My Tata's Guitar / La guitarra de mi tata

author: Ethriam Cash Brammer

illustrator: Daniel Lechón

Piñata Books / Arte Público Press, 2003

kindergarten-grade 2

Chicano, Mexican

On the cover, musical notes fill the air as an elderly mustached grandfather, wearing a woven straw sombrero and a green shirt, shows his young grandson, who wears a white shirt, how his fingers glide along the frets of his guitar. This cover image is repeated later in the story, as young readers ascertain that the youngster on the cover is the narrator’s grandfather (his tata) in the story, and the grandfather on the cover is his great-grandfather (his tata’s tata).

Narrated by a child who finds an old guitar while exploring “the mazes of boxes and discarded furniture” in his tata’s dusty garage, this warm story of family and community takes young readers into the lives of a Chicano child and his Mexican tata—and how music and culture are passed from one generation to another.

Lechón’s attractive, full-page pen-and-ink and watercolor illustrations, mostly in primary colors—are as gentle as the story. Although each scene is framed, in most of them, the characters step out of the frame. Since this story spans several generations, the artist circumvents confusion by assigning specific colors to the clothing of each character. For instance, the child narrator wears a black shirt, his tata wears a white shirt (as does his tata as a child), and his tata’s tata wears a green shirt and sometimes a sombrero. 

The short, boxed English text on top and the Spanish below both read with a rhythm that youngsters enjoy. (Since this is a story about a Mexican American family, forefronting the Spanish text would have been a benefit.) 

Rather than an attempt at literal translation, for the most part the English and Spanish texts appear as similar versions of the story or scene. For instance, in showing Tata’s grandpa and others in the community playing in the posadas, the English text reads:

“My tata played in the posadas every Christmas. ‘In the name of Heaven, won’t you give us shelter? My dear beloved wife, tonight can go no further.’ ” And in the Spanish text is the traditional rhymed Mexican version:

—Mi tata tocaba en las posadas cada Navidad: “En nombre del cielo, pedimos posada, pues no puede andar mi esposa amada.” 

In both of the group scenes—the people gathered together to portray las posadas navideñas and children celebrating a friend’s birthday—the people are shown with varying skin tones and hair color and textures that reflect the Indigenous and colonial heritages of the Mexican and Mexican American people. 

And when the story focuses on the music that Tata’s tata plays, he’s shown as singing Mexican songs in Spanish that are compatible with well-known American songs. As a young man, he serenades the young woman who will soon become his wife. “Dulce amor de mi vida, despierta, si te encuentras dormida” (“Sweet love of my life / wake up if you find yourself asleep”) is well matched with the English: “I’m in the mood for love / simply because you’re near me.” 

There’s also the traditional (English) birthday song, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear ….” which, in Mexican Spanish, becomes: “Éstas son las mañanitas que cantaba el Rey David, hoy por ser tu cumpleaños, te las cantamos a tí.” (“These are the mañanitas that King David sang, because today is your birthday, we sing them to you.”)

And, while the child’s tata relates the story from his tata of when the family came to the United States from Mexico, there’s a beautiful scene of farmworkers, wearing woven straw sombreros, sitting around the campfire after a hard day of labor. They sing the traditional Mexican song, “Cielito Lindo” (“Ay, ay, ay, ay, canta y no llores…”).

As Tata gently and lovingly passes on the music of his culture, musical notes and moths flit out of the guitar and transform into butterflies and flowers and fill the background. In gifting his young nieto with the family’s guitar, Tata both passes on a family treasure and transmits the cultural history of the community.

As Tata gifts his nieto with this guitar—as his own tata did with him—it becomes more than “just” a gift from grandpa to grandson. Rather, his tata’s guitar is a gift from and for the generations. It’s the gift of love, the gift of language and song, the gift of historical and cultural continuity.

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

—Beverly Slapin

(published 11/23/20)

Note: On the CIP page, the publisher thanks Teresa Mlawer of Lectorum Publications “for her professional advice on this book.” I want to acknowledge Teresa, who left us in March of this year, for her great talent and gentleness and love of the culture. She helped shape many children’s stories and their translations, and her loss is deeply felt in the community.

Mis abuelos y yo / My Grandparents and I

author: Samuel Caraballo

illustrator: D. Nina Cruz

translator: Ethriam Cash Brammer

Piñata Books / Arte Público Press, 2004

preschool-grade 2 

Puerto Rican

The title page shows a small framed photo of a smiling young boy and his abuelos. Next to it sits a little frog in a tiny pool of water. He is el coqui, the national symbol of Puerto Rico. (Throughout the story, astute youngsters will catch sight of several more coquis.)

Together, Caraballo’s evocative, rhyming Spanish text and Cruz’s detailed, full-bleed ink-and-watercolor illustrations convey the warmth and joy of a young Puerto Rican child’s loving relationship with his abuelos.

The cover illustration depicts the youngster, playing with his abuelos, who appear on just about every spread. The three of them—with varying skin tones and hair color and textures—reflect the Puerto Rican people and their colonial and Indigenous heritages. 

Cruz’s soft portrayal of the child and his abuelos is warm and lovely. On just about every page, the elders are embracing or holding hands, smiling at each other and their nieto. Together, the three enjoy the simple things: cooking, playing in the garden, walking on the beach, watching the moon lighting up the horizon, strolling through the museums, taking photos of cruise liners (one of which is named “el coqui”). And the child’s abuelos enjoy watching their young nieto pretend to lead a chorus of birds in the park.

In Caraballo’s first verse (which comes around full circle to end the story) and Cruz’s first spread, the child sits cross-legged on his bed. His neat room is full of meaningful stuff, including a stereo, an enormous wooden box to store his toys, a pet goldfish, a large book entitled Puerto Rico, sports equipment, and a clock (whose face is the open mouth of a coqui!). 

The child embraces the framed photo duplicated from the title page. With a wide smile, he introduces his abuelos to his new friends, the young readers:

Mis abuelos son mi vida,

mi manojito de rosas,

mi música preferida,

mis prenditas más valiosas.

My grandparents are my life,

my little bundle of roses,

my favorite music,

my most valuable good-luck charms.

(reviewer’s translation)

Caraballo’s beautiful, poetic, rhyming Spanish will appeal to young Spanish-speakers as well as English-speakers who want to learn Spanish. Unfortunately, the English translations, while relying on the same imagery, seem awkward—sacrificing nuance for rhyme and failing to capture Caraballo’s lyrical feeling: 

My grandparents are my universe.

They are my rosy bouquet,

my favorite musical verse,

and my most prized treasure.

Here, in Spanish, the young child describes Navidad (Christmas) with his family: 

Las fiestas de Navidad

celebramos bien juntitos

cantando de felicidad,

abriendo los regalitos.

During Navidad fiestas

we all celebrate together

singing of joy,

opening the gifts.

(reviewer’s translation)

However, the published English translation maintains the rhyming cadence at the cost of meaning for child readers:

During Christmas gaity,

we sing together happily,

we celebrate our unity,

we open presents thankfully.

Caraballo is an outstanding poet who typically composes in Spanish, and then in English—so that each version reads smoothly and maintains its own integrity. Unfortunately, the translation here lacks this important connection to the author’s Spanish version. A warm story of a young child and his loving grandparents (in Spanish).  

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

—Beverly Slapin

(published 11/15/20)

Note: In working on the translations, I phoned some Spanish-speaking friends and colleagues about the meaning of one particular word. It took many phone calls until one said, “I’ve known that word since I was a child!” and told me what it was. I found out that not all Spanish speakers know everything about Spanish.—BHS

Estas manos: Manitas de mi familia / These Hands: My Family’s Hands

author: Samuel Caraballo

illustrator: Shawn Costello

Piñata Books / Arte Público Press, 2014

grades 2-up

Puerto Rican

In soft, gentle verse—each of which centers on the hands of a particular relative in her extended Puerto Rican family—a young narrator describes the love and loving care her family gives her. In Spanish and English, with each poem accompanied by a full-page portrait, she honors her mamá, papá, hermano, hermana, abuela and abuelo.

Samuel Caraballo is an outstanding poet who composes in Spanish and then in English, so each version maintains its own integrity. As a child narrator (in the first part) speaks of how the hands of her relatives care for her, young readers see a loving, nurturing family. And as the young woman narrator (in the second part) speaks of how her hands care for them, the circle completes itself. 

Tus manitas, ¡las más tiernas!

Cuando tengo miedo, ellas me consuelan.

Cuando tengo hambre, siempre me alimentan.

Cuando tengo sed, me sirven el agua más fresca.

Abrigo me dan cuando tiemblo de frío.

¡Mamá, tus manitas son como pétalos de rosas!

Your hands, the most tender!

When I’m scared, they soothe me.

When I’m hungry, they always feed me.

When I’m thirsty, they give me the most refreshing water.

They give me warmth when I shiver with cold.

Mom, your hands are like rose petals!

As the girl grows into a young woman, she promises to give back all the love that she has received from the hands of her family:

Prometo que un día, cuando sea ya una mujer, mis manos les han de devolver ese cariño tan grande que de ustedes siempre he tenido.

I promise that one day, when I become a woman, my hands will return all the love you’ve always given me.

And as a mature woman, she fulfills her promise to reciprocate the gift of love and caring her relatives have given her. Astute young readers will notice the parallels between, for instance, how the young child’s mother has nurtured her and how she, now a mature woman, nurtures her elderly mamá:

Mamá, cuando sientas temor, mis manos te darán consuelo.

Cuando tengas hambre, estarán ahí para darte tu alimento y servirte el agua fresca que sacie tu sed.

Mis manos serán tu abrigo en el invierno más frío.

Mom, when you feel scared, my hands will soothe you. 

When you feel hungry, they will be there to feed you and to serve you fresh water to quench your thirst.

My hands will be your warmth in the coldest winter.

Utilizing acrylics and pastels on brown chipboard paper, Costello’s impressionistic artwork is soft and appealing, and complements the gentleness of Caraballo’s poetry. The people of Puerto Rico often refer to themselves as “la gente del arco iris” (people of the rainbow) and here, Costello beautifully presents the family as ethnically mixed with varying skin tones and hair colors and textures. 

With a spacious design that will draw in young people, the text page on the left shows the Spanish at the top and the English at the bottom, and centers a miniature illustration that references the evocative, full-bleed rendering on the right. In the back matter, a section defines the cultural representation of the symbols in each poem: roses represent tenderness, the mahogany tree represents strength, the blooming oak tree represents friendship, white lilies represent happiness, and there’s a note about the sacred ceiba tree. 

In Estas manos: Manitas de mi familia / These Hands: My Family’s Hands, the talents of bilingual poet Samuel Caraballo and artist Shawn Costello beautifully come together to create an honoring of extended families everywhere. 

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

—Beverly Slapin

(published 10/30/20)

[Note: Unfortunately, the choice of past tense in the back matter description of the ceiba tree and the people for whom it is sacred leaves the impression that these peoples no longer exist. It reads (in English):

The ceiba tree was one of the sacred trees of the Taíno and Mayan cultures. For those cultures, the ceiba tree was the tree of life and wisdom. The Taínos and Mayas believed that the ceiba tree was the center of the universe that held up the sky. (emphases mine)

When Piñata Books reprints Caraballo’s beautiful story-poem, I strongly suggest that an accurate and respectful description be substituted. Something like this: 

To the Taíno and Maya peoples, La Ceiba is the sacred tree of life and wisdom. La Ceiba is so strong that she has outlasted countless storms, floods and hurricanes. It is said that she is the center of the universe and holds up the sky.—BHS]

Mis papitos: Héroes de la cosecha / My Parents: Heroes of the Harvest

author: Samuel Caraballo

illustrator: Obed Gómez

Piñata Books / Arte Público Press, 2005 

grades 1-5

Puerto Rican

Front and center in the cover illustration, the first thing young readers will see—and possibly look at for a long time—is a child, struggling to fall asleep. His body cannot relax because he is worried. In suspended consciousness, he sees his parents, at dawn, walking to work. They are looking straight ahead and their chins are slightly raised. Papi, his left hand on Mami’s shoulder, is holding a rake. Mami, her right arm on Papi’s back, is pointing toward the east, beyond the early rays of sunlight shining on them, and a white dove hovers overhead. Framing the boy in his bed are baskets, cut sugarcane, and lots of laughing fruits and vegetables. 

Gómez’s artwork, utilizing black ink and watercolor on a muted palette of mostly yellows, purples, browns, and reds, beautifully reflect the art deco style of the 1950s and are symbolic of the farmworker struggle. Full-bleed illustrations appear on the right side, and a detail from the painting separates the Spanish and English texts on the left. The white dove appears on almost every page.

The child, whose parents labor in the fields, sees their exhaustion every day when they come home. And the next day, they take on this grueling work again, and the next day, and the next.

¡Zum! ¡Brun! ¡Trac! ¡Ras!

Mañana, bien tempranito,

continuarán la cosecha.

Zoom! Vroom! Sap! Scratch!

Early tomorrow, once again,

they’ll return to the harvest.

This child sees his parents as “héroes de la cosecha”—heroes of the harvest.

In words and pictures, in reality and in a child’s imagination—every page speaks to the difficult lives of the agricultural workers and their families. At the same time, his voice reimagines his parents’ experiences and, in his mind, constructs a better world. He acknowledges the good in his family’s life—including their devotion to him and his younger sister—and transforms what’s not good. 

In this child’s fantasy world, everyone is happy, everyone has enough, and everything has volition. He imagines, for instance, that the fruits and vegetables and the cut sugar cane, happy to be harvested, jump into the baskets and boxes by themselves. And,

¡Ja, ja!

Gozan las fresitas

al sentir el toque de las manos.

Ha, ha!

The strawberries enjoy

the feel of my parents’ hands.

That a child of farmworkers narrates the story honors the children of farmworkers and other working children as well. In forefronting this child’s voice, Caraballo’s unrhymed tercets, in Spanish and English (each with its own pattern and flow), complement the dream style of the boy’s imagination and deflect his harsh reality. The first line creates a sound, the second identifies the sound, and the third expands his mental picture.

Rather than translating, Caraballo typically writes in Spanish first and then rewrites in English, so each version flows naturally and neither is an exact “translation” of the other. 

As Gómez infuses bright yellows into every scene of the child’s parents at work, young readers will feel the blazing sun beating down on them.

Gómez’s final illustration replicates the one on the cover. The child is still trying to sleep, but sleep still does not come easy. His body is still tense. His hands still grip his blanket. Laughing vegetables continue to surround him, his parents are once again off to work at dawn, and the little white dove still hovers overhead. Young readers who initially might have wondered about the laughing fruits and veggies on the cover will, by the final illustration, understand their symbolism and significance. And they will empathize with this loving mom and dad, toiling in the fields, day after day, under a sweltering sun. 

¡Zum! ¡Brun! ¡Trac! ¡Ras!

Mañana, bien tempranito,

continuarán la cosecha.

Zoom! Vroom! Sap! Scratch!

Early tomorrow, once again,

they’ll return to the harvest.

In short, profound Spanish and English verses and evocative images, Samuel Caraballo and Obed Gómez beautifully depict a farmworker family’s child, desperately trying to create a world that is much better than the one he and his family inhabit. For now, it’s his only survival technique. 

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

—Beverly Slapin

(published 10/24/20)

Abuelo vivía solo / Grandpa Used to Live Alone

author: Amy Costales

illustrator: Esperanza Gama

Piñata Books / Arte Público Press, 2010

kindergarten-grade 3 

Mexican, Mexican American

Narrated by the granddaughter whose birth and growing up transform her grandpa’s peaceful, solitary world, Abuelo vivía solo / Grandpa Used to Live Alone is an intergenerational story-poem of adaptation and love. It’s told first in Costales’ rhythmic Mexican Spanish and followed by its equally rhythmic English translation. 

When his daughter and her new baby move in with Abuelo, everyone’s world changes: Mamá, who is depicted in only one scene, works and goes to school; while Abuelo, who had only himself to care for, now takes on the responsibility of raising his nieta. 

Each left page contains text blocks of the Spanish and English, separated by a detail that reflects the theme on the full page illustration on the right. For instance, a few lotería cards on the left segue into an older abuelo and his teenage nieta on the right playing cards at the kitchen table.

Almost all of the images depict Abuelo and his nieta together. Beginning with him as the grandpa of a new baby, story and illustration show time passing. While Abuelo is growing older, Nieta is growing up—her crib is switched for a bed and her high chair for a chair at the table, she grows proficient at making arroz con leche, and eventually learns to drive. But while their roles change, their loving relationship remains the same.

Two poetic themes central to this story—and symbolic of the child’s growth and the grandpa’s aging—are almost identical descriptions of their preparation of the evening’s arroz con leche and the bedtime routine that follows. At first, the toddler plays with the measuring cups and watches her abuelo stirring the arroz con leche in the pot on the stove; later, she’s preparing the ingredients by herself. The other theme centers on their bedtime ritual. Beginning with grandpa’s carrying his grandbaby upstairs and, as she sleeps, rocking in the chair by her crib “sólo para escucharme respirar”—“just to hear (her) breathe.” The story ends with the adult granddaughter holding her grandpa’s hand as he walks upstairs, and rocking in the chair by his bed “sólo para escucharlo respirar”—“just to hear him breathe.” 

Gama’s soft, colored-pencil illustrations reflect the gentleness of the story and, for the most part, cultural details of this Indigenous Mexican family and household. And Costales’ rhythmic Spanish story-poem will have the youngest hablantes—as well as English-speakers who want to learn Spanish—learning the details for preparing arroz con leche, and enjoying the cadence and repetition as well. 

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

— Beverly Slapin

(published 4/6/20)

Sundays on Fourth Street / Los domingos en la calle Cuatro

author: Amy Costales 

illustrator: Elaine Jerome

Piñata Books / Arte Público Press, 2009

preschool-grade 3 

Mexican

Set in a Mexican barrio of Santa Ana, California, Sundays on Fourth Street / Los domingos en la calle Cuatro is a warm, loving story of the author’s memories of her daughter and two nephews on their Sunday excursions along la calle Cuatro. Young readers and listeners accompany Kelsey (the narrator), Mamá, Tía Pilar, Tío Armando, and primos Pepe and young Edgar, as they get haircuts (and tamarind lollipops for being patient), shop for groceries, try on beautiful (and way too expensive) boots, attend una feria in the church parking lot, have lunch at the taquería, watch un grupo folklórico perform in the plaza, and, that night, dream of all the things kids dream of.

The book design is inviting. On each left page, a textured, light-blue background holds a text block in English and Spanish, separated by a small, framed picture that touches on the theme. The facing, full-page illustration on each right page moves the theme into the story. For instance, the image of a salt shaker, a slice of lime and a jar of chile con limón on an “explosive” background hints at the scene of young Kelsey enjoying a delicious mango-on-a-stick, “bailando en la lengua.”

Some of Jerome’s ink and watercolor illustrations beautifully convey the story: Skin tones are varied, as they might be in a Mexican family; and several of the scenes are playful and gorgeous. The closeups especially—such as the scene where Kelsey is having her hair cut, another in which she is savoring her mango-on-a-stick, and the one in which the children and Tía Pilar are looking in the mirror at Kelsey’s (temporarily) painted lips—have a Diego Rivera-like quality that vividly portrays the Indigenidad of the family.

However, some of her illustrations appear flat and literal, and some unfinished. The scene of the danzantes folklóricos, for instance, lacks the energy described in the story. At a taquería, family members sit rigidly around the table, on which plates of food are arranged in a geometric patten. And the image of everyone walking home in the evening seems to have been hurriedly sketched. 

Perhaps most important, details were left out that would have accurately depicted a Mexican family and culture. While the story implies that the family is economically strapped, the images hint that the family is culturally poor: there’s no Mexican art on the walls, no crucifix or figure of La Virgen de Guadalupe inside or hanging over the car’s dashboard, no colorful, planted flower pot outside.

Costales first wrote the story in her “storytelling” language and rhythm—a vibrant, playful Mexican Spanish—that rolls off the tongue. The English version (which she wrote afterwards) reads well and moves the story forward (There are folk dancers in the plaza… The dancers stomp their feet and the rhythm vibrates in my chest). And young hablantes and English-speakers learning Spanish will feel the pulse and energy of the Spanish (Hay un grupo folklórico en la plaza… Los danzantes zapatean, y el ritmo vibra en mi pecho).

Since Los domingos en la calle Cuatro is a story about an extended Mexican immigrant family in a Mexican barrio, celebrating each other and their shared culture—and the story was primarily envisioned to be told or read in Spanish—it would have been appropriate to lead with the Spanish (title and text) and follow with the English.

Kelsey knows that, once she outgrows her boots, she may not get the gorgeous new boots she admired. She knows that she may not get a new bike. But what she gets—no, what her family already has—is more important. 

Here is a loving story about a close Mexican family enjoying each other, being together in a community where everyone knows each other—where a haircutter washes Kelsey’s lollipop-sticky hands and a cashier quickly replaces Edgar’s’s balloon that’s floated all the way to the ceiling before he starts crying. 

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

—Beverly Slapin
(published 3/31/20)

Gracias a mis amigas y colegas, Judy Zalazar Drummond and Lyn Miller-Lachmann.

Estrellita se despide de su isla / Estrellita Says Good-bye to Her Island // Estrellita en la ciudad grande / Estrellita in the Big City

author: Samuel Caraballo

illustrator: Pablo Torrecilla

Piñata Books /Arte Público Press 2002, grades 3-6

Puerto Rican

Both of these stories transported me back to Puerto Rico. Years ago, as our plane began its descent into San Juan Airport, almost everyone began singing, “En mi viejo San Juan.” This beautiful song, written by Noel Estrada in 1943, begins, “En mi viejo San Juan, cuantos sueños forje en mis noches de infancia,” which means that Puerto Rico never leaves us, not even in our dreams.

The first story, Estrellita se despide de su isla, is a poem, a love song from a child to her island. From the window of the giant plane, the sorrowful child says, “¡Adiós mi preciosa isleta, pedazo de mi corazón!” (“Goodbye, my precious little island, darling piece of my heart!”) In the detail on the left and full illustration on the right, the child’s green eyes and brown hair reflect the rich greens of the land and the browns of the mountain, and the blue wisps and tendrils of her hair hold the blues of the sea and sky. 

As readers turn the pages, the airplane is high in the sky, shrinking, going north. And the child is storing in her memory her home, her town, the beach, the coquis (national frogs) in her hands and her hair and on her bed, the rooster, the wind drying the laundry on the line, the hibiscus flowers and the little white goat in the mango tree. And being with her friends, and the street musicians and people dancing plena and the aroma of hot coffee. 

The child’s name is Estrellita. It means “little star.” She doesn’t know when she will return, but she will always remember “tus cielos, tus ríos, tus encantos / con los que el pintor sueña, / y las gloriosas notas de mármol / de tu exquisita canción caribeña.” (“Your skies, your rivers, your charm / All of which the painter dreams, / And the glorious marble notes / Of your exquisite Caribbean song.”)

And most of all, she will hold in her memory “el tierno, angelical abracito / de mi abuelita Panchita / quien, como tú, es mi amorcito, / mi luz y mi valiosa perlita!” (“the tender, angelic hug / Of my grandma Panchita / Who, like you, is my little love, / My light and my precious little pearl!”) Here, as they hug, grandma’s dress is patterned with hibiscus on a background of blue, and the blue highlights in her hair reflect the sky and the sea. 

author: Samuel Caraballo

illustrator: Pablo Torrecilla

Piñata Books /Arte Público Press  

2008

grades 3-6

Puerto Rican

In Estrellita en la ciudad grande / Estrellita in the Big City, the child and her dad have arrived in Brooklyn, “la ciudad grande.” Estrellita hasn’t unpacked yet, because she has something more important to do. In the small hotel room, she’s covered the bed with a brightly colored quilt that she has brought from home, and a small hibiscus plant—in a pot—sits on the window sill. Now, sitting at the edge 
of the bed, Estrellita looks down at the telephone she holds in her hand. She’s waiting and waiting. The phone finally rings, and lágrimas de felicidad (“happy tears”) flow from Estrellita’s eyes. 

On the other end is Estrellita’s abuelita, and their conversation is deep. In PR, abuelita is still selling fritters to pay her bills and still going fishing, she jokes—to keep herself young! Estrellita tells her abuelita that her dad is out with Tío Carlitos and Tía Luisa for a job interview, and hopes to find an apartment soon. She can’t wait, Estrellita tells her abuelita, to have her own room—“¡Para acostarme en mi cama y soñar con el día en que te vuelva a ver¡” (“To lie in my bed and dream of that day when I get to see you!”) But before her abuelita begins to cry, Estrellita tells her her “New York stories.” These include seeing the at-first unreadable signs and billboards, the Verrazano Bridge, the skyscrapers that look like giant mirrors, the elevators and escalators, and even giant food—“Los perros calientes medían un pie de largo. Los pretzels eran tan grandes como las panderetas y ¡los vasos de refresco eran más grandes que la cubeta que usas para la carnada!” (“The hot dogs were one foot long, the pretzels as big as tambourines, and the cups of soda bigger than your bait bucket!”)

Caraballo wrote both stories in Puerto Rican Spanish with Puerto Rican references. The language is good and authentic, informal “people” language, el sonido de la gente. Later, Caraballo wrote the English versions, and neither is a direct translation of the other. Either way, children and those who read the books with them will feel “at home” and comfortable. 

Estrellita’s description of the city is detailed. It’s what a kid would say or write, noticing facts that everyone would be interested in. When she’s in the subway, she notes that there are candy bars and clothing and shoes for sale, and there are people playing kettle drums and congas. 

While Estrellita describes the sights and sounds of the city to her abuelita, young readers can look to the visual details separating the Spanish and English texts on the left-hand page—most are of Abuelita on the phone, sitting on her old cane-woven seat on the beautiful Puerto Rican beach, quiet and peaceful—looking out at the sea and talking with her beloved nieta. This contrast is what the song is about—even though you leave and you’re in a new place, you’ll always have the memory of the hibiscus, the beaches, the coquís. 

Both Estrellita se despide de su isla and Estrellita en la ciudad grande place the Spanish title above the English on the covers and position the Spanish text at the upper part of each left page, with the English on the lower part. The languages inside are separated either by a detail of the illustration that appears on each facing page (in Estrellita se despide de su isla), or a detail that represents a contrast between “home” and “away” (in Estrellita en la ciudad grande.) This technique signals to young readers that Estrellita and her family are Spanish-speakers, that the English is a translation—and that home is never far away.

Torrecilla’s full-bleed paintings, rendered in marker and opaque-toned gouache, complement the Spanish and English texts and convey shades of meaning as well. In Estrellita se despide de su isla, he uses swirling colors to accentuate the brightness and beauty of Puerto Rico’s symbols: the hibiscus, (the national flower) the coquí (the national frog), and the beaches (the national treasure). Torrecilla’s artwork also portrays the everyday joys: musicians playing on the streets while folks dance, the laughter and fun, the rich smell of coffee—the real feel of beauty and life in Estrellita’s PR. 

And in Estrellita en la ciudad grande, his “New York” colors are more subdued and shadowy—the huge rectangular buildings with people on the ground, looking up; or on a roof, taking photos. And the darkened underground subways, with people running to catch their trains. And the musicians, of course. The illustrations here show the contrast between the full-bleed on the right, and the detail that divides the Spanish from the English text on the left. When Estrellita is next to the Empire State Building, the insert on the left depicts a house on the beach or small fishing boats. In contrast to the Puerto Rican countryside, Torrecilla captures the complexity and intensity of the city. Everything’s bigger in the city. But when they are walking around Brooklyn to get to know the city, she eats empanadas de carne, una papa relleno y una croqueta, just like in PR. And when she goes into a music store, she teases her grandmother, asking her what song they are playing. After two guesses, Estrellita tells her: they’re playing “En mi viejo San Juan”! 

The beaches and beach-front homes, both in the bleeds and in the inserts, seem to flow from the artist’s hands. Estrellita is leaving her beloved abuelita and everything she knows and loves; at the same time, although Estrellita longs for her PR home, in Brooklyn she finds a multiethnic, intergenerational place where she can laugh and dance and be happy—and still be free to long for her home. 

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

—Judy Zalazar Drummond

(published 9/20/19)

Vincent Ventura and the Mystery of the Chupacabras / Vincent Ventura y el misterio del chupacabras

author: Xavier Garza

Piñata Books / Arte Público Press, 2018 

grades 3-6 

Mexican American

Lots of kids like scary stories, and the first volume in Xavier Garza’s bilingual series published by Texas-based Arte Público/Piñata Books, Vincent Ventura and the Mystery of the Chupacabras / Vincent Ventura y el misterio del chupacabras is sure to delight and satisfy middle grade fans of the horror genre. Vincent and his two best friends, Michelle and Bobby, notice strange things happening next door at 666 Duende Street after Mr. Calaveras moves in. For one thing, dogs are disappearing. Inside a foul-smelling drainage tunnel, Vincent finds Chato, a neighbor’s celebrity chihuahua, dead and its blood drained. This is not the work of a vampire but a chupacabras, a beast that sucks blood, known to inhabit both Mexico and Puerto Rico. Could Mr. Calaveras be transforming into the notorious chupacabras?

Against the advice of his friends, Vincent disguises himself and goes to Mr. Calaveras’s house to spy on him. The gruff neighbor sniffs out the ruse, and now Vincent is in danger. And so is his adorable beagle Kenny, who disappears soon after. Although the chupacabras is only supposed to kill non-human animals, there’s evidence that Mr. Calaveras, who was himself bitten on a university research trip to Puerto Rico, has killed humans in the past and will do it again.

Garza, who has authored middle grade tales of contemporary humor and horror, strikes a good balance of safe and scary for readers ages eight to 12. Yes, a dog dies, but not one to which the readers are attached. In fact, Chato the chihuahua’s celebrity status makes it a source of humor as much as horror. Garza’s vivid descriptions capture the sensory experience of entering the chupacabras’s lair. The author’s cartoon-like illustrations, one per chapter, juxtapose the ordinary-looking protagonist and his friends with the exaggeratedly fearsome beast of lore. Readers will learn basic facts about chupacabras without those facts slowing down a well-paced story. And all’s well that ends well, except that Mr. Calaveras has disappeared without a trace and 666 Duende Street has been fixed up to await its new tenant. Who will bring the next disaster to the neighborhood?

This bilingual flip book contains a smooth Spanish translation by Gabriela Baeza Ventura that hews closely to the English original. Along with the short chapters and illustrations, the English and Spanish versions in the same book make this an especially good choice for young readers who are learning the other language.

An interesting bit of trivia is that Garza’s own son is named Vincent, and he wrote the series as a gift to his son. And now to all of us. *Highly recommended for all home, library and classroom collections, and to fans of light horror and those dipping into the genre for the first time.

—Lyn Miller-Lachmann

(published 3/20/19)

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

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