term or at least footnote it with why and wherefore, but if we write off everyone as “anti-Semitic” for its use, that’s neither accurate nor is it helpful. Far better, in my opinion, to ask the question, listen carefully and politely to the reply, and respond with thoughtfulness. If you respond with insults and indignation, you’re doing both the people and the language a disservice.

It doesn’t stop there, though. Apartheid isn’t a good term, but this time round I’m seeing Israel/the IDF/Israelis (again, be specific, folks!) accused of actual genocide (one quote from a certain “Statement in Solidarity with Palestinian Liberation” said “What we are witnessing is called genocide,” so you can’t get more categorical than that), which it’s hard to think of as being anything but disingenuous. To me, it says: “Israel rose in 1948 from the ashes of the Holocaust so if we say they’re just as bad, we get rid of them and get a state, maybe?” Except, you know, these are North Americans talking. They aren’t even there. And it’s insulting to call it a genocide. I’m not bothering to go to the OED on that one—really, I trust you.

Equally as insulting, but not to me personally, are the folks calling the Palestinians the “indigenous” population, often residents of North America drawing a direct analogy to the First Nations tribes in North America. I’ve heard First Nations leaders speak against that, and I’m not at all surprised. The First Nations tribes were here for long years before European contact, with autonomy and culture and lives—until Europeans showed up and took over and, in a nutshell, killed them and deliberately attempted to eradicate their way of life. The situation in the Middle East is far messier historically, much less cut and dried, and if you don’t know that—you should. Do research before you draw such comparisons, and allow each tribe a voice, a history, a present, and a future.

And don’t think for a moment as I list the issues with language such as “apartheid,” “genocide,” and “indigenous” that I don’t see those Jews of North America using sometimes explicit, often more veiled critiques of the usually Muslim leaders in the Palestinian Authority. I have heard with my own ears Jewish homeowners in Jerusalem say they’d rather not hire Arab workers, for example. Anti-Arab racism and Islamophobia run rampant and I refuse to pretend they don’t exist.

In North America, I have broken bread with people who have, without the benefit of knowledge of any kind (and I think back, here, to Madeleine L’Engle having Vicky’s grandfather muse on who has the authority to say “what Christians think”), explained that violence is inherent to Islam; that since certain Muslim leaders are anti-Semitic and want to kill Jews, “we” (and I wasn’t really clear on who “we” referred to) are more than justified in annihilating the countries of those leaders (I never returned to that house but I’m still ashamed of not having gotten up and left at those words, leaving no doubt of my anger); and who have told “anecdotes” without evidence beyond “I was there and I saw this” which attempted to suggest that “they’re different from us.” That last one is the most insidious, the most problematic. It drives in wedges. It makes us doubt. “Well,” it quietly says, “if this is what they are teaching their children then we just know they’re not going to like us because they’re indoctrinated against us and no attempt at rapprochement is even necessary, justified, or worthwhile.” Meanwhile, of course, that sort of thinking means we instill “they vs us” in our own children, and, I’m sorry to say: I saw this in school, too.

Which is a great way of making sure nothing good ever happens because we’re indoctrinating ourselves with so much anticipatory racism that we’ll never, ever be open to those who are open to us. Great job, us. We’ve persuaded ourselves they hate us so profoundly that we’ve created an enmity within ourselves so that we don’t even have to try.

What we’re left with is a pretty miserable mess of language that creates alarm, paranoia, separation, and division. In my next and final part in this series, I’ll discuss writing responsibly, and what we can do to create a better form of discourse at both the personal level and in the literary landscape.

Israel and Palestine: Part I

This is an unusual piece for me, as it gets very directly into politics by the route of scrutiny of authority, misinformation, and mistakes in children’s literature. I’m dividing this into three parts, to be posted serially. The first part will be on “Authorship,” the second will be on “Use of Language,” the third on “Writing Responsibly.” The most direct audience I’m speaking to is my own natural group, Jews of North America. However, I do think what I have to say should resonate outside, especially into the more liberal-minded readers of literature in North America.

The goal is not to determine “rightness” and “wrongness.” Instead, I’m discussing how to communicate with authenticity, precision, and in the most helpful way possible to achieve a goal. Why me? Because I read kids’ lit, and as we give children the best of ourselves (or should) this is the best area to look for clear, honest communication that helps build trust. I’m not looking at kids’ lit about the conflict– I’m looking at how we communicate and achieve goals. With that said, you’ve been warned, read on.

Part 1: Authorship

BACKGROUND:

One of my favourite authors as I entered my early teenager years was Madeleine L’Engle. As is customary, I read A Wrinkle in Time first, but it wasn’t my favourite. I love the rest of the series, but I fell, hard, for A Ring of Endless Light. And Madeleine L’Engle was probably my first introduction to loving an imperfect author. Now, one of the things I loved in L’Engle was her love of poetry—I have always loved poetry and she quotes so much of it, so enthusiastically! Like this poem:

If thou couldst empty all thyself of self,

Like to a shell dishabited,

Then might He find thee on the Ocean shelf,

And say — “This is not dead,” —

And fill thee with Himself instead.

But thou art all replete with very thou,

And hast such shrewd activity,

That, when He comes, He says — “This is enow

Unto itself — ‘Twere better let it be:

It is so small and full, there is no room for Me.”

She attributes the poem to Sir Thomas Browne, a not particularly brilliant seventeenth-century poet. In fact, it is a poem by T.E. Brown (Thomas Edward Brown), who wrote in the late nineteenth century. Back in the era when I read it first, I had no idea. Google cleared it up for me more recently.

That was an obvious issue. When people today croak about the falling standards in publishing and the lack of fact-checking today? Oh my friends. It’s been this way for a while.

L’Engle did introduce me to Henry Vaughan, whom I’ve loved ever since, and she was really responsible for getting me into the Metaphysical poets of the seventeenth century. That’s also the book where she quotes from Messengers of God by Elie Wiesel, a truly extraordinary book I was glad to find because I wasn’t able to cope with Wiesel’s more direct accounts of the Holocaust but I did want to read his work. Messengers of God was a wonderful book for me.

And then there are the other, more nuanced issues. I had a very hard time with passages from her other books. In her book Dragons in the Waters (1976), a thoughtful and intelligent character discusses “the passion to bring past crimes to judgment” and reminds his interlocutor, “Don’t forget that there are at this moment Israelis in Argentina tracking down Nazis.” The interlocutor concedes, “Yes. That, too, is a long time to hold hate.”

There’s also a passage in A Ring of Endless Light, the very part where Vicky’s grandfather quotes Wiesel. He says of Messengers of God: “It’s a fascinating book, though there are some sections I’d love to argue with him, especially when he writes about what Christians think, which by and large is far from what I think.”

I always struggled with that pair of passages. How could Madeleine L’Engle recognize that Elie Wiesel, for all of his deep humanity and clarity of vision, couldn’t speak authoritatively for Christians, and yet she has these two thoughtful characters in a book published a mere 31 years after the end of WWII critiquing the Israelis capturing unrepentant Nazi war criminals in Argentina? Consider that Adolf Eichmann was captured in Argentina in 1960. It was a question I grappled with, returning to it over and over again as I reread these books for years. You could say that I, like Vicky’s grandfather, think her books are fascinating, but want to argue with her voice of authority.

And I did reread them, because they’re good, if imperfect, books. My copies are the kind of battered old paperbacks in multiple pieces that authors grin over in delighted dismay because they’re gross but obviously loved.

This matters, ever so strongly, right now. You see, Madeleine L’Engle was writing her truth, earnestly, and she wrote well and worked very hard to get herself into others’ minds, try to understand others’ perspectives—but she wrote Noble Savage type Indigenous characters, she wrote White Saviour narratives, and, at least in these two characters she seemed to think it was acceptable to tell Jewish survivors of the Holocaust that they needed to relinquish their “hate” instead of bringing criminals to justice.

And yet? I keep her books on my shelves, imperfect as they are, good as they are. She inspired me. She gave me so much. I like to think, given the nature of her work, that she, like Grandfather, would have been open to a conversation with me. (There are other authors who sure don’t make me feel that way, and that’s a different story for another day.)

I’m seeing an awful lot in the kids’ lit world these days of very unilateral discourse about what’s good and bad in books and authorship. I’m not ideological about this, by the way. So long as it’s a good book, I’m really ok with a lot.

I’ve seen discussions of #OwnVoices authorship—a well-intentioned initiative that has turned out pretty badly after, for example, authors were forced to “out” themselves when they weren’t ready to because they were attacked for writing queer voices without (apparently) being queer. That’s extreme, of course, and really not ok… It was also predictable.

I can’t tell an author who and what they can or should write. Diana Wynne Jones said (I paraphrase) she agreed you should write what you know and that’s why she writes about dragons.

The best recent Holocaust-related book for kids I’ve ever read just came out. Peter Sís’s Nicky and Vera. He’s not Jewish. He didn’t usurp a Jewish voice or perspective. He also didn’t force young kids to live through trauma they’d never experienced, or push them into confused anxiety and guilt. His approach was emphasis of the value of each individual life saved. Thus he prepares kids to draw their own conclusions, as they grow, regarding the Nazi crimes and murders, once they have established as a foundation a clear vision of every life as valuable, every death as a tragedy. It’s not #OwnVoices, but it’s intensely valuable. On the other hand, I also welcomed Nimbus’s picture books from Rita Joe and Rebecca Thomas, and I lament the relative paucity of picture storybooks from Indigenous authors of their tribes’ histories and narratives in the kids’ lit world. I recall old picture books by white authors of First Nations stories—but I want the narratives directly from the source. Stories matter, and honesty matters. I want to have that experience, I want it from the source, and I want it in all honesty.

ISRAEL AND PALESTINE, HOW THIS CONNECTS

Why do I write this today?

I’ve been watching as everyone talks and talks about Israel and Palestine this past month or two—not to mention all my life, I guess. Being a Jew in North America is simply a whole THING about being whatever-your-country-of-origin-is plus being defensive about Israel. That’s just the way it is, and I’ve probably just pissed off every Jew in North America. I’m sorry, but I’m about to get worse.

This time around, I’ve been watching with genuine pain as friends in Israel go from grieving the familiar spiral down into violence to, once again, getting frustrated as they attempt to justify their very existence. At the same time, I listen with genuine and familiar frustration as friends and organizations in North America pontificate, once again, about supporting Israel against the attempts to eradicate it. I turn around and watch with similarly familiar frustration as activist friends go from decrying “apartheid” to deploying the word “genocide.” It’s such a familiar pattern, it’s everywhere, it’s incredibly counterproductive, and I very rarely speak about it, but I kind of want to talk, so I’m writing it down. Because it’s the same story as in the kids’ lit community.

Most everyone has no clue what they’re talking about, they’re unclear about the precise story, they claim one voice is The Real Voice to listen to, not others, and they get a lot wrong but the wrongness gets repeated ad nauseam and the irrational is spinning out of control… Sort of like spouting a poem as being from Sir Thomas Browne and then it kind of becomes that way and poor T.E. Brown loses his voice. Who even are they? Do most readers of Madeleine L’Engle know? They don’t. But the name “Browne” has won over “Brown.”

So I’m feeling puzzlement, frustration, and irritation of my own that has precisely nothing to do with “supporting” or “denouncing” anything.

I want to break a few things down about what we know, how we know it, and how we talk about it. I want to talk about setting goals and doing things that will achieve those goals. I want to talk about using the good brains we have in useful ways—and yes, all of that has to do with kids’ lit. Because one of the things about kids’ lit is the level of expertise that goes into few words. Peter Sís wrote and drew with such care and precision, with perfect use of language and deeply responsible and judicious understanding of what he had to say that others could note, that he captured a great deal; Madeleine L’Engle, unfortunately, was less precise, misattributed authorship of a poem, and gave a valuable lesson on not usurping authority—while, herself, usurping authority over another issue, which kind of undercut her authority on authority. It’s so important to know when not to speak.

And so, for today, I want you to think about who’s telling a story, and what story, and why. But when I next post, we’ll be talking about language and precision in storytelling, whether for kids or in journalism or, honestly, in any conversation, anywhere. It will be technical, and it will be uncomfortable. It will also be worth it.

Here Babies, There Babies in Summer (postcard review)

Well, now. I couldn’t well resist giving you a postcard when I got the loveliest bit of mail today! You all know how much I always loved Here Babies, There Babies by my good friend Nancy Cohen and illustrator Carmen Mok (who’s got a lot of fine books out there right now– check out Percy’s Museum by Sara O’Leary with her art!). I knew Nancy and Carmen were teaming up for a new book on the same theme, but wasn’t it a lovely surprise when a copy landed at my house, signed to my own new baby, ready to take on summer? Well, he’s definitely not a fan of summer, if we’re honest: he’s got good Canadian blood, he was born in November, and he’s completely opposed to this whole “hot weather” business. But here’s a book to teach him how to find cool fun in the warm sun– even if he and I still grumble about the hot sun!

In Here Babies, There Babies in Summer, you and your babies can have the same cuddly, bouncy experience, but figure out what to do in sultry weather: do you want to build a sandcastle (or maybe squash one?), play at the park, get that first taste of delicious ice cream, or snuggle up to your parents in a sleeping bag on a campground?

As in the first book, the star is the light touch in words and art as Nancy and Carmen bounce around with fun, diverse babies doing everything a baby loves to do! My favourite bit? The description of going up in a swing!

Babies at the playground, learning how to fly

Sailing swiftly through the air,

Toes touching the sky.

I’ll let you get the book to see Carmen’s pictures for that scene…

Huge thanks for the bookmail treat– and I want everyone to count this as a recommendation for a good summery treat for the babies and toddlers in your lives as we reconnect with families and friends post-vaccinations!

Fairy Tales Series: Part 1, we begin in Newfoundland

The title is slightly deceptive. The renewal begins in Newfoundland, this part begins in Newfoundland– but really it goes back to the year… hm. Maybe 1995? I remember this, and pretty much only this: I was about eight or nine years old. I had read a few different Cinderella stories and noticed similarities and differences. I talked to my mother about them and she said something about scholars not being sure to what degree the stories had started in one place and travelled elsewhere and to what degree the same type of story had sprung up independently around the world. Being an eight-or-nine-year-old with no academic background but limitless reading time and no barriers to my sense of possibility, I decided it was a very a simple question and that it was up to me to solve the problem.

All you had to do, I decided, was read all of the stories out there (oh sweet child) and sort them out according to time and place on a map and then see whether there was a pattern to show they’d travelled. If there was, they’d travelled, if there was no discernible pattern, it showed that humans everywhere have a natural sense of story and the stories spontaneously emerged across the globe! Simple!

Dear, quixotic child that I was. I read a lot of stories and had a great time and my Unified Theory of Fairy Tales never was published given that I came to no conclusions beyond “huh this is complicated– ooooh another story!” I read Cinderella-style stories from around the world, I read animal transformation stories, and I began to weigh the bestial nature of the beast against other figures… and I learned a great deal from those traditional stories. And I also noticed the other stories. Stories like The True Story of the 3 Little Pigs! by Jon Scieszka. “Cute,” I thought rather condescendingly, “but… I have work to do, Mr. Scieszka, don’t interrupt me.” (Note: I was still about 9 or 10 years old. I had limitless reading time and so much condescension.) (Mr. Scieszka, it’s a good story and I enjoy it to this day, please don’t take this as any type of criticism, it just didn’t fit with my Big Job, OK?)

In hindsight, I think that was maybe the beginning of a shift, though? I never stopped loving reading “original” stories, but I didn’t see so many new editions and anyway as my reading level went up, the available stories turned towards retellings: Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine, The Enchanted Forest Chronicles by Patricia C. Wrede, Beauty by Robin McKinley, and, of course, the more recent, older ones: the Fairyland series by Catherynne M. Valente, not to mention her not-for-kids Six-Gun Snow White and Deathless, and the graphic novel Snow White by Matt Phelan… I’ve written about Hilary McKay’s rather extraordinary Straw into Gold, I know.

These are all fairy tale adjacent, to greater or lesser degrees, but not one single glorious picture books of folk and fairy tales of the kind I grew up with and I have to say I’m really missing those on book store shelves. Which brings me back to Newfoundland, and a box I got from Running the Goat Books.

I’d posit that part of the reason for the decrease in single picture book fairy tale editions is, quite simply, wordcount. (Pause: I’m using a lot of qualifications for a reason. Broad generalizations are broad, I do not want to go into the niggling details, I’m not an expert, I don’t work at a publisher, I’m not published, etc. This is a very limited view from one person who would like more fairy tale books, please. Got it? Don’t wave your bundle of exceptions at me unless there are really awesome book recommendations in there, in which case—do.)

There’s been a really noticeable trend from “storybooks” to “picture books” over time, and that means (generally speaking, very much generally) that authors who want to actually get a book published will limit wordcount because agents know that editors want fewer words on the page, not a Big Fat Story.

Exceptions? Absolutely. Nonfiction, for one. If you’re writing a picture book biography, for example, you’ve got to do what the narrative requires, and that will have heavier wordcount. Likewise, for example, a scientific concept, natural history, history of a time period, etc. Are you covering a lot of facts? Those facts are going to be delineated in words. While you don’t want to waste words, as, for example, may happen in a blog post which no one is editing for length and clarity for example—you probably need more words than would go into, oh, concept picture books, for example, such as A Child of Books. Think of the sparse wordcount and enormous feeling in I Talk Like a River.

“Yes but I get lots of picture books that tell a good story, and do so within a limited wordcount!” So do I! I’m happy with them and am beyond thrilled that you are, too. Not complaining in the least about them and I’ll cheerfully list a bunch that have come out and I never got to review: Sara O’Leary and Kenard Pak’s Maud and Grand-Maud is a wonderful story of relationship between grandmother and granddaughter; Shawn Harris’s Have You Ever Seen a Flower? shows us a kid really seeing a flower; Maile Meloy and Felicita Sala’s The Octopus Escapes tells of, surprise!, an octopus’s escape back to the wild.

But I can think of only one absolutely glorious recent picture book narrative with a dense, wordy story (which I have to admit Candlewick sent me, I didn’t spot it “in the wild”): P. J. Lynch’s The Haunted Lake (I still really want to review that one, but don’t wait on me, get it now). It’s dense, rich, and packed with a story as wild and wonderful as the muted, dangerous illustrations.

The types of fairy tale books I grew up with, though, I’m not seeing renewed: Paul O. Zelinsky, Trina Schart Hyman, K.Y. Craft… I just don’t see editions like those coming out again. And what’s sad to me is that while we can say that those were done and don’t need to be done again (no one will do a better Rumpelstiltskin than Paul Zelinsky or a better Snow White than Trina Schart Hyman, which I can’t seem to find in print?, ever, fight me)—I feel pretty strongly that there are stories not told.

Ashley Bryan told stories from Africa in Beat the Story-Drum, Pum-Pum, for example, back in 1980. And those were still in collections, not the big individual hardbacks I crave. My vague memories of old stories from Canadian First Nations tribes is that most were collected by white people, though I won’t swear to that, and I think an Inuit tale is (probably, but not certainly) best told by an Inuk author, illustrated by an Inuk artist. I think there’s a real lag in telling old stories right now: I love the new ones, I don’t want them to stop, but I do want old stories told and illustrated by people who know them, and I want them individually packaged in big, beautiful hardbacks. Thank you. Hop to it.

The reason I rant at such length is that I’ve been stewing over this for a while, pretty cranky, if we’re honest.

And then I got a beautiful, lovely email from my personal hero right now: Marnie Parsons of Running the Goat Books & Broadsides in Newfoundland. First of all, Marnie had obviously read my page explaining how I handle review copies. (I love it when people read first! It makes me feel all warm and cozy like a teacher whose student reads the syllabus!) Second, when I selected a few books and she sent them (very promptly), she sent a few extras and very good materials explaining background for each book. Third, she also handles shipments from their store in Tors Cove in Newfoundland and she kindly arranged a package to my friend in Newfoundland. So Marnie is just the best.

And the books. My friends. Local, independent presses are never to be underestimated. Running the Goat produces curated books from incredibly talented local authors, takes the time to shape and edit the text beautifully, the illustrators are often astounding, and the design and production values are great.

And the best bit? This is Newfoundland. I GOT LOCAL FAIRY TALES.

The first one I saw on the website and immediately requested from Marnie was Spirited Away: Fairy stories of old Newfoundland, collected and told by Tom Dawe with perfectly eerie illustrations by Veselina Tomova. Note: this is a collection, not the single story spun out over 32 pages I was craving. But it was a re-immersion in the collections I loved from later childhood. A prim, usually upper middle class gentleman or lady during the Celtic Revival would wander around Ireland or Scotland writing down stories told by an older woman or gentleman, spinning literal and figurative yarn simultaneously while the earnest recorder set down the words. The methodological issues with those early collections are known and I won’t revisit them, but I’m glad to have them. Tom Dawe’s collection is better than those of the Celtic Revival, if I’m being blunt. He knows these stories in their creepy, delightful, eerie beauty. He knows them in his blood and bones and spins them into words with lyrical honesty, with a voice that reminds me of Ellen Bryan Obed’s in its poetry and simplicity. Veselina Tomova, originally from Bulgaria, illustrated these stories with dark wood-cuts that snatch the heart of the story and splay the feeling across the page, grabbing the eye into the mood from the first glance. I love her art and want it on my wall.

I was less sure what to expect from Andy Jones (Marnie sent me Barefoot Helen and the Giants and Jack and the Green Man before I started reading. It didn’t say “fairy tale,” because, well, I guess they aren’t fairy tales. But they are the closest thing I’ve seen to what I was craving, and surpassed my wildest desires in actual execution.

Andy Jones is a storyteller of the Robert Munsch kind: he tells a story and knows how to record it in words such that the voice emanates from the page. (In fact, he reads his own stories on audio, available for download from the Running the Goat website!) And they’re real stories, with brilliant, exciting narratives with kings and queens and princesses running around and giants and everything—all in a hardback with gloriously flamboyant illustrations. And the stories are decidedly familiar: there’s your Molly Whuppie (Barefoot Helen slaying the Giants), there’s your Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (Jack and the Green Man), but there’s also a failed fishery with families moving away, and there’s rediscovering old family and remaking a new family. The Master Maid narrative gets a bit of a mischievous makeover, and Molly Whuppie doesn’t end as expected, either. If you, like me, sometimes grumble about stupid worthless princes and heteronormative storytelling… fear not.

The art? Barefoot Helen and the Giants is illustrated with bright, quirky, and bold art from Katie Brosnan. It’s fun, upbeat, and not too beautiful for the story, which emphasizes boldness over beauty—thus leading us to a new type of beauty in the end. Jack and the Green Man is illustrated by Darka Erdelji who also designs puppets in Slovenia, and you can absolutely see that narrative drama in her work, and I just loved tracing the story in the visual landscape of the page.

(Side note to Marnie: Can you get your illustrators to produce prints to sell through your shop? I have a few in mind…)

For me, the icing on the cake was this: Andy Jones brings both the hardback glory of a single story excitedly sprawling its tall tale across 32 pages and the glorious notes of Joseph Jacobs who kindly and accessibly explains his sources at the back of this collections so that nerds like me could run after them and read more stories.

Marnie Parsons is the actual best because in the finest form of every publisher and bookseller she found me new books, authors, and illustrators to love and get excited about.

My friends, I was wrong. There are new folk and fairy tale or tall tale storybooks out there. But don’t limit yourselves to the Big However Many (Big Five, Big Four?) in your searches. It’s totally worth it to look more broadly, and I pledge to tell you of any I find. (There’s a reason this is Part 1…)

Etty Darwin and the Four Pebble Problem

I’ve never actually tried to write a post from my phone before, so this is a first time test… But it’s not meant to be a long or complex one, so hopefully it goes ok. This is, really, just a heads up to everyone looking for the perfect Father’s Day gift: Lauren Soloy has you covered with her new book, Etty Darwin and the Four Pebble Problem (isn’t that a great title?).

It’s such a shame, I think, that good dads generally turn up in books, if they do at all, as “special time” parents. What’s lovely about this book is that Lauren Soloy roots it in history (there’s a note about Etty’s work with her famous father, Charles Darwin, at the back) so the reality of this wonderful dad spending time with his daughter doing a normal, not “special time,” thing together feels all the more real. This is the story: they go for a walk and think and talk. He listens carefully to her thoughts, responds honestly and thoughtfully, and shares his thoughts with her. He notes it when she says something that prompts him to remember to keep an open mind, showing that dads learn from kids as much as kids from dads. At the end they feel better for taking time from the day to walk and think and talk together.

I think this is a great book at any time, but if you’re looking for something to show the dad in your family that you appreciate his “every day” fathering, his attention and listening, his open mind and genuine fondness for spending time with his kids… Don’t get a grill. Get this book.

(I completely blew it because as soon as I got it I shoved it in my husband’s hands so I guess I just have to get him a grill instead. Too bad there aren’t any other books out there instead…)

215 children

I’m going to guess that if you read anything I write, you care about children. If so, you’re probably as shattered and horrified as I am to read about the discovery of the remains of 215 Tk’emlúps te Secwépemc children in unmarked graves at the Kamloops “residential school” as we politely call those former institutions where First Nations children were taken from their families and horribly maltreated. There’s an article from the Globe and Mail here which tells a bit of history.

I remember learning about these schools a little when I was in middle and high school. I got the impression it was a bad thing to do because of the impact on the culture: the erasure of language, family ties severed, generational gaps widened to chasms. I knew some of the priests and nuns did bad things.

We didn’t read any Rita Joe. We didn’t hear personal accounts. We had no idea about unmarked mass graves of 215 children whose parents were waiting and waiting and grieving and never, ever knew– knew for sure— what happened to their kids as young as the age of 3. Each of those 215 kids came from someone, somewhere. Each lost child is a lost story, or, really, stories: the story of the child, the story of the family waiting, the gap of everything that might have happened if they’d been together. All that was left was grief, destitution, rancor.

It’s sickening to look directly at that history and see that it’s not ancient history; it’s quite recent, and the implications are being quite literally excavated and disclosed today. I’m linking you back to these books from Nimbus, I Lost My Talk and I’m Finding My Talk in humility for my lack of knowledge and gratitude to Nimbus for publishing these accounts.

There are, thankfully, more materials being published today directly from First Nations authors and illustrators and I encourage everyone to seek these out and read them with your kids. Not just stories of pain, but narratives of all kinds, featuring joy, the genuine lives and feelings and culture of real living people, with an eye to history, the present, and the future. Don’t leave those graves unmarked.