Skippyjon Jones and the Failed Read-Aloud

I sat down in my read-aloud chair in front of my first graders, excited to read the “Skippyjon Jones” book given to me by a retired teacher who had volunteered at my school. It had come along with a beautiful floor puzzle picturing the series’ main character, which my students loved. Although I had worked as a bilingual teacher for several years, this year I was teaching in a non-bilingual school. I was excited to read a book that used Spanish terms, and hoped that my handful of Latina/o students would enjoy sharing their knowledge to help us decode them. 

  

But it quickly became apparent that neither I nor my Spanish-speaking students were going to connect to the kind of “Spanglish” used in the “Skippyjon Jones” books, principally because it wasn’t Spanglish at all. When I was in middle school, some of the kids in my class would make fun of Spanish and of our Spanish teacher by just adding “o” to the end of the words. They would say things like, “I-o don’t like-o this class-o,” and then high-five each other and say, “Nice Spanish, dude.” “Skippyjon Jones” operates on the same principle, creating gems like “ding-a-lito,” “stinkitos,” and “snifferito.” Skippyjon Jones is a cat who pretends to be a Chihuahua and talks in a fake Mexican accent (“they are reely, reely beeg, dude”) and calls himself “El Skippito Friskito,” which drives me crazy because there are no k’s in Spanish. If one of my students started talking that way, we would have conversations about stereotypes and offensive behavior. Yet somehow these are popular children’s books.

A few pages into the read-aloud, I realized I had made a big mistake. I tripped over the fake Spanish words and ridiculous names (Poquito Tito? What does that even mean?). In order to have read the book well, I would have had to adopt a fake Mexican accent and essentially mock the way that Mexican people speak, even clapping along to fake mariachi songs with lyrics like, “Diggeree diggeroo diggerito (clap-clap) / We learned something new from Skippito! (clap-clap) He scares them to death/ with his old pickle breath,/ and that’s how we get fossilitos! (clap-clap).” Note: This is also false history. This is not, in fact, how the dinosaurs became extinct.

Tongue-tied and embarrassed, I put the book down. Later, still ashamed that I had subjected my students to even ten minutes of that horrific read-aloud, I tossed both the book and the floor puzzle in the trash. Even a gorgeous floor puzzle and a free book were not worth subjecting my students to toxic racial and linguistic stereotypes.

—Grace Cornell Gonzales

(published 10/5/13)

Who Can Stay Here? Documentation and Citizenship in Children's Books

Nearly five years ago, the bilingual elementary school where I taught in East Oakland was subjected to an attempted US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) raid. Early in the school day, rumors among students and teachers began to fly—ICE agents had been seen parked several blocks away from the school. Everyone panicked, terrified that the agents would apprehend parents on their way to get their children at the end of the day. Office staff and parent volunteers called each family at home, instructing them to send only friends or relatives who had documents. The administration contacted the media. Soon, Mayor Ron Dellums and members of the Oakland police gathered outside to denounce ICE’s fear tactics. 

While politicians made statements outside, it was my job inside to calm down a class of first-graders who were all too aware of what an ICE raid meant. They knew their parents could be suddenly taken away or that they could be forced leave their homes and schools. As my students were playing outside during recess, a news helicopter began to circle above the playground. Many of my students came running back inside, panicked, in tears, shouting that la migra was coming in helicopters to get them. It was almost impossible to assuage that fear—to tell them that they were safe here and no one would take them away. Especially because I didn’t really know if that was true. 

The ICE agents never actually entered our school that day. Perhaps this was because intimidation had been their only goal, or perhaps the barrage of media attention had put them off. I later learned that several other schools in East Oakland and South Berkeley were subject to similar intimidation tactics that day—ICE agents parked nearby, watching and waiting for parents and students to leave the campus. At one East Oakland elementary school, ICE agents apprehended a woman in the school hallway before the start of classes; they led her away in front of her six-year-old daughter, other parents, and staff. 

Though such a dramatic brush with immigration enforcement didn’t reoccur during the two years that I worked at that school, each year parents asked many teachers, including me, to write letters on their behalf for immigration hearings. And each year I knew of at least one student whose mother or father had been deported. 

So when I set about compiling a list of children’s picture books that dealt with immigration issues, the memories of that attempted ICE raid and the deportation hearings were fresh in my mind. I found books that dealt with intergenerational ties and gaps, peer pressure and friendship, and, of course, language barriers and language learning. 

What caught my attention was the one theme that was missing. Though many of these books dealt with border crossings, few addressed issues of documentation and unequal access to citizenship in any meaningful way. Indeed, most skirted around the topic, leaving unexplained holes in their narratives of immigration. Others explicitly sent the message that citizenship in this country is equally attainable by all—a fact that many of my students know to be false. 

Especially in this current political climate, children’s book publishers rarely address issues such as undocumented immigration, unequal access to citizenship, deportation, the separation of families, and economic and racial discrimination—which they may see as too controversial for the children’s book market. Yet when I think about my students’ fears on the day that ICE came near our school, I know that, daily, many of our children have to deal with these issues. Whether we want them to or not, these powerful experiences and fears make their way into children’s lives.

When we create immigration units or read picture books about immigration to our children, we have the luxury to avoid these issues. However, if we choose to do so, we risk marginalizing the students who don’t. Of course, we should never ask children to share personal information or disclose their immigration status, but we can safely discuss these topics through a literary lens. Indeed, if we want to help children better understand their world and realize that they are not alone in the problems they face, it is important to look at children’s books about immigration with a critical eye. Specifically, what kinds of messages about documentation and access to citizenship do these books impart to students?

With this issue in mind, I studied and identified three broad categories of books according to the extent to which they explore or obscure these themes. Here are a few examples that illustrate each category. I hope that this provides a framework for critical analysis of children’s literature about immigration and is helpful to teachers planning curriculum or adding to their classroom libraries. 




(1) Creating the Image that Citizenship Is Equally Available to All


The first category consists of books that ignore issues of undocumented migration or immigration and unequal access to citizenship, portraying a world in which US citizenship is equally (and often easily) available.

The most extreme example I encountered was Maggie Rugg Herold’s A Very Important Day (Morrow, 1995), in which families from the Philippines, Mexico, India, Russia, Greece, Vietnam, the Dominican Republic, China, Egypt, Ghana, Scotland, and El Salvador joyously celebrate as they make the trip downtown to the courthouse to receive their papers and to be granted citizenship. They happily swear loyalty to the United States of America and recite the Pledge of Allegiance, waving tiny American flags as they exit the courthouse.

A Very Important Day implies that each family has had an equal opportunity to apply for citizenship. They have all followed the same equitable legal process described in the epilogue. For a child unfamiliar with the economic, linguistic, and political issues that make US citizenship more attainable for some than for others, this book creates a false sense of security—Look, our system is working well! For students and/or parents who do not have documents, A Very Important Day raises many questions that remain unanswered—Why can’t we just go down to the courthouse, recite the Pledge of Allegiance, and become citizens if everyone else can? Unless a teacher is willing to engage with these issues and discuss with students the story’s underlying assumptions, this book could do more harm than good.

Eve Bunting’s How Many Days to America? A Thanksgiving Story (Clarion, 1988) portrays immigration and border crossings as difficult, but at the end the barriers suddenly disappear. This book tells the wrenching story of a family forced to leave an unnamed Latin American country, where they are fleeing from political oppression. They board a fishing boat to travel to the United States. Their journey is arduous—the motor breaks, the soldiers in their country shoot at them from the shore, their food and water run out, people become ill, and thieves take what little they have left. When they finally arrive at the shore of the US, soldiers give them food and water but do not let them land. “They will not take us,” the father comments sadly, but he doesn’t say why.

Yet inexplicably, the next day, the boat lands at the US shore again. This time there are no soldiers, but instead a large crowd of people who welcome the family and usher them into a shed with tables covered with delicious food. They explain that it is “Thanksgiving” and tell the new arrivals about the significance of that day in the US. How Many Days ends with a description of how “[f]ather gave thanks that we were free, and safe—and here.” The little sister asks if they can stay. “Yes, small one,” the father replies. “We can stay.”

How Many Days sets up a false expectation: No matter the struggle that it takes to get to the US, once here, you are safe and you are allowed to stay. Yet this is clearly not the case for many migrants and immigrants who have no documents. Indeed, many children recognize that, despite their families’ arduous journeys to this country, they still face the dangers of deportation, exploitation, and discrimination. Just as Bunting stays silent on the reasons why the soldiers initially refuse to allow the family to land, she all too swiftly conjures up a happy ending. Like A Very Important Day, How Many Days ignores the possibility that citizenship might not be easily attainable for all who set foot on US shores.


(2) Someone Else’s Problem

While the books in the first category ignore issues of documentation and equitable access to citizenship, those in the second category hint at these themes but fail to explore them. They imply that the dangers exist, yet avoid putting the main characters at any real risk. Their message is that, although deportation and the separation of families occur, they usually happen to someone else.

Amada Irma Pérez’ My Diary from Here to There / Mi diario de aquí hasta allá (Children’s Book Press / Lee & Low, 2002) is the fictional journal of a young girl who migrates to the US from Mexico. Her father is a US citizen, but the family must wait near the border while he secures their green cards. The young narrator expresses sadness at how she cannot see her father and fears that he will not be able to obtain green cards for the rest of the family. Yet they wait patiently, the green cards finally arrive, and the family is able to cross the border and be reunited. On the bus into the US, the police arrest a woman without papers. This incident is mentioned but not discussed, leaving children to question why only some migrants or immigrants have easy access to documents.

Juan Felipe Herrera’s Super Cilantro Girl / La superniña de cilantro (Children’s Book Press / Lee & Low, 2003) tells the story of Esmeralda, a child whose mother, despite the fact that she is a US citizen, is stopped at the US-Mexico border. Worried about her mother, Esmeralda dreams that she turns green like a bunch of cilantro, grows into a giant, and flies to the border to set her mother free. Here Herrera paints a vivid picture: “She gawks at the great gray walls of wire and steel between the United States and Mexico. She stares at the great gray building that keeps people in who want to move on.”

In her dream, Esmeralda rescues her mother. When the soldiers begin chasing her, she makes green vines and bushes of cilantro grow up and erase that border, declaring that the world should be sin fronteras—borderless. However, when Esmeralda wakes up, she discovers that she had been dreaming and that her mother is safely back home.

Super Cilantro Girl hints at the terror that children experience at the prospect of their families’ being split apart, but it does not put the characters in any real danger. Esmeralda’s mother is a citizen and, therefore, does not risk being separated from her family. In the foreword, Herrera expresses concern about families kept apart by borders and shares his wish that some superhero could abolish such borders and bring those families back together. However, making Esmeralda’s mother a citizen in no danger of actually being barred from returning home sends the message that family separation, deportation, and detention centers are all part of a dream from which you can wake up. These real dangers exist only in the lives of others.

(3) Tackling the Subject 

 The final category includes the handful of books I found that deal head-on with issues of documentation and unequal access to citizenship.

In Belle Yang’s Hannah Is My Name (Candlewick, 2004), a family immigrates to San Francisco from Taiwan. Though they apply for green cards, they wait more than a year for a response from the government. During this time, the young narrator’s parents must work illegally to make ends meet. When the boss of a clothing factory realizes that Hannah’s mother doesn’t have papers, he fires her; and Hannah’s father, who works in a hotel, is constantly on the watch for immigration agents. One of Hannah’s friends, a child from Hong Kong, is deported because her father has been discovered working at a Chinese restaurant before his family has received their green cards. And one day, while Hannah is visiting her father’s work, she and her father are forced to flee from an immigration raid. From then on, her father must work at night.

The story concludes happily—the family finally receives the green cards and is allowed to stay. In the process, however, the author exposes several key issues, including the seemingly arbitrary nature of the immigration process and the fact that many families must work illegally to survive while applying for documents.

Luis J. Rodríguez’ América Is Her Name and La llaman América (Curbstone, 1997, 1998) deal with many other harsh issues facing migrant and immigrant communities: neighborhood violence, unemployment, language barriers, and—perhaps most importantly—racism, an issue that is not directly addressed in any of the other stories. América Soliz’s mother is called a “wetback” when she goes to the market. In school, América’s ESL teacher, Ms. Gable, scornfully refers to her as an “illegal.” América’s confusion is heartbreaking: 

How can that be—how can anyone be illegal? She is Mixteco, an ancient tribe that was here before the Spanish, before the blue-eyed, even before this government that now calls her “illegal.” How can a girl called América not belong in America?

This is a powerful question to pose to students, one that could generate much discussion. Fortunately, América finds release from the pressures of her life through writing poetry; in this new passion, she discovers her voice and her place. América’s family and her teacher, who are initially skeptical, finally support her, telling her that she will be a real poet some day. “A real poet,” the book concludes: “That sounds good to the Mixteca girl, who some people say doesn’t belong here. A poet, América knows, belongs everywhere.”



(4) Encouraging Critical Thought

Although there are many children’s books that deal with the experiences of Asian immigrants and Latin American (specifically Mexican) migrants and immigrants, few tell the stories of immigrants from other places, such as Africa or the Middle East. I urge teachers to seek out books that represent these populations, especially books that tackle the difficult issues surrounding immigration status and citizenship. If we want migrant and immigrant students to know that they are not the only ones who face struggles in the US—that many share similar experiences because of the existence of larger systemic injustices—this is especially important.

Although I’ve reflected on these books because my class includes migrant and immigrant students—many of whose families do not have documents—I believe that it’s just as important for all teachers to look critically at books such as these. In all probability, children who do not confront these issues in their daily lives are the least likely to question the portrayals of immigration in the books they read.

Finally, I want to emphasize that none of these books—regardless of whether they confront or evade the topics of documentation and inequitable access to citizenship—stands alone. Before adding titles to the classroom library for independent reading, read these books aloud and discuss them as a group. Treat these sensitive issues with care, give them the attention they deserve, and deal with them in a safe environment. If we want to develop students who think critically about their own lives and about the world around them, we, as teachers, must involve ourselves in guiding children as they discover, explore, and analyze. Thinking critically about the books ourselves is the first step in facilitating thoughtful dialogue among our students.

—Grace Cornell Gonzales
(published 5/8/13)

Another version of this essay first appeared in Rethinking Schools (www.rethinkingschools.org). We thank Rethinking Schools for permission.

Rethinking El Cinco de Mayo

I recently came across a flier in an old backpack of my daughter’s: Wanted: Committee Chairs for this Spring’s Cinco de Mayo All School Celebration. It was replete with cultural props, including a sombrero, cactus tree, donkey, taco, maracas, and chili peppers. Seeing this again brought back the moment when, years earlier, my daughter had handed the flier to me: The local elementary school’s PTSA, in an attempt to provide a “multicultural experience” for students and families, was sponsoring a “Mexican-American” event. But, since there were no Chicana/o students, parents, or staff members in the school community (as far as I knew), it seemed that the PTSA was likely to get it wrong. I was concerned.

After making some inquiries, I was told the school wanted to celebrate El Cinco de Mayo because it was Mexico’s Independence Day. However, El Cinco de Mayo is actually Battle of Puebla Day, commemorating the defeat of Napoleon III in 1862. Mexico’s Independence Day is September 16. Concerned that the stereotypes associated with Chicana/os, such as fast-food items, piñatas, sombreros, and serapes would be central to the event, I wrote the school, asking if they might consider canceling the event. They didn’t, and I was correct.

Tale of Two "Dictators": Fidel Castro’s Cuba // Augusto Pinochet’s Chile

Both of these titles can serve as a caveat to librarians who are likely to purchase poorly-researched and poorly-written cookie-cutter books in order to serve the needs of homework-driven students.

All of the volumes in the Twenty-First Century’s “Dictatorships” series highlight “nondemocratic forms of government.”[1] In each volume, the bold, blocky design consists of jarring red, black and olive graphics that surround mainly black-and-white photos. On the cover of each is a color photo or artistic rendition of the individual “dictator”—except for Fidel Castro’s Cuba. Here, the cover represents Fidel[2] by an ominous black silhouette; the book is, indeed, the shadow of Fidel as seen from the myopic view of the world according to the Cuban exile community in Miami.[3]

Skippyjon Jones: Transforming a Racist Stereotype into an Industry

author: Judy Schachner

illustrator: Judy Schachner

publisher: Dutton Children’s Books, 2007

kindergarten-grade 3

Mexican American

When I was a child, Isaac Bashevis Singer was my favorite storyteller, and he remains so today. Born in Poland at the turn of the 20^th century, Singer always wrote and published in Yiddish—because he thought that when all the Jewish souls came back, they’d probably like something good to read—and later edited his stories into English versions.

Some of my favorite of his children’s stories took place in the fictional stetl he called “Chelm,” in which all of the Chelmites, but especially the elders, were fools. His use of Yiddish—which I understood pretty well because it was the language my maternal grandma, my aunts and my mother spoke when they didn’t want me or my younger sister to understand what they were saying—was rhythmic, with a cadence that was easy to replicate. “Chelm” was pronounced with the gutteral “ch” and, although I never identified with the ridiculous elders—Gronam Ox, Dopey Lekisch, Zeinvel Ninny, Treitel Fool, Sender Donkey, Schmendrick Numskull, and Feivel Thickwit—I enjoyed their foolish solutions to everyday problems. In one story I remember, Chelm had a shortage of milk, so the elders, after much pondering and discussion, decided to call “water,” “milk” and “milk,” “water,” thereby making sure there would always be enough “milk” for everyone.

Singer’s Chelm stories showed children how not to solve problems by demonstrating Chelmite problem solving. The primary audience for his children’s stories was Jewish children, and he never mocked immigrant Jewish cultures or the Yiddish language itself. There were no fake dialects and no invented words or phrases. And even when Singer’s stories had been translated into English, the “Yiddishisms” remained intact.

Because he wrote his stories in his primary language and situated them in his own culture—and because Isaac Bashevis Singer was a brilliant writer, I doubt that this kind of work could be replicated by a linguistic or cultural outsider.

So, what does all of this have to do with Judy Schachner’s Skippyjon Jones books for children? It’s all about land, language, culture and community.

Skippyjon Jones did not appear in a vacuum. His cultural roots stem from other well-known stereotypes of Mexican people, nourished by NAFTA and the immigrant-bashing and modern English-only movements.

In 1953, “Speedy Gonzalez” came along. Speedy was a cartoon mouse who had the ability to run really fast and had an exaggerated Mexican accent. He wore an oversized yellow sombrero, white shirt and pants, and a red bandana, and ran circles around his nemesis, Sylvester the Cat (“the greengo poosygato”), while shouting, “Arriba! Arriba! Andale! Andale! YEE-HAH!”

In 1967, the “Frito Bandito” appeared on the scene. This cartoon mascot for Fritos Corn Chips was dressed as a “Mexican bandit” and sang, to the tune of the traditional Mexican song, “Cielito Lindo”: ¡Ay, ay, ay, ay! Oh, I am dee Frito Bandito. I like Frito's Corn Chips, I love them, I do. I want Frito's corn chips. I'll take them from you.”

In 1997, the Taco Bell Chihuahua was born. He was a real Chihuahua who was sometimes costumed as a Mexican revolutionary, sometimes as a sombrero-wearing “bandito,” and sometimes as just a street-smart Chihuahua. The main catchphrase of the ads was “¡Yo quiero Taco Bell!”

Speedy Gonzalez, the Frito Bandito, and the Taco Bell Chihuahua are gone now, but their legacy lives on in Skippyjon Jones, a cat who transforms himself into a Chihuahua and throws around made-up Spanish words that are condescending and mocking to Mexican and Mexican American people and the Spanish language.

In addition to a plethora of Skippyjon Jones books, skippyjonjones.com offers digital prints, iPad applications, sticker stories, sing-along puzzles, stuffed toys, hand puppets, party packs, tote bags, t-shirts, pajamas, costumes, and more. Indeed, Skippyjon Jones has transformed himself into a lucrative industry.

So, let’s get to the books. As an example and because this stuff gives me the dry heaves, I’ll review just one: Skippyjon Jones and the Big Bones.

Skippyjon Jones (the Siamese cat) wants to be a paleontologist, so he digs up his neighbor’s dog’s bones, puts on his cape and mask, emerges as “El Skippito Friskito,” and begins to sing:

Oh, my name is Skippito Friskito (clap-clap) / And I hunt for the dinosaur-ito (clap-clap) / With gigantico ears / That’s been buried for years / Under layers of sediment-ito.” (clap-clap)

Deep within his closet, the alleged fun begins, as Skippito meets up with his old friends, “los Chimichangos stinkitos.” They are toasting “los marshmallocitos prehistóricos” that are hard as rocas because they are “fossilitos.”

“Fossilitos, schmossilitos,” declared Poquito Tito, the smallest of the small ones. “We want to see los dinosaurios with our own ojos,” he said, pointing to his eyes. 

“¿Por qué? asked Skippito.

“Because, Bobocito,” said Don Diego, the biggest of the small ones, “We hear they are reelly, reelly beeg, dude!”

Hearing the news, the Chihuahuas go “insane-o” and sing:

Ding-a-ling, ding-a-long, ding-a-lito (clap-clap) / You are such a silly Skippito. (clap-clap) / You know what dogs think: / If it’s good it must stink! / Plus it’s great for the old snifferito! (clap-clap)

Soon, there’s an “earthquake-ito” and the Chimichangos begin to rumba around a “T. Mexito.” Skippito warns them that they “will be crushed like crispitos beneath the dinos’ toes-titos!” So Skippitito lets out a big “Jurassic-o bark,” and the “T. Mexito” thinks the Chihuahua is a “Skipposaurusito,” and the dinosaurs go “extincto.”

I’ll stop the narrative here. Schachner’s expressive acrylic and pen-and-ink illustrations, on a palette of bright, bold colors, would be very appealing, were it not for these godawful stories themselves.

I’m not sure why the reviewers from the major review journals find these books funny, and apparently think that made-up Spanish words are “Spanglish.” FYI, for those who don’t already know: Spanish is a complex language, with the same parts of speech as English, and with similar grammatical rules. Spanglish is a flexible language that jumps the barrier, a blend of Spanish, English, and sometimes Caló, a Chicano-based street language. The gifted Chicano poet, José Antonio Burciaga, often constructed poems in Spanish, English, and Spanglish—and sometimes entirely in Caló.

The bottom line: Adding “ito” to an English word does not make it Spanish. Further, you don’t just make stuff up and call it “Spanglish.” Mocking someone’s language and culture in this way is not “silly,” it’s racist. The Skippyjon Jones books and materials are insulting to Spanish-speaking children who are learning English, English-speaking children who are learning Spanish, and their parents and communities.

But more important, they prepare young children to accept immigrant-bashing, stop-and-frisk searches, the forced breakup of Mexican families, the impoverishment of farmworkers, and the racist campaign against the Mexican American students in Arizona.

Indeed, the Skippyjon Jones “industry” is a model for how racist stereotypes are marketed to young children. If Judy Schachner is capable of any shame, now would be a good time to post a public apology, shut down her business and turn over all of her profits to the courageous young Mexican American students in Arizona who are fighting to liberate themselves from the racist “education” they are receiving at the hands of the Tucson Unified School District.

Estos “Skippyjon Jones” títulos son muy estúpidos y racistas and way not recommended.

—Beverly Slapin
(published 4/6/13)

Day's Work: The Exploitation of Mexican Day Laborers as a Cautionary Morality Tale

author: Eve Bunting

illustrator: Ronald Himler

publisher: Clarion, 1994

grades 1-3 

Mexican, Mexican American

One Saturday, a young Mexican-American boy takes his newly arrived grandfather to a day laborer pickup spot. Grandfather speaks no English, so the boy goes along to acclimate him to the intricacies of an English-only world. There’s a lot of competition for work, but the boy manages to arrive at a contractor’s truck before the other workers get there, and offers himself as a second laborer: “two for the price of one.” 

The boy does all the translating and bargaining, including the details of what the job involves. And he lies, telling the contractor that his grandfather is a gardener. After brief directions, grandfather and grandson are left to work alone. When the contractor returns, the two are shocked and ashamed to learn that they had pulled the ice plants and left the chickweed. When the grandfather catches the boy in his lie, he says: “We do not lie for work.” The grandfather promises to rectify the error for free, and the contractor implies that, because of his integrity, there will be more work for him.

Himler’s artwork is lovely. His soft, light-filled watercolors, using a muted palette of mostly autumnal colors, reminds me of Matisse’s Impressionistic use of light and space. The artist uses the wash to give the impression of being outdoors, of light shining off trees, specks of water on grass, shadows on clothing. The faces are not detailed; they’re felt rather than seen. Children will be drawn to his work, which I happen to like; but all this is apparently unimportant. The faceless workers are irrelevant to the story except for providing the setting of men standing around, waiting for work or when one of them tries to force his way into the contractor’s truck. While the lack of cultural markers marginalizes the workers and trivializes their desperation, impoverishment and hopelessness, the art both softens the difficulty of their lives and reinforces the concepts of ignorance and backwardness in ways that the words don’t. Both art and words come together to create a fake scenario to make Bunting’s point.

Reviews of A Day’s Work, for the most part, have been uncritically positive. According to Booklist, for instance, “The family drama captures the universal immigrant experience in which the child must help the adult interpret the new world, while the wise adult still has much to teach the child about enduring values.” And the book was named a 1994 Américas Commended Title from the Consortium of Latin American Studies Programs.

When I was in the third grade and studying California Indians, by some quirk of fate, when it came my turn to read aloud, it was a paragraph labeled “Digger Indians.” Next to the paragraph was a picture of a child, kneeling in the dirt with a stick in his hand. I learned that “digger” meant that they dug for worms and insects to eat, and, they were Cahuilla. My family is Cahuilla. I was never so humiliated in my life. I could barely speak and the teacher had to prompt me to “read louder.” I tried to pretend that I was not related to that child, but I knew that I was. I tell you this story because I know in my heart that this is what children whose fathers are day laborers, or Mexican laborers for that matter, will feel when they read this book.

The problems in A Day’s Work may not be as traumatic as seeing your family digging in the dirt for food, but for children whose families do manual labor or speak only Spanish—the humiliation is the same.

Bunting has made a career out of writing “multicultural” picture books that use poor and immigrant people as backdrops for cautionary morality tales. In Bunting’s picture books, there’s no insight as to why people leave their home countries, their linguistic and educational backgrounds, or their dreams and aspirations. There are no issues to deal with, other than the fact that the grandfather doesn’t speak English, because Bunting doesn’t see any. In her shallow worldview, the exploitation of day laborers, the backbreaking work for little money with no job security, the immigrant-bashing and English-only legislation, the laws being enacted against migrant and immigrant workers, the threat of la Migra at every turn, aren’t real to her because they don’t have to be. Bunting’s a one-trick pony. We get no sense of the people in her stories; they are there merely as a watercolor wash to her morality tale.

Positive reviews notwithstanding, here are some of the problems in A Day’s Work:

Unreal scenario. No Mexican mother in her right mind would thrust a young kid into the all-male world of day laborers, where their language would be improper for children to hear, and where strangers pulling up in cars and trucks all day would present a real danger for her child. It’s just not done. But since the protagonist of this story has to be a youngster to fit the picture-book template, and Bunting has crafted the theme to be about honesty and hard work rather than danger, she seems to have no problem with ignoring this reality.

Location, location, location. Since the story takes place in Los Angeles, Francisco would know that the ice plant is the plant of choice for open areas, and, unless he’s never been in a car or anywhere else, he would not mistake it for a weed. But again, because Bunting’s theme is solely about the value of honesty and hard work, she seems to have no problem inserting a stereotype about Mexicans who have no observable skills and can’t tell a plant from a weed. An aside: ice plant, while not native to Southern California (it was imported from Australia) is a succulent, thick-skinned and containing liquid, like many plants found throughout Mexico, and if it is taken for anything, it would be the cactus family.

Unreal reaction. In any event, a contractor who discovered that his over- and under-age workers have pulled out the desirable plants and left the weeds, would probably, at the very least, fire them on the spot—without pay. Since it’s the habit of many contractors to cruise pickup areas for this exploitable cheap labor, it would be highly unlikely, after such an error, for the grandfather to be rewarded for his  “honesty.” The contractor would certainly make him redo the work, for nothing, then never hire him again. Or, maybe there really are nice guys out there, and I’m way too cynical.

Lack of cultural markers. Here, there is nothing that would identify the culture, the place, the family, or the individual workers as Mexicans or anyone else. There is no humor, no closeness, no relationships, not even the casual banter between workers who know each other because they share a culture and language, and because they come together every day at this pickup spot. There are ten basic Spanish words, two of them about food: tortilla and chorizo. (And we don’t save up to buy chorizo; it’s very cheap, and my family usually eats it for breakfast, not for dinner.)

Inappropriate language structure. When Francisco talks with the contractor, he speaks perfect American English. Yet, in translating for his grandfather, Francisco speaks in a way that’s literal and stilted; this lack of contractions would normally indicate that a language is newly acquired. And when he speaks with the other workers, it’s even worse: “My abuelo, my grandfather, does not speak English yet.” Clunky translation aside, since the grandfather and the workers are all Mexican, why is it seen as necessary for a Mexican child to speak for his Mexican grandfather in English to people who speak Spanish? Is it too much to say it in proper Spanish, then translate it into proper English so the reader knows what he is saying and can give us a sense of people being able to speak their own languages? It seems that the author is confused about Spanish fluency or what it is to be bilingual—even though her story is all about language!

Unreal again! The contractor hires Spanish-speaking day laborers, yet he doesn’t speak or understand Spanish. In fact, Bunting presents fluency in Spanish as not only unimportant, but actually a hindrance. The contractor is furious because neither the grandfather nor the grandson can tell a weed from a desirable plant—not because the contractor could not communicate with the grandfather, but because the grandfather could not speak or understand English. Migrants from Mexico speak with each other in colloquial Spanish, and in communicating with contractors, most know at least enough English to be understood. And most contractors have at least a rudimentary working knowledge of Spanish, enough to tell the workers what the day’s work entails. Or they stick with English speakers. In A Day’s Work, except for two sentences, the workers don’t talk; they just hang out, “grumble,” and “shuffle around.” And they litter.

Children want to see their fathers as deserving of dignity and respect, and there’s nothing worse than to be ashamed of themselves and their parents. Mexican day laborers work very, very hard, struggling to feed their families here in el norte or in their home villages in el sur. Many day laborers are without documents that legally permit them to live here, and daily, risk having their families torn apart by raids and deportation orders. Bunting’s dysconscious refusal to acknowledge the economic desperation of these migrant workers is also a refusal to acknowledge the danger of being an “illegal” on this side of the border.

A few words about the cover, the first thing that children will see: An elderly man and a boy sit next to each other on the curb of a sidewalk. They do not interact. The man, whose gray hair is covered by a straw hat, wears pants that are frayed at the edges with huaraches on his feet. He sits with hands clasped around his knees, body turned inward. He faces forward, eyes half closed, staring into nothing. Behind him is an overflowing garbage can, and next to his feet lies a large piece of garbage. Several other pieces of garbage lie on the ground behind the two, but the larger pieces are closer to the man than to the boy. The boy, whose dark hair is covered by an LA Lakers cap, wears a denim jacket, denim jeans, and tennis shoes. He faces away from the elderly man and away from the garbage can. His arms are spread out behind him and his legs are spread in front. He looks off into the distance, his eyes wide open. So here are old and young, tired and energetic, traditional and modern.

Some questions: Why are the man and boy surrounded by garbage? Why haven’t they picked it up? Why aren’t the man and boy interacting? Why is the boy looking off in the distance? Is he looking to the future, open to new experiences? Away from his family? Away from his community? Away from his language and culture? Away from the garbage? My only guess is that, embedded in the cover, together with the interior artwork and the text, is this subliminal message: Learn English or die, sucker! It creeps me out.

In the guise of a story about the “universal immigrant experience” whose primary focus is a moral lesson about honesty and the importance of the work ethic, what young children and their teachers will get from A Day’s Work is a romanticized, trivialized, disparaging, and distorted glimpse into the world of hard-working Mexican migrant day laborers. Not recommended.

—Judy Zalazar Drummond
(published 4/5/13)