Cinco de Mouse-O!

author: Judy Cox

illustrator: Jeffrey Ebbeler 

Holiday House, 2010 

kindergarten-grade 2 

Mexican

It’s the fifth of May, and an anthropomorphic mouse, immediately identified as Mexican because his bed is an “Auténtica Lotería” box and a Lotería card is pinned to the wall, is awakened by “spicy smells that tickle his nose—beany, cheesy, ricey smells.” And although rice, cheese and beans are everyday Mexican fare, Mouse guesses that there’s a party going on—a “Mexican fiesta. ¡Fantástico!”

Dressed in human clothes and following the aroma, Mouse determines that it’s not coming from inside and, unaware of “greedy Cat” (who is not dressed in human clothes) stalking him, Mouse runs through the streets to the city park, where there’s a busy street festival going on. He knows it’s a Cinco de Mayo fiesta because there are bright Mexican flags, papel picado, “sombreros, serapes, and bright paper flowers,” vaqueros on horses, mariachis, women dancing, children playing, and people eating—and a large banner that says ¡CINCO DE MAYO! (Apparently, Mouse can read.)

All of a sudden: 

His eyes grew round as he beheld a confetti-covered piñata, stuffed with candy and shaped like a burro, hanging in a tree above the plaza. “I must have that for my fiesta,” he said to himself. 

OK, let’s get relatively real here. Piñatas are not covered with “confetti”—they’re made with fringed and wrapped crepe paper. Even though Mouse is anthropomorphic, house mice are scavengers. They’re also prey animals, so they are very careful to avoid predators, such as cats (who, by the way, are not “greedy.” They kill to eat, and also for the fun of the hunt.) With all the food around a fiesta—“tacos, tamales, chorizos, and flan”—why would Mouse put himself in danger, trying to reach a piñata, “swaying high above the plaza”? And why is Mouse planning his own “fiesta”? None of this makes any biological or cultural sense—even for an anthropomorphic Mexican rodent.

The rest of the story is about Mouse, trying to reach the piñata while avoiding Cat. Someone steps on Cat’s tail, Cat runs away, Mouse sadly looks around and—finds an overlooked lemon drop, which he picks up and takes back to his “hidey-hole.” Here, Mouse, wearing a sombrero and dancing with the lemon drop—amidst papel picado, dried chile peppers, paper flowers, and a Mexican wood carving of what appears to be a cat—and sings out: “¡Cinco de Mouse-O! ¡Qué felicidad! The End.

Ebbeler’s heavily saturated, full-bleed, mostly double-spread illustrations—created with acrylic paint, pastels, and colored pencil on paper—portray scenes of the festivities from a variety of perspectives, including one spread in which Mouse is eyeing the piñata. Since mice have non-stereoscopic vision, the piñata appropriately appears twice, on both sides of Mouse’s head. He’s seen in other spreads as well, eyeing the festivities almost in proportion to the humans, such as running over a dancer’s foot, hiding in a mariachi’s sombrero, and riding the piñata like a vaquero. As well, the people—dancers, musicians and vaqueros in “fiesta” outfits, while everyone else wears street clothes—are done well, and Ebbeler portrays the Mexican community as ethnically diverse. 

In one scene, though, an elderly woman is cooking and a younger woman is serving. The older woman is holding a pair of tongs. Apparently bemused, both women are looking directly at Mouse, who is happily carrying away a tamal, a taco, an entire flan on a plate, and some beans that the server has dropped. He is stealing their food and probably making a mess as well. One of the women would have immediately chased him off, but doesn’t. This is insulting to Mexican people, and particularly to Mexican women.

And that Mexican cultural artifacts, such as the piñata, papel picado, and Oaxacan folk art carvings, foreground the actual fiesta, and that Mouse’s wearing regalia and celebrating something that’s referred to only in a brief introductory note on the CIP page, is offensive as well.

Cinco de Mayo has historical significance. By ignoring the history—and using a Mexican celebration as the backdrop for a story in which a mouse is the central (actually, only) character—diminishes the festival and diminishes the Mexican culture itself. Further, transmogrifying Cinco de Mayo into “Cinco de Mouse-O” implies that adding an “o” to the end of a word makes it Spanish. To do so mocks the language. 

Despite the publisher’s thanking “Lena Burgos-Lafuente of New York University’s Department of Spanish and Portuguese for reviewing the Spanish in this book for accuracy,” the idea that Cinco de Mayo is a mouse’s personal fiesta, which he misnames—is racist. Cinco De Mouse-O! is not recommended.

—Beverly Slapin

(published 4/28/18)

Fiesta Fiasco // Count on Culebra // Tortuga in Trouble // Mañana, Iguana

In each of these formulaic picture books, the characters are all Mexican animals whose names are the same as their species—Iguana (iguana), Conejo (rabbit), Culebra (snake), and Tortuga (tortoise)—and who live together in the Mexican desert. Only the one female, Iguana, wears clothing (which happen to be dresses), and, interestingly, she’s also the only one with eyelashes. The few words in Spanish are italicized and almost immediately followed by their translations.

Like this: “You don’t fool me, amigos,” said Tortuga. “You may be my friends…”

Two of the stories are derivative fairy tales, one is a count-to-ten story, and the fourth is about a birthday party that goes awry. Each of the stories ends with practically the same line: “And they did” or “And they all did.”

Long’s artwork, created with watercolors and gouache on watercolor paper, incorporates geometric designs mimicking those of Mexico and eye popping colors—mostly fiery reds, oranges, yellows, and bright greens—set against white backgrounds. And the eyes of all of the cartoon-like characters actually pop out of their heads. Each book contains a glossary in which many of the words are pronounced faultily or the grammar or translation is wrong and—while Conejo’s, Culebra’s and Tortuga’s names appear in each glossary—Iguana’s is absent.

author: Ann Whitford Paul 

illustrator: Ethan Long 

Holiday House, 2007 

preschool-grade 3 

Mexican

In this “creatively executed original trickster tale,” as a reviewer inaptly dubbed it, Conejo convinces Iguana and Tortuga to select the worst gifts possible for Culebra’s cumpleaños—a sombrero (because snakes don’t need shade from the sun), and a camisa and pantalones, which Conejo tells them will become useful as soon as Culebra grows arms and legs. After discovering that this was all a ruse, the friends disinvite Conejo from the party. Shamefacedly, Conejo slinks off and, while the other friends play “Pin the Tail on the Coyote,” “Cactus Statue,” and “Musical Rocks,” Conejo exchanges the gifts for other things: a balloon, a bowl and a book. How is that better for Culebra, who still doesn’t have arms? And, as Conejo looks forward to celebrating his own cumpleaños, Iguana, Culebra and Tortuga already know what his gifts will be. How many synonyms can we find for “contrived”?

author: Ann Whitford Paul 

illustrator: Ethan Long 

Holiday House, 2008 

preschool-grade 3 

Mexican

Just as she’s about to make a batch of cactus butter dulces, Iguana stumbles on a stone and stubs her toe. In an effort to alleviate Iguana’s pain so that she can show her friends how to make the delicious dulces, but more importantly, teach English-speaking kids to count to ten in Spanish, “doctor” Culebra orders everyone to tie all the kitchen utensils (e.g., “ocho knives, nueve forks, diez spoons”) onto Iguana’s tail. When Iguana walks, the racket caused by all the kitchen equipment banging together causes her to forget her pain. This making one pain to get rid of another is all reminiscent of the old Warner Bros. cartoons, which weren’t funny either. So everyone makes dulces, and a lesson in counting in Spanish has allegedly been accomplished.

Count on Culebra contains 15 Spanish words: the written numbers for 1-10, the four characters (“Conejo,” “Culebra,” “Iguana,” and “Tortuga”) and the word, “dulces.”

In the book’s glossary, the author demonstrates her lack of basic knowledge of Spanish. Here, she explains: “When the number one is used as an adjective (such as ‘one rolling pin’), it is always un. When counting, the correct word is uno.” 

¡Ay, que no!

In Spanish, “one rolling pin” is “un rodillo,” which also means “a rolling pin.” That’s because “un” means both “one” and “a.” And “unos” is an adjective that means “some,” so “unos rodillos” means “some rolling pins.” And. Since Spanish is a gendered language, depending on the gender of the modified nouns, adjectives are either “masculine” (usually ending in “o”) or “feminine” (usually ending in “a”). One can count, for instance, “un libro” or “unos libros,” “un conejo” or “unos conejos,” and also “una culebra” or “unas culebras,” “una iguana” or “unas iguanas,” and “una tortuga” or “unas tortugas.” (Then there’s “un día” and “unos días.”)

At the same time, plural “masculine” and “feminine” adjectives are not always consistent with what may be the actual gender of the specific noun. (So the term, “unos perritos,” for example, may describe a litter of male and female puppies, including those who have been spayed and neutered, which is always a good idea).

Using a Spanish modifier for an English word can be nothing but ungrammatical. And for Spanish speakers, as well as for English speakers who want to learn Spanish, it’s ridiculous and confusing. Count on Culebra was majorly not a good idea.

author: Ann Whitford Paul 

illustrator: Ethan Long 

Holiday House, 2009 

preschool-grade 3 

Mexican

In this remix of Little Red Riding Hood, Tortuga gets the role of Little Red, an elderly Tortuga plays Tortuga’s abuela, Coyote plays Big Bad  Wolf, and Iguana, Conejo and Culebra follow behind Tortuga, hoping to get a taste of his canasta-filled supper of ensalada, tamales and flan. When Tortuga inexplicably stops to talk with the super-nasty-looking Coyote, the three amigos hide behind a cactus; and, as Tortuga reaches Coyote-as-Abuela—and notices what big orejas, ojos, and dientes he has—the three amigos make a racket that frightens Coyote and causes him to flee; thereby saving Tortuga from becoming soup. They free Abuela and share the supper that Tortuga had brought for her. 

A quick note about the illustrations here: While Tortuga has no hair on his head (of course), his elderly abuela sports a full head of hair, tied in a stereotypically old-lady bun. And, since she’s the only other female in this series, she wears a blanket over her shell to represent clothing. And Coyote is the only animal in this series who is painted purple, which is neither here nor there.

author: Ann Whitford Paul 

illustrator: Ethan Long 

Holiday House, 2004, 2014 

preschool-grade 3 

Mexican

Mañana, Iguana reminds me of Peggy Lee’s popular hit song in the late 1940s and early ‘50s, which she sang with a stereotypic Mexican accent. Here’s one verse; readers who have the stomach for it can listen to the whole thing on YouTube. 

The faucet she is dripping and the fence she’s fallin’ down

My pocket needs some money, so I can’t go into town

My brother isn’t working and my sister doesn’t care

The car she needs a motor so I can’t go anywhere!

(chorus: Mañana, mañana, mañana is soon enough for me.)

But I digress. This picture book is a reimagined Little Red Hen, in which Iguana plans a fiesta to celebrate spring. Although her friends are excited about the party, they all have an excuse for not helping her. Each time she asks, her lazy Mexican friends each responds with “Yo no,” and gives her a species-specific reason: Conejo is too fast, Tortuga is too slow, and Culebra promises to help her mañana, when he grows a pair of arms. So, of course, Iguana (the only female in this series) does everything herself, throws a successful fiesta without her lazy Mexican friends who watch from the sidelines, and she goes to sleep. Feeling guilty, Iguana’s lazy Mexican friends clean up and, in the morning, a pleased Iguana says both “!Gracias!” and “Thank you!” and asks who will help her eat the leftovers. Conejo, Tortuga and even Culebra eagerly cry, “¡Yo sí! The End.

Of the four picture books, Mañana, Iguana may be the worst. 

While these picture books have all received raves from the major review journals, they are poorly conceived and abysmally written and illustrated. They’re not bilingual, they’re not examples of code switching, they’re predictably grammatically faulty, they don’t take into account young Spanish-speaking readers or listeners, and they’re not even useful for providing a fun context for teaching Spanish words to young English speakers. None of them is recommended. Punto final. 

—Beverly Slapin

(published 4/27/18)

Míl gracias a mi amiga y colega, María Cárdenas. Y además a Juan Camilo Prado.

Picture Book of César Chávez

authors: David A. Adler and Michael S. Adler

illustrator: Marie Olofsdotter

Holiday House, 2011

grades 2-up

Mexican American

 A Picture Book of Cesar Chavez is a cookie-cutter picture biography, a linear approach to Chávez’s life, from birth to death. It’s a simplistic telling, full of inaccuracies, and devoid of feeling and anything else that might encourage young children to empathize with the struggles of agricultural workers in Chávez’s time and continuing today.

The narrative is flat and dry, telling young readers what to think. On the first page, for example, the Adlers describe young César’s life:

As a child, Cesar Chavez traveled with his family from one farm to the next to pick beans, broccoli, lettuce, and other crops. After a day in the fields, his back often ached. His hands were sore. Yet Chavez and others who helped put food on Americans’ tables often had no tables of their own, no real homes.

The assumptions here are that César Chávez was born poor, that he had no real home, and that he was not “American.”

But the Chávez family was not always poor—in fact, for the first ten years of his life, young César’s large extended family owned an 80-acre ranch, a grocery store and a gas station—and produced enough to feed themselves, stock the grocery store, and feed any homeless people who happened by. Yet, what’s written about and shown here is a dry, barren environment: three shacks with burlap taking the place of doors, six dead trees in the background, and an oil can to sit on. Chávez has been quoted as saying, “I had more happy moments as a child than unhappy moments,” yet young readers here see no happy moments, only textual and visual descriptions of extreme poverty.

On the next page, the authors write that “César’s father was often too busy to spend time with his family,” and an accompanying illustration depicts the Chávez children only with their mother. In truth, César’s father worked very hard and was actively involved in his children’s lives. While their mother taught them dichos to live by and the importance of kindness to those less fortunate than themselves, their father taught them about the values of honest work and standing up to discrimination.

Rather than deconstruct the entire book, I’ll mention just two other excerpts. In describing migrant agricultural labor, the Adlers write:

Cesar’s father soon found work for the family picking peas. They walked, bent over, between the rows of plants. For a full hamper—twenty-five pounds of peas—they earned twenty cents. When the work on that farm was done, the family moved on…. When the farm boss was especially unfair or when work conditions were especially bad, Cesar’s father said, “Okay, let’s go,” and they quit.

The assumption here is that, although agricultural workers’ jobs could be difficult, they were free to leave and could easily find other work. But, besides the difficulty and danger of the work itself, migrant agricultural workers had to deal with all kinds of abuse. While the Adlers’ use of terms such as “especially unfair” and “especially bad” minimize the situation for farm workers, Kathleen Krull, in Harvesting Hope, shows young readers how conditions really were:

As he worked, it disturbed him that landowners treated their workers more like farm tools than human beings. They provided no clean drinking water, rest periods, or access to bathrooms. Anyone who complained was fired, beaten up, or sometimes even murdered.[1]

And, in César: ¡Sí, Se puede! Yes, We Can!, Carmen Bernier-Grand paints a striking portrait of migrant agricultural work:

Lechuguero,

a lettuce thinner,

a man, a woman, or a child

who pulls off smaller plants

to make room for bigger plants—

the patron’s green gold.

Row after row,

César walked.

Stooped over, twisted,

clawing at the chuga

with el cortito,

a short-handled hoe.

No boots, just shoes

sinking in mud,

clay clinging to the soles.

Every day swathed in scarves

covering his nose and mouth.

Trying not to breathe,

trying not to swallow

the smelly spray blowing on him.

Armpits sweating,

back aching…aching…aching.

Too tired to feel the hunger.[2]

In discussing Chávez’s organizing work, the Adlers write:

In 1958, (Chávez) went to Oxnard and asked the farmworkers there to register and vote. They asked him, “Why is it we can’t get any jobs?” The jobs were going to workers from Mexico, who accepted lower pay.

What young readers will assume here is that Mexican workers came to steal jobs from the Mexican American farm workers. What really happened was this: From 1942 through 1964, the US brought in millions of manual laborers from Mexico to work the fields. These workers, known as “braceros,” were impoverished and exploitable, and the growers used them to depress labor wages. In Oxnard, young Chávez led a protracted faceoff with the fruit growers, who eventually caved and hired local workers. The Adlers’s simplistic description of the Oxnard struggle, by omitting this important information, blames the braceros for their own exploitation.

Olofsdotter’s illustrations, in ink and colored pencil on a subdued pallet, depict everyone as expressionless; they look frontward or sideward, never at each other. Even in the picture of César and Helen courting, they’re looking past each other, at a 45-degree angle! In one illustration, César, on a hunger strike, is sitting in an easy chair with a blanket over his knees. Helen is standing behind him, her hand on his shoulder. In front of them is a coffee table holding a pitcher of water. They appear to be inside. People are standing around, zombie-like. They appear to be outside. Yet, there are neither walls nor windows that would delineate inside from outside.

In a particularly egregious illustration, expressionless people look on as Chávez, weakened at the end of a long fast and supported by two farm workers, walks toward Robert Kennedy, who holds out a small loaf of bread. There are well-known photos of Chávez’s taking his first solid food after a 23-day fast in support of the farm worker strike against the Delano grape growers.[3] The photos depict both Chávez and Kennedy sitting in chairs next to each other. Their hands are touching as Kennedy offers Chávez a small piece of bread. The emotion is palpable. The effect of Olofsdotter’s version, however, is to distance young readers from, rather than bring them closer to, the people. I’d like to ask her why she did this.

While tiny figures of anonymous agricultural workers toil in the background, the cover shows César Chávez, wearing a tiny UFW button on a clean plaid shirt. His hands and face are clean; he is holding a large, clean basket filled with melons, lettuce, cauliflower, and bunches of grapes. Since agricultural workers harvest one crop at a time, this illustration may be symbolic of farm worker pride. But young children will not see—and teachers may very well overlook—the backbreaking labor and the struggle for human rights that continue today. A Picture Book of Cesar Chavez is not recommended.

—Beverly Slapin
(published 12/6/13)

---

[1] Kathleen Krull, Harvesting Hope: The Story of Cesar Chavez, illustrated by Yuyi Morales. Harcourt, 2003.

[2] Carmen T. Bernier-Grand, César: ¡Sí, Se puede! Yes, We Can!, illustrated by David Diaz. Marshall Cavendish, 2004.

[3] A copy of this photo can be found at art.com: http://www.art.com/products/p16719427819