Story of Colors / La Historia de los Colores

 

author: Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos

illustrator: Domitila Dominguez

translator: Ann Bar Din

Cinco Puntos Press (1999)

grades 5-up 

Maya

This enchanting bilingual book for children and adults with the imagination of children is a story in more than one way. As told by old man Antonio in the jungle to his friend Marcos, it’s the story of how the world, born black and white with gray in between, took on a rainbow of color. For this, as Antonio relates, we can thank a bunch of cranky gods who got bored with the way things were so they went looking for other colors to brighten the world for the people. Red, green, blue, and on they go, finding new colors in ways both goofy and supremely logical. My favorite is how yellow was born: from a laughing child. One of the gods stole his laughter, making it the seventh color—what else?!

Today we see the macaw bird with every color in its feathers, representing this bright new world. As Marcos tells us, it struts about “just in case men and women forget how many colors there are and how many ways of thinking, and that the world will be happy if all the colors and ways of thinking have their place.” With that reminder of the wisdom so often found in Indigenous cultures, the book says “FIN”—The End—in a swirl of pipe-smoke.

The illustrations by Domi (Domitila Dominguez), an Indigenous artist born in Oaxaca, are as original and unpredictable as the tale itself. Both refuse to romanticize, westernize, or stereotype the culture and worldview of Chiapas’ Indigenous people. Anne Bar Din’s English text is on the same wavelength; she is adept in her resolution of translation-defying phrases and presents no problems other than an occasional Spanish-ism (better than anglicisms!).

Appropriately, Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos stays in the background while old man Antonio tells the story. But he is there in meaningful small ways: lighting his pipe, commenting on human idiosyncrasies, and dropping reminders that people often make love (“a nice way to become tired and then go to sleep”). The gods in this tale are often not godlike but instead bumbling and stumbling around. Refusing to be pompous, enjoying a light irony, the style of this wonderful story constantly reminds us of who the author is.

That identity gave birth to the story about the story. In November 1998 Cinco Puntos Press, a small publisher in El Paso, Texas, won a $7,500 National Endowment for the Arts grant after going through a yearlong approval process including several review committees. With these funds, Cinco Puntos planned to pay half the cost of printing The Story of Colors. But NEA Chair William Ivey abruptly cancelled the grant.

Ivey said he was “concerned about the final destination of the money”—meaning some might go to Zapatista rebels or Marcos himself (even though the grant proposal had stated no part of the grant would go to Marcos, who had formally waived his rights). Recent attempts by Congressional Republicans to eliminate the NEA were obviously in the front of Ivey’s mind.

But Ivey’s blatant censorship backfired. News articles about it appeared in major media and Borders put in an order for 1,000 copies of the book. Another grant came almost immediately from the Lannan Foundation, a public arts organization, and it was twice as big as the cancelled NEA grant. The book went back to press for another run.

Like the Zapatistas themselves, The Story of Colors has become a symbol of truth overcoming lies, courage overcoming cowardice, and passion overcoming prejudice. Ever since they rose up on New Year’s Eve of 1994 in armed rebellion against 500 years of brutal colonization, naming themselves for the hero of Mexico’s 1910 revolution, they have stood for all Indigenous peoples. They have also stood for the universal dream of human liberation and true democracy. Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos, their main spokesperson, has been that most dangerous kind of leader: a soldier with the soul and voice of a poet.

The NEA, trying to disclaim political censorship as the motive for canceling that grant, said the book didn’t fit into the “mainstream” of children’s books. True enough—and grounds for celebration. Its originality, its voice coming from a culture so long ignored or despised, is its great strength. There may be parents concerned about the references to smoking or lovemaking. Without dismissing such concerns, let me just say: these cannot begin to equal the assault on young people by mass media images that equate smoking with sophistication, or love-making with sexual activity wherein somebody has to conquer somebody. Let parents talk with their children about these issues, if they wish, and never forget that this is a folktale—not MTV (thank the gods).

The Story of Colors is about the joy of seeing the world around us with new eyes. It is about the way that very ancient peoples can often see very far. It is about the holy power of harmony and balance among the many forms of life on our planet. It is a gift, this book: food for hungry spirits. Highly recommended.

We the orphans of opportunity

have dared to pass through the door opened by the Zapatistas

and cross to the other side of the mirror

where everyone can be the same

because we are different,

where there can be more than one way of living

where rejection of the present system

exists together with the desire to build a new world

in which many worlds will fit.

—from the Zapatista movement

—Elizabeth (Betita) Martinez
(published 4/19/13)

This review first appeared in A Broken Flute: The Native Experience in Books for Children, edited by Doris Seale and Beverly Slapin (AltaMira Press, 2005). We thank the publisher for permission.

Questions & Swords: Folktales of the Zapatista Revolution

author: Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos

illustrators: Domitila Dominguez and Antonio Ramírez

essayists: Simon Ortiz and Elena Poniatowska

Cinco Puntos Press, 2001

grades 5-up 

Maya

On the back of this book's striking cover appears a little tag: “The sequel to the infamous STORY OF COLORS.” And that's what it is, plus more. “Infamous” because The Story of Colors, Marcos’s previous book, encountered a blatant attempt at censorship—by the National Endowment for the Arts—before it was even published. The attempt failed, and the publicity guaranteed that book an extra print run.

Like that book, Questions & Swords is illustrated by “Domi” (Domitila Dominguez) who again gives us a stunning range of colors, moods, and imagination. The text is a more complex, even elusive creature than the first Marcos volume, with several voices to be heard and ambiguities to ponder.

“The Story of Questions,” which is bilingual, brings us old Antonio again with all the same wisdom, charm and humor we have a right to expect from his role in the previous book. But this time his words to Marcos defy even “el Sup” in a conversation about who Zapata was. To answer that question, Old Antonio tells the story of two gods who were opposites but really one, and struggled to resolve their differences with many questions about how to walk together, which path to choose. He draws out a profound message:

[Q]uestions are for walking, not just standing still and doing nothing…[W]hen true men and women want to walk, they ask questions. When they want to arrive, they take leave. And when they want to leave, they say hello. They are never still….[T]o know and to walk, you first have to ask.

When Marcos asks how this defines Zapata, old Antonio replies that Zapata speaks of two Zapatas who are really one and both were the same road for all true men and women to follow. A reader can be left wondering if perhaps this whole story is about leadership, the need for flexibility and openness. Or perhaps it is a lesson in dialectics? Or both? What matters is that we have been captivated by vision with deep Indigenous roots.

The other major piece in the book, “The Story of the Sword, the Tree, the Stone & the Water,” also stars Old Antonio. It is an “ethical metaphor,” as author Elena Poniatowska says in her short essay following that story. When those four different sources of strength go into battle, water triumphs in the end. Similarly, as Marcos observes, the Mexican government's February 1995 offensive against the Zapatistas made a lot of noise but like the sword, ended up rusting in the water and growing old. The water follows its own path and never stops.

The book then offers a short piece by Acoma poet and essayist Simon Ortiz, “Haah-ah, mah-eemah / Yes, it’s the very truth,” in which he speaks about the effects on Indigenous peoples in the United States when word spread of the 1994 Zapatista rebellion: “[T]he news from the South was good news!” All over the Western Hemisphere, he says, Native people have had to survive against 500 years of deadly foreign domination but they have maintained a sense of continual cultural identity that is the essence of Existence. The signal from Chiapas is clear and Simon Ortiz dares to dream, as he says, of what might happen: “What if Indians throughout the Americas rose in united force to seek the return of their land, culture, and community? Think of it!”

Mexican author and journalist Elena Poniatowska closes the book with the eloquence that has made her work respected and loved for decades. “Can a book explode like a bomb?” she asks. “Can it change minds? Should a government feel threatened?” The answer could not be clearer.

The idea of books having such power sustains El Colectivo Callejero (The Street Collective), dedicated to the expression of left political thought through art in Mexico, whose main founders are Antonio Ramírez and Domi. “Old Antonio,” indeed, we might suspect. And perhaps it is no accident that Domi, whose work makes this new book so vivid, so strong, bears the same first name as Domitila Barrios de Chungara of Bolivia. A tin miner's wife representing the “housewives' committee,” she electrified the UN Tribunal on Women in 1975 in Mexico with her cry of “Let me speak!” to the mostly middle-class women present. In Questions & Swords, Domi's art is also an unforgettable outcry. Highly recommended.

—Elizabeth (Betita) Martinez

(published 4/19/13)

This review first appeared in A Broken Flute: The Native Experience in Books for Children, edited by Doris Seale and Beverly Slapin (AltaMira Press, 2005). We thank the publisher for permission.

Vatos

 

author: Luis Alberto Urrea

photographer: José Galvez

Cinco Puntos Press, 2001

high school-up 

Mexican American

When I was first asked to review this book, being seriously feminist I thought: Men, men, men, why do I want to spend time on a book of photos of men? Especially the notoriously super-macho young types called “vatos” (street slang for dude, guy, pal)? Then I opened Vatos, glanced at just a few pages, and it was a matter of “Wow! Wow!! Wow!!!” all the way through.

The photographs offer a marvelous variety of humanness, a range of age and lifestyle, an unending combination of playfulness and seriousness. Many photos contain several moods and dimensions in a single image. These are more than pictures of people, they are pictures of relationships. They give us a world many of us never know; once known, through this book, it is haunting. Luis Alberto Urrea’s “hymn to vatos who will never be in a poem” is the perfect verbal accompaniment to Jose Galvez’s imagery. How can a few words simultaneously evoke such sadness and celebration? But they do, and every line is a snapshot in itself. For those who know little of Chicano urban street life, an education awaits you.

The mix of poverty, racism, despair, courage, absurdity and beauty, arrogance and self-mockery can be found in many cultures of the oppressed. But people of Mexican origin grown in the United States seem to have a claim to collective uniqueness that has usually been romanticized or ignored. This book commits neither sin. It is simply rich and powerful in the reality it presents.

Galvez’s 30 years of photographic experience, and the composition genius he developed, have made that possible. He was lead photographer of a Los Angeles Times team that received a Pulitzer Prize for their portrayal of Latinos in Southern California. They were the first Chicanos to receive a Pulitzer. Goes with the book, doesn't it? Just another bunch of vatos the Anglo world finally noticed. Gracias, Jose, your book is a gift to us all. Highly recommended.

—Elizabeth (Betita) Martinez
(published 4/19/13)

This review first appeared in A Broken Flute: The Native Experience in Books for Children, edited by Doris Seale and Beverly Slapin (AltaMira Press, 2005). We thank the publisher for permission.

What the Aztecs Told Me

authors: Claudia Burr, Krystnya Libura, and Maria Urrutia

Groundwood Books, 1997

grades 3-5  

Mexica (Aztec)

It seems that more and more American writers seek out the parts of other people’s cultures that they see as exotic or exciting. Maybe it is because they feel that their own lives in this “western” society are dull and monotonous. Unfortunately, this tendency has clouded the minds of those who write and teach from outside the culture. What the Aztecs Told Me is no exception. It tells about the Mexica or Aztec culture before the invasion of what we now call Mexico through the eyes of the Spanish friar, Bernardino de Sahagún.

As with so many other books on the “Aztecs,” this one seems fixated on the subject of human sacrifices. In fact, the first six pages of this 30-page book are about sacrifices—as if to say that this was the most important aspect of Mexica life. Accompanying Sahagún’s account are drawings by Spanish missionaries to justify the often brutal methods they used to force thousands of Mexica to convert from their “pagan” way of life to the “light” of medieval Christianity. As biased as all this material is, the authors never question Sahagún’s work.

Once we wade through what seems like overkill for any fifth-grade student, we are finally treated to scant descriptions of the day-to-day life of the Mexica. I wonder if the authors or the members of the Canada Council and Ontario Arts Council—the funders of this book—see the irony in their own words:

[T]he culture and events that Friar Bernardino recorded had almost disappeared by the time he wrote his work. Only a few elders remained who could remember Mexico before the Spaniards arrived. It is thanks to them that we can glimpse this vanished world.

Maybe, if Sahagún, Cortez, and their cohorts had not been so successful in “civilizing” the Native peoples of Mexico, we would have more such elders to learn from. Still, there are many elders throughout Mexico whose oral traditions dispute the Spanish accounts. If the authors had really wanted to show their respect for the Mexica, they would have sought out some of our elders, rather than retelling the invader’s accounts one more time. Not recommended.

—Marco Palma
(published 4/15/13)

This review first appeared in A Broken Flute: The Native Experience in Books for Children, edited by Doris Seale and Beverly Slapin (AltaMira Press, 2005). We thank the publisher for permission.

Musicians of the Sun

author: Gerald McDermott

illustrator: Gerald McDermott

Simon & Schuster, 1997

kindergarten-grade 4 

Mexica (Aztec)

In McDermott’s retelling of a fragment of a Mexica (Aztec) “myth,” the deity Tezcatlipoca, Lord of the Night, sends Wind to bring the Musicians of the Sun to Earth, in order to bring joy and color to the world. Here, Wind is the “good guy” who uses weapons of thunder and lightning to best Sun, the “bad guy.” McDermott’s intense colors, from acrylic fabric paint, opaque inks, and oil pastels on handmade paper, are appealing to young children and their teachers. As with his other books, Musicians of the Sun has garnered rave reviews.

From School Library Journal, for instance: “Picture-book versions of Aztec myths suitable for sharing with classes are scarce, however, and this one should be welcome, especially since it is dignified enough to use with older children.” A Goodreads reviewer opined: “Students will enjoy this story and the simple way it describes an ancient Aztec myth.” And from the New York Times Book Review: “Musicians of the Sun has something irresistible to young readers: It is based on a fragment of Aztec mythology and, reflecting that cruel and passionate culture, it is a complex tale.”

Did you get that last one? If not, I’ll repeat: “reflecting that cruel and passionate culture.” This is precisely the problem with Musicians of the Sun and McDermott’s other children’s books. In McDermott’s world, you can take whatever you want and make it yours. And if anyone criticizes your work, as a dear friend of mine did at a “multicultural” conference at which he was speaking, well, you have the privilege of alleged artistic talent, undeserved fame and fortune, and grandiose arrogance on your side.

At that particular conference (and I imagine at many others), I heard Gerald McDermott publicly voice his opinion that there is no such thing as what he disparages as “cultural copyright.” In the case of Musicians of the Sun, McDermott’s version of a Mexica creation story that he found in a French translation of a version set down by a Spanish missionary in the 16^th century and several other versions in the 16^th and 17^th centuries, became, for him, “a metaphor for the artist’s journey.” No joke. He describes his hunting for, taking of, and manipulating a sacred creation story as a metaphor for his own personal journey.  This is the kind of “retellings”—read cultural theft—of traditional stories for which McDermott is famous. Not recommended.

—Beverly Slapin
(posted 4/14/13)

Indiana Jones Explores the Incas

author: John Malam

illustrator: Jeffrey Burn

Arcade, 1993

grades 5-7 

Inca

I have to admit that I am a fan of Steven Spielberg’s “Raiders of the Lost Ark” and that the idea of being guided through the world of the Inca by Indiana Jones did, indeed, sound interesting. That was before I actually read the book. Unfortunately, this approach does more harm than good.

The book is divided into sections dealing with the political structure of Inca society from farming to religion. It offers a lot of information, most of which is consistent with standard anthropological interpretations. I doubt that modern Inca agree with either the book’s attempt or approach in presenting their past and the “scientific” interpretations of their culture. And the descriptions of burial practices along with photos of mummified remains are hideous and disrespectful.

Little Indiana Joneses seem to pop up out of nowhere and add nothing to this otherwise formulaic book. In almost every two-page section is a photo of Indie taken directly from one of the movies and/or a small “fact file” supposedly written by him. These inserts have no direct connection to the material in the sections. Instead of becoming part of the “action,” these shots of Indie appear to have been randomly pasted on by one of the young people for whom this book is intended. The problem is that whatever respect one might have had for the Inca and their accomplishments gets chucked out the door as snickers and outright guffaws accompany the ridiculous juxtaposition of, for instance, a bare-chested, machete-wielding Indie above a scene of a local village bridge, or Indie again, in a white tuxedo with a bright red carnation in the lapel in front of a photo of a busy street in Lima. Not recommended.

—Marco Palma
(published 4/14/13)

This review first appeared in A Broken Flute: The Native Experience in Books for Children, edited by Doris Seale and Beverly Slapin (AltaMira Press, 2005). We thank the publisher for permission.

Chato’s Kitchen // Chato and the Party Animals // Chato Goes Cruisin’

author: Gary Soto

illustrator: Susan Guevara

Putnam, 1995

preschool-grade 3 

Mexican American

Chato, a cool low-riding cat from a barrio in East El Lay, “was slinking toward a sparrow when he heard the scrape of tiny feet coming from the yard next door.” Órale, es una familia de ratoncitos—moving in right next door! ¡De veras! So, of course, Chato and his best friend, Novio Boy, invite their new neighbors over for dinner, in the literal sense of the word. Pués, sí, they’d love to come over, they say, but could they bring their friend, Chorizo? Suuuure, Chato and Novio Boy think, the more mice, the merrier. Only…Chorizo’s not a mouse. “Chorizo,” ¿tu sabes?

With an economy of words befitting a first-rate poet (which he is), Gary Soto has created some of the most hilarious characters I’ve ever met. And Susan Guevara’s wickedly funny acrylic-on-scratchboard illustrations are just perfect. Chato's Kitchen is also available in Spanish, Chato y su cena. Highly recommended.

author: Gary Soto

illustrator: Susan Guevara

Putnam, 2000

preschool-grade 3 

Mexican American

So, Chato, our favorite East El Lay vato gato, is just a party animal, ¿tu sabes? But his carnal, Novio Boy, is not. In fact, he’s never even had a birthday party (what with his being from the pound and never even having known his mami…). So Chato and his homeys decide to throw Novio Boy a surprise pachanga de cumpleaños. It’s all set up: there’s a cake with mouse-colored frosting and topped with a couple of canaries, a catfish piñata, an inflatable dog, “flea combs, collars with shiny bells, wind-up mice, and half-priced yarn that was already a mess of tangles.” No expense is spared, nothing is left out, except—¡qué tonto!—Chato forgot to invite Novio Boy! Well, the search is on, and after Novio Boy shows up at his own memorial service (having been presumed to have, tu sabes, met an untimely end), la pachanga “lasted until the sun went down, the moon came up, and the neighbors started throwing shoes at them to stop the racket.”

This sequel to Chato’s Kitchen, again complemented by Susan Guevara’s amazingly detailed and hilarious acrylic-on-scratchboard artwork, also contains wholly integrated words and phrases in Spanish and El Lay barrio Caló. And, for those who didn’t study Caló in high school, there’s a helpful glossary. Highly recommended.

author: Gary Soto

illustrator: Susan Guevara

Putnam, 2005

preschool-grade 3 

Mexican American

Not cruisin’ the barrio, in case anyone was wondering. This time, the two carnales, Chato and Novio Boy, look forward to embarking on a real cruise, on a ship, on the ocean, with partying for days…because Chato had won the cruise for two from a box of cereal. ¡Pues, no! What they hadn’t figured on was—a ship full of fuchi perros, with their fuchi comida and rough doggie games! And wouldn’t you know it, the dogs get sick, really sick, from eating, well, like dogs eat—everything in sight. ¡Ay, que lástima! So the two carnales set off on a lifeboat to get help, pass on the temptation to join a real cat cruise, weather a storm, and get tossed onto an island, where they encounter—a group of vacationing veterinarians!—and those fuchi perros are saved.

This time, Susan Guevara has created inked comic strips to augment her acrylic-on-scratchboard paintings in a fast-moving, hilarious story that sneaks in lessons about friendship, keeping promises, and not being too judgmental—even if you’re surrounded by a bunch of fuchi perros. Highly recommended.

—Beverly Slapin
(published 4/14/13)

Legend of Mexicatl

author: Jo Harper

Illustrator: Robert Casilla

Turtle Books, 1998

kindergarten-grade 3 

Mexica (Aztec)

First off, it was hard for me to tell whether this story was supposed to be about the Mexica (Aztecs), or if it was really about Jesus. The story is about a boy, Mexicatl, who is called upon by a generic “Great Spirit” to eventually lead his people to their promised land. Upon opening the book to the first page, I was struck by how much the first illustration appears like so many nativity scenes that one would expect to find in a church. Although this will probably make the book appealing to Catholics with Mexican roots, it does not tell us anything about the Mexica people. There are many accounts about the journey that the Mexica took from Aztlán to what is now Mexico City. Some of these are Native accounts while others are colonial Spanish stories. Amidst all the academic argument and speculation, all the contradiction and inconsistency, the author seems to have found it easy to put forward her version of a “glorious triumph of faith and courage.”

There is something subtle and maybe even insidious about the Christianization of what is not a Christian story. Rather than honor the culture of which the real legend of Mexicatl is a part, it suggests that there is something that needs to be improved by rewriting it and that the Mexica people can be redeemed only by being compared to early Christians. I think that Friar Bernardino de Sahagún, on whose colonizing works this particular version is based, would have been envious that he did not think of manipulating the legend in this way. No doubt he would have put it to good use in his efforts to stamp out from the Mexica any trace of their Native worldview and spirituality.

The one good thing about this book is the illustrations by Robert Casilla, whose wife and son were the models for Mexicatl and his mother. The skin tones are realistic, the facial features are not exaggerated, the people look like real people. The illustrations are actually better than most you would expect to find in children’s books about Mexica, Maya, or Inca. Still, this in itself is not reason to buy the book. Not recommended.

—Marco Palma
(published 4/13/13)

This review first appeared in A Broken Flute: The Native Experience in Books for Children, edited by Doris Seale and Beverly Slapin (AltaMira Press, 2005). We thank the publisher for permission.

Spirit of the Maya: A Boy Explores His People’s Mysterious Past

author: Guy Garcia

photographer: Ted Wood

Walker, 1995

grades 3-6

Maya

Palenque is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen; the small valley is green and lush and the buildings look like they were designed to fit each into its own space. There is a great sense of history here, calm and tranquil and one imagines that it would be a lovely place to live. It is this place that Guy Garcia chose for a contrived, illogical photo-story of a Mayan boy, “exploring” “his people’s mysterious past.”

Kin lives traditionally with his family, yet whines about helping his mother, wants to speak Spanish instead of the Mayan language, and wants to cut his hair short “but his father won’t let him because it’s traditional for the Lacando’n to wear their hair long.”

Inspired by a book, Kin goes off to the temples, by himself, a tourist in his own people’s traditional lands and sacred places. He wonders what each thing he sees represents—“Those large carved heads over there—are they pictures of Maya priests or of the Sun Gods?”—and then answers himself like a scholar. To illustrate Garcia’s travelogue, Kin jumps over a gap in a wall, climbs a narrow stairway, lies on what he thinks could be Pacal’s tomb, and generally acts more like a white kid in an MTV video than a Mayan child in his own territory. Kim is depicted as so ignorant that it takes a tourist to direct him to Pacal’s tomb.

This tour makes him feel lonely and Kin tells his father “he never wants to come back.” But after seeing his own likeness in a huge head sculpture of Pacal, Kin can “for the first time in his life, know how it feels to be a king.”

A traditional Mayan child would not think or behave in such a culturally ignorant way. A traditional Mayan father would not send a child to “explore” the temples by himself. And no traditional Mayans worth their salt would neglect to pass on their history and culture to their children. This book is insulting. Not recommended.

—Judy Zalazar Drummond
(published 4/13/13)

This review first appeared in A Broken Flute: The Native Experience in Books for Children, edited by Doris Seale and Beverly Slapin (AltaMira Press, 2005). We thank the publisher for permission.