All the Stars Denied

author: Guadalupe García McCall

Tu Books / Lee & Low, 2018 

grades 7-up

Mexican

Beginning in 1930, in the throes of the Great Depression, the U.S. government “repatriated” more than one million Mexicans and Mexican Americans. Sixty percent of them were U.S. citizens—children born in the United States to one or both parents who were Mexican nationals, spouses of Mexican nationals, and people whose papers were not available at the time they were detained and dropped on the other side of the border. For these people—and others who, like today’s Dreamers, had come to the United States as young children—Mexico was an unknown country. Many did not speak Spanish or have family members in Mexico who could take them in. The arrival of a million refugees strained Mexico’s capacity to take care of them, as that country suffered as well from the Depression and churches were quickly overwhelmed.

Guadalupe García McCall’s sequel to her award-winning Shame the Stars (Tu Books / Lee & Low, 2016) takes place one generation later, when Joaquin and Dulceña are parents of 15-year-old Estrella and toddler Luis, known as Wicho. Their large ranch, Las Moras, has been in the family for generations, but Estrella’s less privileged schoolmates are disappearing one by one. After she and her remaining friends in the town’s segregated school are arrested for demonstrating against discrimination and deportation—and she and her father speak up at a town council meeting—unknown persons set her family’s house on fire and kidnap them. Estrella, her mother, and Wicho are driven across Texas to the border crossing in El Paso; they have no idea where Joaquin has been taken. They spend a week in a crowded corral in the rain and cold, deprived of food and medicine, before shipped by train to Mexico City, where they must begin a new life, find Joaquin and other missing family members (including Dulceña’s parents, the publishers of a newspaper), and try to make their way back home as Wicho’s health deteriorates.

All the Stars Denied is a gripping adventure story of a family confronting catastrophe and ruin. At the beginning, Estrella is the spoiled daughter of a wealthy family, complaining about having to help take care of her equally overindulged brother. Like her parents, she believes her wealth—the extended family owns a large amount of land, as well as a newspaper and a bookstore, and employs a dozen farm workers and domestic servants—will insulate her from the spreading racism and violence. Yet the family’s wealth only means there’s more for those in power to take from them. McCall shows that at the root of racism lies the effort by those in power to take what others have, whether it be jobs, money, or property. Estrella and her family are helpless before the power of the white-controlled State; all they can do is survive in conditions in which they thought they would never have to live.

As the current administration separates families at the border and threatens to strip permanent residencies and birthright citizenships at will—confiscating homes and property in the process—it’s important for readers to understand that the United States has committed similar atrocities in the past. By choosing a seemingly privileged protagonist, McCall shows that no one is safe, and an attack on one group is an attack on all of us.

For more information about this little-known chapter of history, read Decade of Betrayal: Mexican Repatriation in the 1930s by Francisco E. Balderrama and Raymond Rodríguez. Rodríguez, who died in 2013 at the age of 87, lost his father in the repatriation.

Strong pacing and McCall’s thoughtful, brave, and necessary portrayal of the repatriation.

*Highly recommended for all home, classroom and library collections.

—Lyn Miller-Lachmann

(published 12/5/18)

An earlier version of this review first appeared in The Pirate Tree (thepiratetree.com). We thank The Pirate Tree for permission.

They Call Me Güero: A Border Kid’s Poems

author: David Bowles  

Cinco Puntos Press, 2018

grades 5-up

Mexican American

Memories from the author’s own childhood experiences—as well as those of his son, his friends, and the young men he worked with as a middle-school teacher—inform this too-slim book of poetry from the perspective of a 12-year-old Chicano border kid entering the seventh grade. Here, our super-smart protagonist and poet clearly knows who he is and what he comes from. And he’s learning what he’s been given to do. 

Like his idol, the great Mexican boxer, Saul “Canelo” Álvarez, the boy whom everyone calls “Güero” is cinnamon-toned, too. Observant readers looking back to Zeke Peña’s digitally rendered cover art will notice that, as Güero and his dog run through the chaparral, the boy’s freckles and hair—along with the Huehuehcoyotl (“Feathered Coyote”) Nahual mask he wears—perfectly match the cinnamon-colored sand. The boy belongs to the land. He is “puro mexicano.”

As a child of dual cultures who has learned to float between different groups, Güero uses variations of language to express himself. He communicates in Spanish and English with his elder relatives (especially with his bisabuela, who enjoys instructing him traditionally through dichos), mostly English with his teachers and friends (“los Bobbys”), Spanish first with new arrivals, and an effortless combination of English, Spanish, Espanglish and code-switching with everyone else, including family and readers. It’s especially refreshing that there is no italicization of anything: the languages and word-images blend with an authenticity rarely seen in middle-grade stories. And it’s appropriate that the glossary does not distinguish between language types, which readers will be able to infer from context. 

In school, Güero’s woke English teacher, Mrs. Wong, keeps a long-eared white rabbit in her room and talks about the Moon Rabbit in Korea and Mexico, gifts her class Aztec and Mayan and Chinese and Korean legends, and plants seeds in the lives of her young charges. It is from her that Güero comes to know that “poetry is the clearest lens for viewing the world.” 

Güero’s own poetic styles include free verse, and rhymed and unrhymed couplets, tercets, quatrains and quintets; as well as sonnets, haiku, senru, and rap. In authentic sneak-dissing (or “come-and-get-me”) rap, for instance, Güero stands his ground by lobbing taunts back at classroom bullies like Snake Barrero (who has just slammed him into a locker and called him “güero cacahuatero” and “gringo nerd”):

Yo, bullies: lero, lero

I’m the mero Güero

a real cacahuatero,

peanuts and chile

all up in this cuero,

this piel, this skin—

it’s white, that’s true

but I’m just as Mexican

as you and you and you.

If there’s anything that Güero can’t handle, he can rely on his new fregona girlfriend, Johanna, to jump in. She’s sort-of a cross between the beautiful, stereotype-busting Mexican movie queen, María Félix; and the strong, courageous Mexican artist, Frida Khalo. Among her other talents, she uses judo skills to throw down bullies, crawls under cars to change the oil, and easily swaps out blown tires. And she “knows the perfect chile for all snacks.” 

Among those relatives Güero remembers are his abuela Mimi, who hardly ever raised her voice. Rather, she told stories, creepy tales with supernatural threats “to punish little devils” who steal cookies off someone’s plate. Such as La Mano Pachona, a “hairy claw that crawls through the night,” a long-ago Mayan wizard who, to this day, continues to wreak revenge on the Inquisition and “naughty boys with Spanish blood.”

He also tells of his Uncle Joe, the family chronicler, whose teacher wouldn’t let him call himself José and would smack him for speaking Spanish. And the forced lies of history:

When I was a chavalito,…didn’t nobody teach us

about our gente, about the Revolución.

They made the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo

sound like a blow struck for democracy

instead of the violent land-grab it was!

This should be México, m’ijo. The border?

It crossed right over us.

And Gúero speaks of the dangerous lives of refugees, the hunger and fears of deportation. When he tutors a “quiet and shy” newcomer, the boy, suddenly triggered by a few English words in a math problem—“a family takes a train”—runs from the room. Güero finds him crying in a small alcove and asks “¿Qué te pasa?”

His story comes streaming out—

threats against the family,

abandoning Honduras,

risking life and limb on la Bestia,

the black train that rattles

through Mexico bottom to top.

Hopeful and dreaming of new lives,

refugees from all over cling

to that dangerous metal.

One terrible day, its wheels

sliced off his brother’s leg.

“We lost everything

but each other

to coyotes and cops

and bandits,” he says.

“Now we live in a tejabán

in a colonia. No water,

no light. But safe.

Except when I dream.”

They Call Me Güero is as far from cultural tourism as one can get. Rather, Bowles has taken to heart the advice of his Uncle Joe, who told him this: “Represent us, m’ijo, all the ones they kept down. You are us. We are you.” Indeed, his evocative story-poems are filled with family and culture and memories and sadness and humor and everyday experiences and playful language and hard history lessons, all told in the voice of a Tex-Mex almost-teen the author knows well. Middle-grade readers (especially, but not limited to, border kids) will easily relate to this young person, who easily relates to them. 

*Highly recommended for all home, classroom and library collections.

—Beverly Slapin

(published 12/2/18)

Muchísimas gracias a mi amiga y colega, Judy Zalazar Drummond; and to my young associate, Juan Camilo Prado, for his patient explanation and examples of sneak-dissing. (Addendum to post, 12/7/18: Juan also informed me that there are other, similar forms of rap: "throwing shade" and "the dozens," a series of insults played before a gathering of spectators.)

Lowriders: Blast from the Past

author: Cathy Camper

illustrator: Raúl the Third (González) 

Chronicle Books, 2018

grades 4-up 

Mexican American

In the entire universe of graphic comics, is there any sillier way to appeal to the sensibilities of young readers than five pages of fart jokes? Than little kid mosquitos, flying through the air, “powered by pedos”? Pretending to be hot-air balloons or hovercrafts or the Hindenburg? With visual sound effects—“BRAPOW!!! PFWAT!!”—and illustrations of farts as little green clouds? And their beleaguered Mamá Malaría, straight out of a telenovela, sobbing her eyes out because her farting kids smell like goats? Probably not.

In their first two installments—Lowriders in Space and Lowriders to the Center of the Earth—the super-talented team of Cathy Camper and Raúl the Third (González) introduce readers to our super-cool interspecies trio: Lupe Impala, ace mechanic extraordinaire; Elirio Malaría, whose sharp proboscis is steady as a surgeon’s hand; and the flexible, washcloth-wielding dynamo, El Chavo Flapjack Octopus. In Volumes 1 and 2, they defeat the bad guys and form a lowrider car club—Bajito y Suavecito—that just might change the world.

The prequel, Lowriders: Blast from the Past, reveals how these three, as remarkable children (with encouragement from their parents), became best friends forever. Employing various species-specific skills (not to mention often-hilarious English-Spanish-Caló word play), they joined forces to stand up to a local gang of bullies and learned about the Chicano Resistance along the way.

Here, we discover how our young mechanical genius and feminista, Lupe Impala, grows into her many passions: Lupe has two moms who, together, nurture her mechanical and scientific skills. Mamá Impala owns a “Yonke Shop” in which Lupe learns how to remake or repair just about anything; and Mamá Gazelle runs a studio where rare ivory-billed woodpeckers (pájaros carpinteros) hang out and secretively create the gorgeous, delicate Mexican art known as papel picado (“picado” and “woodpeckers”—get it?)

Meanwhile, young Elirio’s traveling salesman papá instills in him a passion for painting words, and one of his main lessons is the power and longevity of Indigenous peoples and languages. The notebook that Papá Malaría gives his son contains, he says,

…[T]he kind of words that you like. Words for animals, plants, and the things…that come from native folks, and describe the lands where they lived. Those people’s blood is in you too. Who do you think gave those folks mosquito bites? Our ancestors. Mosquitos contain the blood of everyone, just like language contains everyone’s words. Indigenous words are hidden in the English and Spanish people speak now, but they’re still there.

And Flappy’s parents—the talented mariachi who call themselves “Angélica del Mar y Los Mariscos” (“Angélica of the Sea and the Seafood”)—and named him “El Chavo Flapjack Octopus del Mar” after the popular Mexican TV show, El Chavo del Ocho, and encouraged him to be who he is: an eight-armed super-scrubber who can clean absolutely everything, no holds barred.

Enter Los Matamoscas (The Flyswatters), rough, tough, Caló-speaking bullies who run the main car club in town and control the show. When Los Matamoscas wreck Flappy’s bike and destroy Elirio’s mural paintings, Lupe comes to the rescue and the three quickly become friends. Encountering a stray kitten hiding in a lampshade in a pile of trash—“like a genie in a lamp”—they name him Genie and, of course, make three wishes. Lupe wants to become the world’s best mechanic, Elirio wants to be a successful artist, and Flappy just sorta wants to find something he can do without messing up.

After the three, who’ve transformed Lupe’s mamás’ wreck of a car into a gorgeous lowrider, are kept out of the competition because Los Matamoscas have declared that no girls or kids are allowed, the friends figure out how to transform the bullies as well. This takes “teamwork, talent and cooperation” and, led by Lupe, the trio jumps in.

As in their first two volumes, González’s traditional Chicano art (rendered in the time-honored red, blue and black Chicano BIC® pens)—here, with green added—on what appears to be a background of brown paper grocery bags (but is actually paper stained with Nescafé Suave), complement Camper’s uproarious and educational text.

Adult readers might want to use a magnifying glass to focus on details the naked eye might miss. On the title page, for instance, is a local shopping mall. In it, there’s a used car dealership with an image of the iconic Mexican comedian, Cantinflas. It’s called “Cartinflas.” There are also radio stations powered by a Thunderbird on the mountain, an Olmec head, a restaurant called “Gran Sapo,” a teeny, tiny luchador, and much, much more. On another page (on the wall of Elirio’s room), is a tiny poster of the great Mexican editorial cartoonist, Eduardo del Río, who, as “Rius,” weaponized his pen to mock imperialism, politicians, corruption and the Mexican power structure in general. Here, he’s drawn as a mosquito (probably to represent his stinging cartoons), holding a skull.

Hint for those readers who don’t understand Caló: If you can’t find it in Google Translate, it’s Caló, which is actually pretty easy to figure out. It’s a street version of sometimes-combined English and Spanish (like “¡Watcha!” which rhymes with “gotcha,” which is not Caló). There’s also a helpful translation of the Caló and Spanish words and phrases at the bottom of each page.

Camper’s extensive glossary explains Spanish, Aztec-based, and Caló references, words and phrases (“What does it mean? / ¿Qué significa?”); and her Author’s Note contains an extensive list of words rooted in the Arawak (Taino), Abenaki, Carib, Guugu Yimidhirr, Inuit, Micmac, Nahuatl, Ojibwa, Sami, and Tupi—from Indigenous languages around the world. As well, there is material about ivory-billed woodpeckers, the Chicano Art Movement, the technique of airbrushing, a short bibliography of sources, and much, much more.

Camper’s hilarious story and González’s over-the-top artwork together encourage development of imagination and appropriate suspension of disbelief. Lupe, Elirio and Flappy are real people, their struggles are real struggles, and their solutions are not all impossible, either.

Finally, and possibly most important, is that our young protagonists model group problem-solving, something rarely seen in books and stories for young people.

Lowriders: Blast from the Past is a satisfying, not to mention hilarious, read; something for kids of all ages. It’s perfect for bilingual kids, young hablantes learning English, young English-speakers learning Spanish—and will especially resonate with kids who are fluent in Caló and may live in El Paso, Tejas; or East El Lay, Califas.

Pull quotes: “A breathtaking tour de farce!” “The best thing since pico de gallo—the end will leave you wanting more!” “A heartwarming testament to the beauty and strength of young interspecies relationships!”

*Highly recommended for all home, classroom and library collections.

—Beverly Slapin

(published 10/21/18)

Amazing Watercolor Fish / El asombroso pez acuarela

author: Carolyn Dee Flores

illustrator: Carolyn Dee Flores

translator: Carmen Tafolla 

Piñata Books / Arte Público Press

2018 

preschool-up

As a lonely pet goldfish imagines the world outside of her tiny fishbowl, she encounters another fish in a bowl on the other side of a wall of books that separates them. Communicating with each other through fantasy and colors, they begin to see just what their worlds might look like without the barriers. 

Each page—consisting of vibrant and expanding visual art and partnering poetic storytelling in English and Spanish—contains hints that, when youngsters perceive them, add to the significance of the tale. 

Flores’s art—on a palette that begins with velvety-textured pencil drawings of a sad goldfish and her limited fishbowl environment and, page by page, expands to include increasingly layered translucent watercolors that give them more saturation—reflects the many colors and textures of the outside world the goldfish imagines and fills in with her own brush and watercolor paints—a world she can’t see behind the wall of books. At the same time, another lonely pet fish on the other side uses his brush and palette to communicate with her across the seemingly insurmountable barrier of books which, towards the middle, are beginning to fall open. And towards the end, the books have toppled and the two fishes are swimming together in one bowl. 

Youngsters might recognize that the pencil drawings represent the drab realities of the fish and their separate environments, and, as the translucent colors are layered on, their worlds become bigger and more imaginative and joyous—and maybe, their lives are expanding as well. Younger listeners may not immediately be able to interpret some of the visual symbolism here—or they might after a few back-and-forth page turns: the table top might be a continent (far off are tiny images of the Egyptian pyramids and a sailing ship), the toppling books might be continental divides or national barriers or The Wall, the water gushing out of the open door might be the fishes’ expanding world—the one that they had imagined and is now real.

Both Flores’ English and Tafolla’s Spanish rhyming poetry reflect their own and each other’s playfulness with the story, words and syntax, and together, present a rare cultural and linguistic collaboration. They have created two different and compatible ways of looking at the world; two kinds of poems that work beautifully and bounce off the art. 

Indeed, to read the English and Spanish versions alongside each other—the open, uncomplicated, rhyming English version and the “gran fantasía dramática” of the rhyming Spanish version—is a treat for hablantes, for English-speakers, and for bilingual readers alike. 

The Amazing Watercolor Fish / El asombroso pez acuarela is a gentle, powerful statement of acceptance, togetherness and friendship. Without hyperbole, without polemic—but with lots of symbolism—Flores’ and Tafolla’s loving and lovely story suggests the importance of jumping the walls in these challenging times. 

*Highly recommended for all home, classroom and library collections.

—Beverly Slapin

(published 9/30/18)

Another look at JULIAN IS A MERMAID

Dear Readers—

Since I wrote and published our review of Julián Is a Mermaid (see it here), there has been much online discussion about this book. Dr. Laura Jiménez has just published a personal and profound essay—entitled Trans People Aren’t Mythical Creatures—and, in the hopes that her writing will generate more of this important discussion, I asked her for permission to reprint portions of her essay here and she generously consented.

Dr. Jiménez’s essay begins:

In research we often provide what is referred to as a positionality statement. It helps our readers understand who we are, how our experiences and identities effect our understandings of the subject we are writing about. Positionality statements help avoid the fiction that research is neutral. In the age of #OwnVoices I have come to realize, or maybe I have come to admit to the realization, that I believe an author’s identity, community, and experiences informs the work they produce.

Then, Dr. Jiménez calls attention to the ramifications—of this story and its author/illustrator and its publication and the publishing industry—on the queer community and especially on queer young people. She writes,

Literacy is a social act, and I find that my reading of the world is better when done in collaboration with others who do not share my view of the world, my history, or my identity. So, I talked to teachers who are Dominican, to librarians, and finally, to a trans girl named Indigo. 

Had I known then—when I read and loved and wrote about Julián Is a Mermaid—what I know now, I would not have published the review as I wrote it. What I felt then was the power and love that Julián’s abuela felt in encouraging her young grandson to grow into his authentic self. This was apparent to me in the first few pages, in which Julián looks questioningly at a picture book of mermaids that his abuela had given him. As the story progresses, Julián comes out to his abuela, becoming more and more secure in himself and how he “fits” into his community. That, to me, was what empowerment looked like. 

But Dr. Jiménez saw something that I hadn’t seen:

The ease in which Julián’s abuela accepts and encourages him to show his whole self might be something the author put into the book as a wish or hope. But, by creating this almost immediate acceptance, Jessica Love negated the real struggle so many Latinx LGBTQ people must go through. Is that is the message the author is trying to send? Probably. But, it lands flat to me. For me, this comes from a place of privilege that would rather a mermaid trope carry the message and ignore the very real issues at work.

Read her entire essay here.

Dr. Jiménez nailed it. For queer children, empowerment—not to mention sheer survival—rarely comes so easily. I fell in love with this story precisely because of what had remained hidden. As a person from outside the queer community—even with dear friends who are queer—I hadn’t seen it. I see it now. 

The comments appeared on social media after I had published our review, and I hadn’t taken into account the negative effects that Julián Is a Mermaid, written and illustrated through the lens of a white cisgender author, might have on those who are empowering themselves to speak out—and those who are still not able to speak out. Jessica Love is extremely talented, and the book she’s created is lovely—but it’s not enough.

I would never write a story from outside my own community. It would be wrong. And I was taught by example, long ago, that those of us who evaluate books from outside of our own communities or experiences must listen to those from inside. 

In Professor Jiménez’s piece, she quotes Librarian Angie Manfredi, who wrote: 

Our library copy of JULIAN IS A MERMAID has finally arrived and it is adorable but I NEED everyone in #kidlit to acknowledge it would NOT be getting this amount of love and attention if it were written by a gender non-conforming queer IPOC—it might not even have been published.

When that comment first appeared, I pushed back. I loved this story and, in many ways, still do. But in retrospect, I agree that such a story “written by a gender-nonconforming queer IPOC” probably wouldn’t have seen the light of day. Because, for the most part, large and mid-sized publishers accept only “agented” manuscripts, and, in order to get through the door of a publishing house, authors and illustrators not only must be talented, but must be “marketable” as well—they must represent a certain “image” in the publishers’ collective consciousness. And, at this point, while #OwnVoices is being touted as the new “multiculturalism,” the door to publishing is still pretty much slammed shut to queer authors and illustrators (especially Indigenous / People of Color) who write and illustrate stories for and about queer children (especially Indigenous / People of Color). We all have a lot of work to do.

So, many thanks to Dr. Laura Jiménez and all those who have exposed an obvious problem that many of us had not seen. Because moving forward is sometimes painful—but the pain of ignored and underrepresented communities is far worse.

In gratitude,

Beverly Slapin
(published 9/29/18)

Shame the Stars

author: Guadalupe Garcia McCall 

Tu Books, 2016

grades 7-up 

Mexican

As the Mexican Revolution rages across the border, Joaquín del Toro, the son of a wealthy Tejano rancher, dreams of taking over his father’s land and raising his family with his beloved Dulceña Villa, the daughter of a newspaper publisher. But a satiric poem in the newspaper—condemning the racism, violence, and general lawlessness of the notorious Texas Rangers—drives a wedge between the two families. The del Toros and the Villas agree that the Rangers are threatening their community, which has lived on this land before it was violently snatched from Mexico in the 1830s, but Joaquín’s father wants to negotiate with and appease the Anglos in power (hoping that local authorities will restrain the paramilitary Rangers) while, by means of the newspaper and the enigmatic opinion writer La Estrella, Dulceña’s father urges the Tejano residents to rise up and defend themselves.

Shame the Stars takes its inspiration from Shakespeare’s classic Romeo and Juliet, and like the original, this dispute between families is essentially a political one. In the first chapter, Joaquín’s father bans the entire Villa family from the ranch because of the newspaper’s incendiary articles and editorials. Joaquín must resort to sneaking out to masquerade balls and nighttime meetings in the woods—where coming into contact with Rangers is a constant peril. Ultimately, though, the families come together as Joaquín’s father realizes that the Rangers don’t want to negotiate but kill Tejanos, take their land, and drive the shattered survivors over the border to Mexico—and the elected and appointed authorities cannot or will not stop the vigilantes. While Joaquín and Dulceña’s families now face a common enemy, they don’t want their only children in the middle.

McCall’s powerful, well-researched work of historical fiction is told from Joaquín’s first person point of view, though she uses Joaquín’s poems, his and Dulceña’s letters, and actual newspaper articles from 1913-15 to offer additional perspectives. Joaquín’s poems capture what it was like for Tejanos threatened with ethnic cleansing: 

Lawmen have

been given free will

--orders to shoot

mejicanos on sight

In South Texas.

My blond hair

and freckled face

afford me a few seconds

to save myself.

A moment of hesitation

from a Ranger

buys me enough

time to speak out,

to clarify who I am,

establish that I belong 

on this side of the border. 

Readers come to understand the necessity of self-defense and the dilemmas Tejanos faced when confronted with a far more powerful and violent opponent, dilemmas that have become relevant again today on the border and elsewhere in the United States. McCall captures a history of cruelty and vigilantism that has been hidden from most young people (including those growing up in Texas). Her multi-dimensional teenage characters and the love between them will draw readers in and personalize the history. The family saga continues, one generation later, in McCall’s 2018 novel, All the Stars Denied is *highly recommended for all home, classroom and library collections.

—Lyn Miller-Lachmann
(published 9/24/18)