Curious about Traditional Literature

 

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Campoy, F. Isabel and Alma Flor Ada. Tales Our Abuelitas Told: A Hispanic Folktale Collection. Illustrated by Felipe Dávalos, Viví Escrivá, Susan Guevara and Leyla Torres. Atheneum Books for Young Readers, 2006. 128 pages. LP: $19.99, ISBN13: 9780689825835. Ages 5-10.

"Through stories people share their dreams, their hopes, and the lessons they learn from life, and also their celebration of the imagination and the ingenuity of a well-told tale." Campoy and Ada welcome the reader to their collection of stories, Tales Our Abuelitas Told, with this quote about the universal charms of a well-told tale. Their compilation of stories is purposefully built around the many influences of Hispanic culture: Spain and its myriad conquerers and influencers, the subsequent colonization of the indigenous peoples of America by the Spaniards, the continual fusion of cultures as Spaniards and first nations peoples intermarried, and the further enrichment of Hispanic culture from Africans forced into enslavement. These multiple influences created multiple versions of stories that flourished and took on the uniqueness of the countries in which they were told. In this collection, the authors choose 12 stories to retell. They place each into a country-specific context, site sources extensively, and give personal accounts of how they relate to the tales. In addition, the many illustrators bring each of the stories alive through their distinctive art styles.

In "Martina Martínez and Pérez the Mouse," a story originally popular in Spain and retold in the Puerto Rican oral tradition by Ada, the illustrator Dávalos' style recalls folk art and cartoons. This humorous approach is well-suited to the absurdity of the tale:

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Martina attracts several suitors, rejecting them gently in a repetitive fashion that young children will enjoy chanting along with. When she finally marries the mouse, Ratón Pérez, they are very happy until he falls into the large and delicious soup pot while she is away. Several animals sacrifice their beaks, tails, etc. to acknowledge Martina's subsequent sorrow, but it is the woman healer who actually is practical and chooses to save the mouse husband.

While adult storytellers will appreciate the introductory Welcome and the extensive, context-setting paragraphs following each story, rich with source notes, the stories themselves will appeal directly to young audiences. Their language, humor, rhythms and repetitions are captivating, helping the text flow easily from page to an oral retelling. These are indeed well-told tales.

Hamilton, Virginia. The People Could Fly: American Black Folktales. Illustrated by Leo and Diane Dillon. Alfred A. Knopf, 1985. 178 pages. LP: $24.99,  ISBN 9780394869254. Ages 10 and up.

Image Source: Alfred A. Knopf

Virginia Hamilton makes the purpose of her story collection, The People Could Fly, clear from her Introduction: "These tales were created out of sorrow. But the hearts and minds of the black people who formed them, expanded them, and passed them on to us were full of love and hope. We must look on the tales as a celebration of the human spirit."

These stories stand in joyful defiance of America's chattel slavery and the racist institutions that coexisted with and were created after slavery ended. Hamilton organizes 24 stories under headings such as "Animal Tales," "Supernatural Tales," and "Tales of Freedom." She stays as close to the phonetic dialect of the stories as possible, working to honor their authentic roots as oral retellings, urging the reader to share them out loud. She concludes each story with a discussion of its origins, relating it to traditional African literature and/or the stories told in the Americas.

For example, in the section "Carrying the Running-Aways and other Slave Tales of Freedom," Hamilton retells "The Talking Cooter." Jim meets a turtle who can not only talk, but sing and play the fiddle. The turtle complains that Jim talks too much and needs to "Run along and find your freedom place." But it's exactly this talking that frees Jim, who makes a bargain with the slaveowner that the turtle really does exist, and when Jim is proven correct, he is set free.

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While my version of The People Could Fly has only the black and white illustrations, Leo and Diane Dillons' art work still shines and complements the text. They have an almost surrealistic style that conveys the emotion and humanity of their subjects such as with Jim listening to the cooter in the above picture. They use symbolism in their art as well, as evidenced by the bird flying away to freedom in the background. These stories, these illustrations--together they achieve Hamilton's purpose of celebrating the lives of Black Americans' ancestors and their crucial contributions to our country. 

Curious about Picture Books

 

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Williams, Alicia D. The Talk. Illustrated by Briana Mukodiri Uchendu. Atheneum Books for Young Readers, 2022. 40 pages. List Price $18.99, ISBN13: 9781534495296. Potential audience: 6-8 years old but can interest and generate discussion for all children up through their teens.

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Jay takes the reader on a journey in The Talk, introducing us to his friends, family, neighborhood, and heartbreakingly, to growing up and leaving behind a carefree view of his world. From the first sentence, "Hi, I'm Jay. These are my friends..," Jay is an eager and excited ambassador, happy to show us his world. Four friends, mom and dad, grandma and grandpa--they teach and encourage him, measuring milestones like his growth with pencil marks on the wall:

Image Source: author's

Uchendu illustrates William's text, conveying these happy, everyday images at the start of the book with washes of pastels, bright colors, and a nimbus of soft lines that indicate energy and movement. The sky is the palest blue, the friends' faces are gleeful and curious--everything is lively and full of promise. The biggest worry appears to be Jay's, that he will remain a 'shrimp' and never grow up. But then, time passes and he does:

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The picture supports the text: while Jay is thrilled that he's no longer a shrimp, "Mom looks sad." The reader can see her sober expression, along with the slightly darker colors and the fewer energetic lines surrounding the characters. When Jay grows up even more, losing the chubby cheeks and gaining, when he is out with his friend, the suspicious stares of wary strangers, his decision to go out in a hoodie precipitates his parents' and grandparents' decision to give him The Talk:

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No words are needed to let the reader know that Jay's loving family wants him to understand that he's done nothing wrong, but racist assumptions and their consequences can affect him anyway. Uchendo's colors are dark violet, red, black, gray. It's like injustice creates a sad, smoky fire leaving behind the bright hues and gentle lines of the previous pages, just like Jay must leave behind the innocence of childhood. It is heartbreaking.

Williams' words and Uchendo's illustrations work harmoniously to convey the contrast in the little boy's and his caregiver's concerns. Mom's anxious expression while looking at the tv news, all dark and ominous on the screen, stands in opposition to Jay's bright face and blissful, rounded features as he is surrounded by her hug. On another page, the four friends skateboard under a sunny sky, their energy clear in the angles and blurred movement of the picture, but in the foreground the judgement and anger of a couple is clear in their expressions, dark and stormy shading, and the starkness of the their outlines.  

Even with the seriousness of The Talk's themes, the reader is left with a little bit of hope and a lift near the end:

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"These are the arms that hug me close. The family that reassures me that I've done nothing wrong, and no, I'm not to blame. The eyes that say I'm the beat of their hearts; the joy of their smiles; and their brave, beautiful child."

Forsythe, Matthew. Pokko and the Drum. Illustrated by the author. Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, 2019. 64 pages. LP $18.99, ISBN13: 9781481480390. Potential audience: ages 4 and up.

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Pokko and the Drum is no soothing, predictable lullaby. Think of the improvised, discordant notes of a jazz riff and you will begin to understand the atmosphere Forsythe's story and text convey. Taken alone, these notes are hard on the ears, but together they can create magic and even startled laughter. Such is this picture book--from the opening line, "The biggest mistake Pokko's parents ever made was giving her a drum"--to when her froggy parents get carried away by the Pokko's rather motley group of instrument-playing followers (including a dangerously hungry wolf), this book is...different.

Pokko's drum, unsurprisingly, is too loud to play in the house so father asks her to play outside, but not too loudly: "We're just a little frog family that lives in a mushroom, and we don't like drawing attention to ourselves." Pokko ventures into the serene forest but finds it *too* quiet and soon is beating her drum and drawing, not just attention, but a banjo playing raccoon, a trumpeting rabbit, a xylophone-wielding mouse, and a slew of other forest dwellers following her and creating chaos. It is the wolf who stands out amongst them all, for while at first he is content to march along and enjoy, he soon eats the rabbit. Pokko slips out of her deadpan expression and laser-focused drum beating long enough to berate him for this:

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"No more eating band members or you're out of the band." 

Wolves will be wolves. Forsythe's  illustrations are as amusing and slightly discomforting as his story. Watercolors are bold and autumnal, triangular shapes and jagged lines predominate, the forest foliage is drawn surreally with clashing colors and chaotically overlapping leaves and branches. One masterful example of the illustrator's subtle artistic skill are the expressions on the frog family's faces, which can change with slightest nuances of their eye shapes:

Deadpan Pokko with rounded eye

Plotting Pokko whose eye is now a wedge

Picture books, aimed toward the youngest audiences are supposed to be predictable, perhaps adding a comfort or soothing familiarity to the story that will reassure children. Pokko is neither soothing nor predictable. From the moment the wolf eats the rabbit (though, to his credit, he does apologize) to the time Pokko's parents are swept away from their cooking and reading, the reader is caught off guard. The choices of color, line, and shape all keep the reader on edge. In the end, when the father realizes Pokko is actually quite a good drummer, the reader is surprised again. Yet maybe bland predictability and comfortable plots are not what Forsythe is aiming for in Pokko and the Drum. Perhaps, like the harsh fairy tales of old, brimming with danger and plucky heroes, this story will keep children gasping with surprise and laughter and paying close attention to what the mischievous frog will do next.

Bowles, David. My Two Border Towns. Illustrated by Erika Meza. Kokila, 2021. 40 pages. LP $17.99,  ISBN 9780593111048. Potential audience: ages 4-8.

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Every other Saturday, the little boy and his dad cross from the U.S. side of the border to the Mexican side, visiting the twin of his town for everyday errands and a special mission. Life bustles in saturated water color hues on both sides--panaderías, taco carts, paleteros--Meza's illustrations are a kaleidoscope of activity:

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Unlike the hustle and bustle of both towns, having to cross a border, pay a fee, and submit their car to searches is not natural: "Dad reminds me: Coahuiltecans once lived here, before all this was Mexico--both riverbanks. Now we're two countries. We pay to cross."

Yet cross they do and the reader with them, to their favorite restorán, Tío Mateo's jewelry shop, a pharmacy, and a small store. It's on the way back that readers will discover that this family's special mission is to stop by the bridge separating the two countries and deliver medicine, water, comic books, and other supplies to the tired people camped out, waiting for a chance to enter the U.S.

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"Refugees, Dad calls them. Stuck between two countries."

Bowles story and Meza's illustrations work harmoniously to bring young readers into this boy's world that is both ordinary and special. The juxtaposition of the two border towns seems as natural as the author's  sprinkling of Spanish amongst the English text (a purely Spanish version is also available). While the politics and legalities of crossing back and forth may be fraught, this boy's transnational adventures are fun and invigorating. Meza's realistic line drawings and water color paintings are almost folk-like in their warmth and simplicity. The detailed intricacy of the pages invite children in, making this picture book something they will want to explore more closely on their own or while sitting on a caregiver's lap.

When the boy and his dad reach the bridge, the reader realizes their mission is to bring friendship and aid to the many families from the Caribbean and Central America who wait on the bridge. The refugees' situation is depicted with the same vibrant colors as the rest of the book, but Meza shows their exhaustion and anxiety too through the slump of their shoulders, the heaviness of their eyes, the bedding and clothing hanging on lines. These images fit the story's gentle lesson as evident in the generosity of the boy and his dad--these refugees are no different from other people. Only a twist of fate separates those who can go freely between the two border towns and those who must wait. Perhaps books like this will help make the dad's final line a reality: "But when they get their chance at last, we'll welcome them with open arms." 

Wang, Andrea. Watercress. Pictures by Jason Chin. Neal Porter Books, 2021. 32 pages. LP $18.99,  ISBN 9780823446247. Ages 4-8.

Image Source: Neal Porter Books

Being embarrassed by your family is perhaps a rite of passage for all children, something they endure when the insular innocence of family life gives way to the inevitable comparisons of school and friendships. For children of immigrants, the humiliation of being 'different' can be even sharper. In Watercress, Wang asks how children, growing up in a country of plenty and its counterpart, waste, can understand their parents whose frugality may stem from hunger, even starvation?

This book, bolstered by the sepia tones of Chin's illustrations, gives the reader a way to answer this question: understanding can be achieved through stories of the past. The girl's face is already grumpy as she rides through rural Ohio with her parents and brother, but it turns to an embarrassed expression when the mom urges them to stop and they all shed shoes and socks to pick watercress plants from a ditch filled with cold water. Fuming in humiliation, she prays no one she knows is in the cars speeding by. Her anger does not dissipate when they return home, in fact she refuses to eat the now-cooked watercress, equating it with her parents' other penny-pinching behaviors that separate her from non-immigrant kids: "Free is bad. Free is hand-me-down-clothes and roadside trash-heap furniture and now, dinner from a ditch." 

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Only when the mother tells her their family's story from China, where an Uncle died young from starvation during one of the country's famines, does the girl finally understand her parents' delight in foraged food:

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Compared to the brighter, lighter hues of the roadside hunt for watercress and the family's dining table, Chin portrays the mother's memories of China in washed out muddy browns. It's a memory of a sad time, and the colors reflect this sober part of Wang's story. Chin's style is realistic to the point that the reader may feel compelled to reach out and run a hand along the waving grasses and crisp leaves of corn in the fields; to dip a chopstick in the delicate cooked watercress leaves, slick with oil. Chin really understands texture. Perspective is another way the illustrator supports the story--when the girl is angry and stubbornly refusing to eat in the picture at the dinner table above, the eye goes directly to her and it's impossible to ignore her crossed arms and sour expression. In contrast, on the final page, as Wang's words reveal reconciliation, Chin bring the perspective up and we view the family from above, united:

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"Together, we eat it all and make a new memory of watercress."

Faruqi, Reem. Amira's Picture Day. Illustrated by Fahmida Azim. Holiday House, 2023. 40 pages. LP $17.99, ISBN 9780823451265. Ages 4-8.

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Picture day or Eid celebrations? Pink-striped dress or purple-mirrored shalwar kameez? In Faruqi's book, Amira is faced with dilemmas that reflect the pulls of her family and culture versus her classmates and school traditions. Eid festivities cannot wait--it arrives after Ramadan ends and the morning after the moon is sighted. The author slips in lessons about the holiday and Amira and her family's excitement for its arrival. Azim illustrates the contrasts between Amira's two wishes for the day:

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However, while the story highlights a holiday surely full of vibrancy, Azim's accompanying illustrations fall short of conveying the details. The colors are gorgeous and close ups of Amira's mehndi and shalwar kameez stand out, however the cartoonish nature of the faces and the abstract depictions do not align with the story. Faruqi describes a procession of delicious sweets and an elaborately decorated masjid. But the sweets are drawn in uniform, rather messy blobs and the masjid pillars remain plain. White space surrounds closeups. When Amira does make it to school, and just in time for the class photos, she stands out but her classmates fade a bit, their bodies and faces depicted in rougher, insubstantial lines:

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There is much to admire in both the text and the illustrations of Amira's Picture Day with its presentation of Eid in all its color and energy and the refreshing happy ending when Amira's teacher and classmates welcome her warmly. However, leaving the backgrounds plain and key scenes rushed or abstract feels like a missed opportunity.