Zorro and Quwi, Tales of a Trickster Guinea Pig // Love and Roast Chicken: A Trickster Tale from the Andes Mountains

Zorro and Quwi

author: Rebecca Hickox

illustrator: Kim Howard 

Doubleday, 1997 

preschool-up 

Peruvian

Love and Roast Chicken

author: Barbara Knutson

illustrator: Barbara Knutson 

CarolRhoda Picture Books, 2004 

preschool-up 

Andean, Peruvian

In the Author’s Note for Zorro and Quwi, Hickox writes that she based her children’s book on a cycle of tales called “The Mouse and the Fox,” which she found in Folktales Found Around the World (Univ. of Chicago Press, 1975). She rewrote four of the tales, in which she substituted a guinea pig for the mouse. In Peru, she writes, Quwi is the hero of many trickster tales, although a rabbit or mouse is sometimes used instead. Since I raised guinea pigs as a girl and now have a daughter who raises and shows them through her 4H cavy group, I couldn’t resist making this personable (though perhaps not quite so cunning) little creature the hero.

In the Author’s Note for Love and Roast Chicken, Knutson writes that, in the two years that she and her husband lived in Peru, she “learned many stories, including trickster tales that reminded (her) of the ones (she) knew from Africa.”

Then she writes:

A trickster tale tells about a small animal (or a person) who uses brains instead of force to compete against bigger, fiercer characters. In the Andes, the trickster is often a little gray fox, but one story has a guinea pig hero. I have heard and read this tale many times in Spanish—in a lovely, old Bolivian book; from a Peruvian guide in a mountain town; in a Bolivian children’s magazine; and from our friend, Edwin Sulca, a Peruvian weaver. It was never told the same way twice! In this book, I have combined and rearranged my favorite versions.

To reiterate: Hickox switched the “hero” in her stories from a rabbit or a mouse to a guinea pig because she “couldn’t resist making this personable…little creature the hero.” And Knutson switched the “hero” in her story from a “little gray fox” to a guinea pig, and “combined and rearranged (her) favorite versions” of the stories she heard and read.

Here, as in many “trickster stories for children” written and published by cultural outsiders, the authors removed the stories from their cultural contexts and reinterpreted, trimmed and customized particular cultural concepts to fit their needs and those of their perceived child audiences.

But tricksters are not one-size-fits-all, not even within specific cultures. Some tricksters vary within cultures, depending on what a particular Indigenous storyteller is teaching. Some tricksters often use bad behavior to hint at good behavior. Some tricksters succeed and some fail. Some tricksters don’t try to overcome anything; they’re just deceptive characters.

Tricksters are not necessarily heroes. Some tricksters are downright dangerous and the lesson is to keep away from dangerous characters.

Some tricksters grow and some shrink. Some tricksters appear in human or animal form and some tricksters change forms. Some tricksters are half-human and half-spirit. Some tricksters can maintain more than one gender or switch genders.

A lot of what may currently be called “trickster” tales are actually Indigenous cautionary tales that have been passed down through the generations. Just about every culture has its own “bogeyman” or “cucuy” story to keep kids from misbehaving or wandering off. Children from within the cultures who hear these stories from their elders know, without being specifically told, that something’s up. 

For the most part, guinea pigs are prey animals. Their natural instinct is to hide, and they can be very fast. But they are not tricksters.

For authors who are cultural outsiders to read or hear some versions of particular “trickster tales,” take them out of their cultural contexts, keep some parts and toss the others, rearrange the events and mix in a few italicized Spanish words or phrases (such as “bueno,” “mi amigo,” and “¡ay, caramba!”)—and then overlay the values of their own cultural outsider versions onto the specific culture from which the stories originated (e.g., “from the Andes Mountains”)—is the definition of cultural appropriation. 

Zorro and Quwi, for instance, begins: “In the mountains of Peru there was once a fox called Zorro…” Children who speak Spanish will know that “zorro” is not the fox’s name—it’s the Spanish word for “fox.” (So, to a Spanish speaker, it would read like, “there was once a fox called fox.”) And “Quwi” is the Quechua word for “guinea pig.” Similarly, Love and Roast Chicken begins, “One day in the high Andes Mountains, Cuy the Guinea Pig was climbing up and down the paths…” Again, “Cuy” is not the guinea pig’s name—it’s the Spanish word for “guinea pig.”

Both characters—“Zorro the Fox” and “Tío Antonio the Fox” resemble Coyote from the old “Coyote and Roadrunner” cartoons, and Cuy / Cuwi, of course, are stand-ins for “Roadrunner.” As well, astute older readers will discern elements of Cuwi’s / Cuy’s tricks in “Brer Rabbit,” “Henny Penny,” “Billy Goats Gruff,” and probably more European tales. 

Although the bright, stylized artwork, composition and book design in both titles are vibrant and gorgeous and totally child-friendly, both Zorro and Quwi: Tales of a Trickster Guinea Pig and Love and Roast Chicken: A Trickster Tale From the Andes Mountains embody all the elements of cultural appropriation. They’re not recommended.

—Beverly Slapin

(published 9/5/20)

Luis Paints the World

author: Terry Farish 

illustrator: Oliver Dominguez 

Carolrhoda Picture Books / Lerner Publishing, 2016 

grades 2-5 

Dominican American

In the 1960s, Chicanos comprised only about 5% of the US population, yet made up about 22% of the US casualties in Vietnam. So towards the end of the decade, the Chicano community in California began organizing against their young people being drafted into the US war against Vietnam, comparing it to the US war against Aztlán. “Too many Chicanos have died in foreign jungles,” activists said, “and too many have died in barrio streets. ¡Ya, basta!”

On August 29, 1970, some 25-30,000 mostly Chicano people marched through the heart of East Los Angeles. This enormous, community-based familia included elders and parents and babies, students and teachers and seasoned political activists, documented and undocumented workers from the factories and the fields, and veterans from World War II and Korea and Vietnam. They came together from barrios all over the country: from San Diego, from Chicago, from Denver, from San Antonio, from Seattle. From New York, a large contingent of Puertorriqueño members of the Young Lords Party joined them. Here, at the National Chicano Moratorium Against the War in Vietnam, organizers declared that, for Chicano youth, the front line in the struggle for justice and human rights was not in Vietnam, but rather, in the barrios of the United States.

Soon after the march was over, thousands of demonstrators entered Laguna Park to hear the speeches and entertainment—and squads of LA county sheriffs, backed up by busloads of city police, attacked, wading into the crowd with tear gas rifles and batons. Most of the people tried to run for safety. There was none. Some fought back. By the end of the day, the cops had injured and arrested many, and killed three Chicanos, including the well-known and -respected journalist Rubén Salazar. For many reasons, the Chicano Moratorium was a day to remember and a day that the Chicano people hold in their hearts. It was a new day that was instrumental, a few years later, in ending the draft and the US war against Vietnam.

The great Chicano Moratorium is the context in which a colleague and I read Terry Farish’s picture book, Luis Paints the World. Here, young Luis, who is Dominican American and lives on the East Coast, can’t understand why his older brother, Nico, has decided to join the army and is about to be deployed. Nico’s answer is simply—and incomprehensibly for young readers and everyone else as well—that he will be “[s]eeing the world. Just like the army promised.” This is all that’s said about Nico’s military service. We don’t know where he’s going, we don’t know why, and we don’t know if or when he’ll be back. Just that he’s wearing camo (referenced in the art, but not the story) and he’s being sent “far away” “to see the world”—a phrase that Farish inserts into the story nine times. Luis, who doesn’t want Nico to leave, tries to convince him that “the world” is right here, by painting “the world” as a mural on an alleyway wall. But Nico leaves, and, as Luis awaits his return, neighbors join in to paint their world. Although Mami hints that, “some people don’t come back,” Nico does, and the reunification—as is the mural—is complete.

The murals in Dominguez’s brightly colored artwork—in what appears to be rendered in pastels—are chalky and less detailed than the people, who are more sharply outlined. This is a close-knit, economically marginalized Dominican neighborhood, with plenty of concrete on which to paint. I especially like the double-page spread that shows adults and children working together to create a beautiful and lively depiction of their world.

But. By creating a sanitized, feel-good picture book about a young Dominican American man who joins the Army to “see the world”—by focusing solely on peace and art and a thing called “multiculturalism”—Farish ignores the harsh realities of the lives of poor and disenfranchised people and the political and economic issues of why Latinos and other peoples of color disproportionately enlist in the US military. By doing so, and by ignoring the historical, political and cultural significance of the Chicano Moratorium and its aftermath, she is lying to innocent little kids about armed combat, about who goes and who gets to stay home, about US imperialism and world hegemony, and about peace, justice, community, struggle, and protest.

Luis Paints the World is not recommended. Older readers who are looking for the important historical context omitted here should read Benjamin Alire Sáenz’s outstanding YA novel, Sammy and Juliana in Hollywood (Cinco Puntos Press, 2004).

—Beverly Slapin

(published 6/2/16)

Mil gracias a mi colega, Ricardo Ramirez.

Children of Guatemala // The Children of the Sierra Madre // Children of Yucatán // The Grandchildren of the Incas

author: Jules Hermes

photographer: Jules Hermes

Carolrhoda Picture Books / Lerner Publishing, 1997

grades 2-4 

Maya

Children of Guatemala is an interestingly uneven book. It is not blatantly patronizing or ignorant; the author is really working at being an observer, even though he constantly shows his frame of reference—downtown Minneapolis. For example, he says that “[t]he market offers a break from everyday work and gives friends a chance to catch up on the latest news.” Jules! No, wait! The market is the goal! The object of the week's labors! The place to sell what you produce, to trade for essentials, to buy what you need to feed your family! Then, it is a place to hear the news, to catch up on important events, and, always, a place to socialize. It's not the mall!

On the other hand, Hermes is not afraid to discuss political situations, from the horrible 1990 massacre by the government in Santiago Atitlán, to the 80,000 Maya who have been brutally murdered by their own government since 1978, the longest “civil war” ever. He also talks about the lack of government support for public education and shows teachers and students picketing for quality education.

Hermes ought to have mentioned Rigoberta Menchú, the Mayan hero who won the Nobel Peace Prize for her unflagging quest to educate the world about Guatemala’s genocide against its indigenous peoples. That would be the logical extension for study from this beautifully photographed book. Marginally recommended.

author: Frank Staub

photographer: Frank Staub

Carolrhoda Picture Books / Lerner Publishing, 1996

grades 3-5

Tarahumara

In Children of the Sierra Madre, Staub highlights the U.S. influence on Latin America, using as an example the Tarahumara who live in the Sierra Madre region of Mexico near Chihuahua. He describes a strong class system in this region, ruled by the “white” Mexicans with the “Mestizos” doing all the work, even though many of his photos show “white” Mexicans and Mestizos doing just about same thing. I don't know, as a Chicana, I think we’re all pretty much a mixture of whoever landed on our shores or stormed up our creeks.

Staub obscures the issues of the theft of Tarahumara land and impoverishment of the people by presenting fact as opinion: “[M]any Tarahumara want to live apart from Mexicans, whom they think of as intruders in their land.” He describes the Tarahumara, rather than as the freedom fighters they have always been, regarded by most Mexicans with awe because of their steadfast opposition to colonialism, as merely “wanting to stick to the old ways.”

Staub’s discussion of Tarahumara religion is useful as a model of why one ought not to interpret a culture one doesn’t understand. He says, “Many Tarahumara have combined Catholicism with their traditional religious beliefs. They believe the Christian god is the same as their god, called Onoruame (Great Father) or Repa Beteame (He Who Lives Above).” Way wrong. Part of the Tarahumara’s self-imposed isolation is to worship the gods they choose. The Catholic Church reluctantly had to let the Mestizos as well as the Indigenous population maintain their own gods, as long as they took the form of the Catholic ones. For example, the Virgin of Guadalupe, with her dark skin and close ties with the people, is not the Virgin Mary; she is the people’s representation of Tonatzín, the goddess of home and hearth, and is only one of the aspects of Cuatlique, the Mother of the Gods. The church let that one slip by because forcing Guadalupe out would have caused mass revolt; it was easier to “say” she was the Virgin Mary. Every church in Mexico has at least one statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe, usually where Jesus should be; in small churches there often is no statue of Jesus at all. This book is terrible. Not recommended.

 

author: Frank Staub

photographer: Frank Staub

Carolrhoda Picture Books / Lerner Publishing, 1996

grades 3-5 

Maya

Children of Yucatán is a travel guide rather than a children’s book, highlighting the exotic in dress, food, marketplaces, and of course, “ruins.” To the Maya, these “ruins” are temples, holy places that, despite the best efforts of the conquistadores and the Catholic Church, have endured.

Deeply embedded throughout the text is an attitude of paternalistic superiority and colonialist arrogance. Here is but one example out of many insulting passages:

One reason the people of Yucatán treat their ancestors with such respect is that they have provided their grandchildren with an important source of income. People come from all over the world to see the wonderful stone structures the ancient Maya left behind. And when visitors come, they spend money on food, hotels, and souvenirs.

This is one of the worst racist, elitist, patronizing, and paternalistic attitudes toward another culture I have seen in my 48 years of teaching. Not recommended.

author: Matti A. Pitkanen

photographer: Matti A. Pitkanen

Carolrhoda Picture Books / Lerner Publishing, 1991

grades 2-4 

Inca (Quechua, Aymara)

The photographs in The Grandchildren of the Incas are stunning; they are of people being themselves, looking into the camera more with pride than with fear. They are a gritty look at how the Quechua and Aymara have been able to survive Spanish conquest. Many continue traditional ways, living in the mountains, herding sheep, llamas and alpacas, and of course, farming the rugged slopes of the Andes Mountains.

The text is, for the most part, clear and accurate, especially about farming and herding. I found it curious, though, that the author tells us that almost every man, woman, and child wears a hat, but doesn’t mention the extreme cold and the need to protect the head from hypothermia, even though everyone wears sandals. He also mentions people leaving their mountain villages to work as servants in the cities to “make more opportunity for” themselves, but does not say that they are trying to help their families survive.

What bothers me most is the glossing over of the Spanish conquest. When Pitkanen says that “[n]ow the treasures are gone and so are many of the Inca's buildings,” the brutal manner in which the Inca Empire was destroyed and the people forced into slavery, with the survivors thrust into abject poverty, comes off as trivial. To his credit, the author mentions that the Inca fought back and that, “[d]uring the last half of the 20th century, the Quechua have begun to work together to make some changes. They have regained some of the land that was taken from them, and they are starting to demand that the people in government pay attention to their needs.”

Overall, I would use the book, mainly for its realistic photos: an unromantic look at a people struggling for survival. But I would direct students to look up Tupac Amaru and read about indigenous resistance movements. They might learn a lot about what was done in the name of Christianity and the people who are still fighting for their lives. Marginally recommended.

—Judy Zalazar Drummond

(published 4/11/13)

These reviews, in a slightly different form, 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.

Day of the Dead

author: Linda Lowery

illustrator: Barbara Knutson

Carolrhoda Picture Books / Lerner Publishing, 2004

kindergarten-grade 3 

Mexican, Mexican American

Years ago, I was working in a second-grade classroom. A child’s mother had recently died; the child was traumatized, and the teacher felt helpless. It was late October, and someone had suggested that the teacher think about continuing with her plans to celebrate el Día de los Muertos with her class. With permission and help from the child’s father and other parents, the teacher and students created an amazing ofrenda. There were fresh and paper marigolds, photos of the children’s departed relatives with stories and drawings about their lives, and other things that were meaningful to them. The particular child who had lost his mother, of course, was grieving, but he knew that he was safe in the arms of the community and it was good.

El Día de los Muertos, whose Indigenous roots run deep as an autumnal celebration of the dying and rebirth of the seasons, is practiced in Mexico, Mexican communities in the US, and throughout Latin America. It’s a joyous three-day holiday in Mexico, a one-day holiday elsewhere, a celebration in memory and honor of the family’s and community’s beloved dead. Altars are set up in homes, and graves are cleaned up and decorated with items the departed liked—such as tequila, bread, oranges, flowers, jewelry, and the like—to show them that they are remembered and loved. There’s lots of food—including tamales de mole and sweets such as candied pumpkin, pan de muerto and sugar skulls—for the occasion, and the skeletons, who feel welcomed by the offerings, return to their homes and families for awhile to visit and play with the living.

And play they do. All over the community, the colorfully costumed skeletons shoot off firecrackers, parade, make music, dance, ride bicycles or walk on stilts, and most importantly, hand out skull- and coffin-shaped candies to the children.

Lowery’s little book, part of CarolRhoda’s “On My Own Holidays” series, majorly gets it wrong on the first few pages. Here’s the text, which I had to read several times to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me:

The flowers and leaves and corn of summer are all gone. They have died and gone back to the earth. All over North America, people are celebrating…. They are celebrating death! Does that sound strange to you? It is not strange to the Mexican people, the Cajun people, and others who celebrate death.

Does it need to be said that honoring a community’s beloved dead is not the same as celebrating death? Further, the use of the exclamation point sensationalizes the celebration, and the prompt to young readers that it might be “strange” marginalizes the people, placing both people and culture outside of “us.” And finally, what effect will this have on Mexican-American children, unfortunate enough to be reading this in class?

Knutson’s watercolor artwork is bright, cheerful, and engaging; it depicts real Mexican and Mexican-American people, real foods and real cultural items, and gives a good sense of what this holiday is all about. I especially like the illustration of a family sitting around their altar. On the ofrenda are pictures of relatives who have passed, framed with papeles picados and marigolds, and there are candles and fruits. Mama is giving her daughter a sugar skull, while grandma is telling stories. Other illustrations depict families cooking together, toy skeletons, and my other favorite—children tossing coins and candy into a coffin, in which is a smiling teen dressed and made up as a dead person.

Aside from the first few pages, the rest of the text is actually pretty good. So here’s my recommendation: Teachers who are any way creative would do well to cover up the text on pages 5 and 6, paste in new text that honors the people and the celebration, and use this book along with George Ancona’s brilliant photo essay, Pablo Remembers: The Fiesta of the Day of the Dead.

But as it stands, I cannot recommend Lowrey’s book alone.

—Beverly Slapin
(published 4/6/13)