Wounded Falcons

 

author: Jairo Buitrago

translator (from Spanish): Elisa Amado

illustrator: Rafael Yockteng

Groundwood Books, 2021 

grades 3-up

“It was a bad day at school.” Young Adrián’s face is bloody and bruised, his shirt is torn, and his fists are clenched with rage. It’s always a bad day at school. Adrián gets into trouble with everyone—except his friend, Santiago, who never has any problems and never has any bad days. Yet the two are friends.

Before going home, the two friends sit in the middle of a garbage-strewn empty lot “that doesn’t belong to anyone, where no one ever comes.” In a clump of grass, Adrián finds a young, wounded falcon, scared and unable to fly. The boy wraps the bird in his jacket to keep her warm, and promises to take care of her.

At home, Adrián looks to his mother for advice about curing the bird’s broken wing—but receives instead a mean-spirited promise: We already know what happened at school…Later, your father will give you what you deserve. The next day, Adrián skips school and meets up with Santiago in the empty lot “where no one ever comes.” Santiago takes him and the falcon to someone who “cures broken bones”—and pays for the treatment with his Christmas money. Together, the two friends gently care for the wounded falcon. And in science class, “even though the others laugh and whisper,” Adrián speaks for the first time, giving a talk “about birds of prey, about their strength, about their beauty.”

Adrián encloses the falcon and her nest in a box he has built and sets it in a tree. When he is sad, he visits with the falcon: “They know each other, they can feel their hearts beating when they are together.” 

Weeks later, there is a storm—and the two friends discover that “the falcon has gone with the squalls of rain and the wind.” The next day, they go back to the lot “that belongs to no one, where no one comes.” They look up and see a falcon—like a bolt of lightning—dive from the sky, grab a pigeon in flight—and scream to salute them. Santiago sees tears on his friend’s cheeks: “his friend who never cries, not even when they were both little children.” As the two friends silently go home,

Santiago thinks that Adrián has a big heart, even if he gets into trouble. Tomorrow when they leave school to go to the empty lot that belongs to no one, where no one comes, maybe they can see the falcon hunting again, and they will be closer than ever.

Young readers will intuit that the title—Wounded Falcons—refers to both the bird of prey and the bullied child. For the falcon and Adrián—both wounded and now healing—it will be a good day.

Buitrago’s sparse descriptions and economy of words—together with Yockteng’s digitally-created illustrations that resemble pen-and-ink drawings—lay out the scenarios and encourage young readers to draw their own interpretations and conclusions. The final illustration will surprise them. 

•Wounded Falcons is highly recommended for home, school and library collections.

—Beverly Slapin

(published 9/18/2021)

Cave Paintings

author: Jairo Buitrago

illustrator: Rafael Yockteng

translator (from Spanish): Elisa Amado

Groundwood / House of Anansi Press, 2020

grades 1-4

As young readers follow a young (human) child’s journey across the universe—from deep space all the way to Earth—to visit his beloved grandmother for the summer holidays, they encounter galaxies, comets and planets, and all manner of travelers. 

This is not the first time the young narrator has traveled alone, “from planet to planet. Sun to sun.” On the flight, he encounters airline workers and passengers—lifeforms of varying shapes, colors and species—and when he disembarks, there is his grandmother, along with all kinds of quasi-human creatures. With his grandmother in the lead, the child crosses “one universe to explore another.” Donning headlamps, the two go sight-seeing, and the child is amazed as they examine the eons-old cave paintings (much like the ancient images of animals at Lascaux and Chauvet Cave in France) and finally, when the holidays are over, his grandmother gives him some presents that had belonged to his grandfather and, before that, his grandfather’s grandfather. The boy stares with amazement and joy—at the wonder of a box of colored pencils. “They were good for making marks on paper,” he says. “She gave me that too.”

As the boy waves goodbye to his grandmother and prepares to fly back home, he greets the pilot, a robot, a four-eyed man, a goat, and a sleeping woman. And he draws and draws and draws what he could see out the window—“because what I could see was infinity.”

Buitrago’s spare narrative text, combined with Yockting’s imaginative, double-spread digital illustrations incorporating varying styles of artwork capture the amazement of a child exploring his grandmother’s world on Earth. This seemingly simple story reveals a range of concepts—from the child’s laid-back attitude about intergalactic space travel to his wonder at its infinite expanse to his amazement at a box of colored pencils.

As with their other picture books (Two White Rabbits, Walk with Me), the team of Buitrago and Yockteng, with Amado translating, have created another outstanding story that will resonate with the youngest readers and listeners. 

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

—Beverly Slapin

(published 4/10/21)

On the Other Side of the Garden

author: Jairo Buitrago 

illustrator: Rafael Yockteng 

translator (English): Elisa Amado 

Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press, 2018 

preschool-grade 3 

Jairo Buitrago and Rafael Yockteng, who gifted us Dos conejos blancos // Two White Rabbits and Camino a casa // Walk with Me, present young readers with another beautiful story in which the complexity and symbolism is half-hidden in its seeming simplicity. While children born on this side of the garden will enjoy an evocative story of a little girl’s temporary stay with her loving grandmother while her parents sort out their lives elsewhere, immigrant children born on the other side will see the difficulties they themselves may have had to endure while navigating a new and different world and learning some of life’s lessons along the way.

Textually and visually, sadness permeates almost every page. As young Isabel’s grandmother shows her to the place where she will be sleeping, she looks straight ahead and doesn’t notice an owl-decorated bedspread, a frog planter, some lilies in a vase, and a small framed picture of two mice with a huge hunk of cheese. All she knows is that this house isn’t her house, and she realizes that she no longer lives with her parents. She covers her face with a pillow and sighs: 

My bedroom wasn’t my bedroom…. I lay down on the bed that wasn’t my bed, thinking about the city, about my friends who were far away now, and that Dad would have to come back and get me some day.

In the next spread, Isabel sits up, surprised. She’s not alone. The three creatures—the owl, the frog and the mouse—are alive and peering at her through the window. Rather than being frightened, she opens the window and talks with them. Here, observant readers may notice that everyone speaks the same language and that this story is more than it appears to be.

Yockteng’s textured digitally produced illustrations—mostly on a limited, almost-monochromatic palette of dark, flat blues with only the owl, the frog, the mouse, Isabel’s nightdress and an occasional image in other colors—appear as hand-drawn scratchboard or linocut prints and complement the child’s somber emotions. 

On the cover and on almost every double-page spread that follows Isabel’s initial meeting with the creatures who have come to visit, young readers will see a long wooden fence separating one side of the garden from the other side of the garden. At night, as the owl, the frog and the mouse walk with Isabel along the fence, they caution her:

“Never cross this fence, Isabel,” warned the owl. “There are some fierce dogs on the other side.” 

“And they bite,” said the frog.

“Sometimes I sneak across to eat a little of their food. So if you want to go over there, I can keep watch so they don’t appear all of a sudden,” offered the mouse.

Here is where young migrant or immigrant readers will probably understand the symbolism: The “fence” is the international border, the “fierce dogs” on the other side of the fence represent La Migra, the US Border Patrol; the owl and the frog will stay on this side to warn other migrants and immigrants of the dangers to come as they cross, and the mouse is a “coyote,” a guide who leads groups of migrants and immigrants safely across to the other side. 

As the new day dawns and Isabel begins to grow into her new (for now) environment, Yockteng’s scenes take on more color. The owl, the frog and the mouse remain at their posts while Isabel says goodbye and runs toward her grandmother’s house. Here, on this side of the garden, she is safe in the protective arms of a woman she hardly knows, and she will settle in to await news from her parents on the other side of the garden. The child has taken off her muddy boots and, next to them on the grass, is a plate of bread and jam her grandmother has prepared for her. Isabel’s grandmother is smiling while she shows the child the flowers in her garden, and Isabel, holding a cup of steamed milk, acknowledges that “the garden looked different in the daylight,” but hasn’t yet begun to smile. There’s still danger lurking, though: A black cat is stalking the frog and the mouse, who are trying to conceal themselves and preparing to flee. And on the next spread, the cat has picked up speed and is chasing them.

In the upper right-hand corner, a small falcon navigates the currents of air. And Isabel is almost smiling. Although her parents have not returned (yet), still, she feels less abandoned and, with her grandmother’s love and patience, is beginning to heal. We don’t know how this young person’s story ends, because, in this story as in reality, there is no neat ending to what has occurred and what is continuing to occur. 

Throughout history, the rise of fascism has always been marked by the dehumanization—the “othering”—of some people and often, of children. A carefully guided reading of On the Other Side of the Garden, along with Dos conejos blancos // Two White Rabbits, presents an opportunity for caring educators to make a difference in the difficult lives of migrant and immigrant children who, for one reason or another, may not be able share the realities of their lives. These educators have an opportunity here, however small, to push back against this government’s xenophobic assaults by acknowledging and honoring the children’s struggles and showing them that they are loved. 

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

—Beverly Slapin

(published 6/25/18)

Camino a casa // Walk with Me

author: Jairo Buitrago
illustrator: Rafael Yockteng
translator: Elisa Amado 
preschool-up 
Colombian

Fondo de Cultura Económica 
(Camino a casa), 2008 
Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press (Walk with Me), 2017 

The cover of the Spanish version, Camino a casa, depicts a little girl who’s being held in the safety of whom we soon learn is a lion. The English version, Walk with Me, shows her offering a flower to the lion, who is sitting on a grassy knoll near a pedestal on which is engraved, “1948.” And girl, lion, and pedestal appear on the first full-bleed spread of both versions as well. 

The little girl asks her lion-friend to protect her from “falling asleep” as she navigates her dangerous, dilapidated city, picking up her baby brother from child care, shopping for groceries from the tienda whose owner refuses credit, arriving home to cook dinner, and waiting until her mamá returns from her job at the factory. Finally, the girl gives her lion-friend-protector permission to “go up back into the hills again,” but to be sure to return when she needs him.

Throughout, we see people falling asleep where they stand or lie down. The few adults who aren’t falling asleep are just staring blankly at the lion. And one appears to be dead. Only the children seem to be interested as they exit a school that resembles a prison (with a uniformed guard at the gate). In fact, there appear to be bars everywhere: on the school doors, on buses, even on the windows of the broken-down apartment houses. 

Many of the people in the city are impoverished and shabbily dressed, as is the little girl. A car passes by a man who’s digging through garbage cans. A man wearing a suit ignores a homeless man who’s leaning against a building with his hand out. A child looks out the window while a woman and her child walk up the hill, carrying everything they own on their backs. People pass by an elderly woman who’s dropped her bags of groceries, but no one offers to help. Indeed, complacency to the political and economic climate has put almost everyone to sleep. 

In 1948—the year carved into the pedestal—Liberal Party leader and Presidential frontrunner, Jorge Eliécer was assassinated in an operation widely believed to have been orchestrated by the then newly created US CIA. His murder provoked a riot in Bogotá (known as "El Bogotazo") which, between right-wing and progressive forces, almost completely destroyed Colombia’s capital city, claiming some 200,000 lives. Throughout the country, the more than ten-year epoch of violence became known simply as “La Violencia,” during which many more thousands were killed or disappeared over the years. In 1953, Colombia’s commander-in-chief, Gustavo Rojas Pinella, seized power in a US militarily and financially supported coup and ruled as dictator until 1954, when he was declared President. Today, under many guises, US support for “friendly” right-wing forces throughout Latin America continues to be well-known.

But the lion—the little girl’s protector—appears to be making things happen. As he passes by with the child on his back, people wake up and notice. There’s a car crash but no one is hurt. A young man has pasted a revolutionary poster on a telephone pole and is making a “peace” sign at bus passengers, who are all looking at him and the lion. A woman turns around to wave at the lion. People are looking out of the windows of the neighborhood buildings. A roar from the lion convinces the scared-to-death tienda owner to extend credit. Maybe, just maybe, people are beginning to wake up.

After dinner, with four bowls set out for the three humans and the lion, the girl knows that it’s time to send the lion back into the hills if he wants to go. She knows that he has more work to do.

On the next to the last page, as her little brother and their mother are asleep, the girl places her flower beside a framed family photo. It’s the same flower she has offered to the lion on the cover of the English edition and the first page of both Spanish and English versions. Next to the bed is a chair that holds an empty book bag and beside the chair is a pair of large boots. They are the same boots whose prints we see on the back endpapers. On the floor behind the chair is a stack of newspapers. On the last spread is a closeup of the stack of newspapers, with its headline now visible: “FAMILIAS DE DESAPARECIDOS DE 1985.” Under the headline is a photo of a man giving a statement to the media during a demand for information about all those whom the Colombian government has disappeared. And on the night table is a closeup of a framed photo that depicts happier times together: mother, father, baby and little girl are smiling, and the little girl is holding out her fingers in a “peace” sign. The father has a mane of curly hair—just like the lion who has walked with and guarded the little girl throughout the story. 

On the front endpapers we saw two sets of prints: those of whom belonged to the little girl and those of whom belonged to the lion. On the back endpapers are also two sets of prints; but this time, the lion’s paw prints have been replaced by the boot prints of an adult—the little girl’s father.

Yockteng sketched his illustrations—all on full-bleed spreads—in pencil and then digitally redrew and colored them. On a muted and somber palette of mostly grays, greens, blues, and browns, the only standouts are the girl and the lion—and the one spread that shows the grocer frantically pushing two bags full of groceries to the girl whose lion, in a full roar, exhibits all his teeth. And, as always, Amado’s English translation is excellent.

Together with Rafael Yockteng, Jairo Buitrago, who is Colombian, have written picture books for young children, including Dos conejos blancos // Two White Rabbits, that describe people’s hardships and struggles to survive the economic and political realities throughout Latin America and here in the US. As with Camino a casa // Walk with Me, they appear as quiet stories and are full of symbolism for young children and their teachers to discern and discuss in a non-threatening way—and to support those children who have their own stories to tell.

Throughout Latin America—most notably, Argentina, Chile, Colombia, Guatemala, Honduras, Mexico, Peru, and El Salvador—families of the disappeared and murdered are still holding vigils and protests and demands for information. In some of these countries, unmarked graves have been uncovered and victims identified and, with love, reburied. And in some cases (such as Chile), perpetrators have been tried and imprisoned. Nevertheless, families of the disappeared have kept up the pressure. It is to keep alive the memories of the disappeared, the activism and sorrow of their families, and their prayers for reunification (one way or another)—that Camino a Casa // Walk with Me holds so much hope. These are lovely, poignant, compassionate books. 

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

—Beverly Slapin

(published 10/6/17; revised 10/17/17)

(Note: "El Bogotazo" was not the name of the Liberal Party leader, Jorge Eliécer Gaitán; it was the name of the riots that followed his assassination. I made this correction above. Thank you, Lyn Miller-Lachmann; good catch!)

Dos conejos blancos // Two White Rabbits

author: Jairo Buitrago

illustrator: Rafael Yockteng 

translator: Elisa Amado 

Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press, 2016 

all grades  

On the cover is a little girl, comfortably lying down with her head resting on her papá’s leg. Her body is relaxed and her eyes are wide open; she’s happily playing with her toy bunny. Papá is sitting upright, leaning on his backpack. He’s looking warily into the distance. 

Towards the middle of the story, readers will see that Papá and daughter are riding on the top of a train. They are refugees, fleeing for their lives, fleeing to El Norte, hitching rides on one of the old, rusted-out trains they call “La Bestia” (“the beast”), but this child does not know any of this. All she knows is that she’s with her papá who loves her, and that’s all that counts.

And she counts: “Cuando viajamos” (When we travel), she says, happily riding on Papá’s shoulders, “yo cuento lo que veo” (I count what I see). She sadly counts the hens and chicks, as she says goodbye; she counts the cows, being led away by a new owner; she counts “un burrito aburrido, y cincuenta pájaros en el cielo” (one little bored donkey and fifty birds in the sky), as she and Papá and a coyote watch people load all their belongings on makeshift rafts; she counts the people who live by the train tracks, as they wait for La Bestia to take them to El Norte; and she counts the clouds, which take on the many shapes of a child’s imagination. Throughout, the little girl is all energy and fascination, while Papá watches for danger.

The center spread shows the reason for Papá’s fear: Here, border patrol agents have stopped the train and are pulling people out. As they handcuff and arrest some, Papá and daughter and others—accompanied by the coyote—are running for their lives.

On almost every double-page spread, readers will see a coyote and sometimes more than one. They are “chuchos” (“mutts”), as Papá calls them. They represent the human smugglers who, for an exorbitant price, accompany the undocumented refugees, sometimes hundreds of miles and sometimes on foot—to reach El Norte. Sometimes coyotes bring the refugees all the way to a safe place and sometimes they abandon them, on their own, often without food or water, in the middle of the desert. The lives of refugees are far from safe and the trip is often deadly dangerous.

Yesterday, three youngsters who had a chance to read this book almost dropped it when they realized that the “chuchos” were coyotes. Their father was a refugee from Mexico, and their mother had told them who the “coyotes” are. Young children who are not part of refugee families—and even some who are—may not readily understand all of the symbolism in these illustrations. (The reviewer from Kirkus didn’t, either.) But all Maribel, Amelia, and Anthony needed was a brief explanation from their mother about “symbolism”—and they were off!

As they read the story and looked carefully at the artwork, the children noticed and were able to answer questions posed by the large details: “Now the papá and daughter look sad. Are they saying goodbye to their hens and chicks? Did they sell their cows to that white guy?” “Why are they talking to the “chucho”? “Where are they going on the rafts?” “Why do all those people live by the train tracks?” “Why are they climbing on the train?” “Why are the papá and daughter and their friends running away?” At first, Maribel had figured it out and explained it to Amelia and Anthony. But very soon, the younger ones “got” the symbolism and effectively explained them to each other.

The small details didn’t escape these kids, either: “Why is that cop (border control) grabbing that man’s wrist?” “Why does that woman look ashamed?” “Why are the people in handcuffs?” “Why do all the cops have rifles?” “Why are the cops being mean to everyone?”

When Papá and daughter stop at a grocery in a small Mexican town to get temporary employment and pay another “chucho” to lead them further, the daughter plays with the store owner’s son; and when it’s time to move on, the youngsters trade: her toy bunny for his two white rabbits, whose home is a cardboard box.

In giving up her toy bunny to her new friend, the little girl is trading in her uncertainty for the reality of the two white rabbits, who are going to be free on the other side of the wall. As she and her papá finally cross the border, the child releases the two white rabbits—who on the last double-page spread, with the border wall behind them, scamper off to freedom.

In many ways, the two white rabbits, now free, are symbolic of the courage that it takes for this refugee father and his young daughter to cross the desert and risk their lives in order to get to El Norte. Rabbits are survivors; they signify determination. They’re extremely strong and can leap great distances. They can squeeze under fences and—as Maribel, Amelia and Anthony noted—dig underground tunnels. Their sharp vision can detect predators from all directions. They have intimate knowledge of their surroundings and know how to forage for food.

As Maribel, Amelia, and Anthony quickly figured out when I asked them who the white rabbits were, they said, almost in unison: “Papá and the little girl.”

Yockteng created the sketches in pencil, which he then scanned and digitally colored and outlined. The result is stunning, with a muted palette of mostly browns, blues and greens that create a sort-of sameness, complementing the story and highlighting the long journey on which all there is for the child to do is to count—and dream. Buitrago and Yockteng have intentionally left the place, which may be Mexico or anywhere in Central America, ambiguous. That’s because, as IBBY Foundation President Patricia Aldana writes in a brief Afterword, “close to a hundred thousand children from Central America make the very dangerous trip you see here to find safety and a way to survive in the United States,” and this small family could represent any of them.

Originally written in Spanish and seamlessly translated into English, Dos conejos blancos // Two White Rabbits is brilliant, profound and heartbreaking—and highly recommended. (Note: I listed this book as appropriate for all grades because it can be effectively read in preschool- through undergraduate levels, as well as in courses such as Early Childhood Education, Children’s Literature, and Library Science.)

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

—Beverly Slapin

(published 10/17/16)

Muchísimas gracias a mi amiga y colega, Judy Zalazar Drummond, who introduced me to her grandchildren, Maribel Linda, Amelia Edosia, and Anthony, and to their mom, Melissa—and to the children, for allowing me to see this beautiful story through their eyes.

Sopa de frijoles: Un poema para cocinar / Bean Soup: A Cooking Poem

author: Jorge Tetl Argueta
illustrator: Rafael Yockteng
Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press, 2009
kindergarten-grade 2
Pipíl, Salvadoran

In this elegant, bilingual free-verse poem that is also a recipe (or recipe that is also a poem), Argueta and Yockteng show a young child how to prepare a delicious and nutritious pot of bean soup—“una sabrosa / sopita de frijoles.” And in the gathering and preparation of ingredients—chopping, adding, mixing, stirring—as well as setting the table, there are gently inserted life lessons. All things are alive, all things have volition, all things are related, and all things will give back if you afford them care and respect.


From the beginning, instructing a child in this way: “Primero pones / los frijolitos / en el cielo de la mesa. / Los frijoles son estrellitas. / Los limpias / de cualquier basurita. / Los frijolitos al chocar / unos con otros / hacen  musiquita. / Tu también puedes cantar.” (“First spread / the beans / out on the sky of the table. / The beans are stars. / Throw away / any little pebbles. / When the beans touch / they clink a little song. / You can sing too.”)—slows down the process, as well it should. 


Yockteng’s paintings, rendered in watercolor on a muted earthy-toned palette of mostly browns, with some blues and reds, complement both the soup and the story. Here is a little boy, rising from his video game to try something else. Here he is separating the beans, dropping some on the floor, juggling with some while the rest cooks. Here’s mom in a support role, mopping up, drying onion-chopping tears, watching in case she’s needed, but not interfering. As the water “boils and sings” and “the beans dance together” (“El aguita hierve y canta. / Los frijolitos bailan unos / con otros. / El aguita se ha vuelto / morena como el color / de la Madre Tierra”), the wonderful aroma visually invites the child to dance as well.


It’s clear that Argueta first composed Sopa de frijoles in Spanish and then interpreted it into English. Although the English has rhythm as well, the lyrical, idiomatic Spanish bestows a kind of volition that the English doesn’t. For instance, “El fuego va a bailar / mientras los frijoles / se van ablandando / lentamente” translates to “The fire will dance / while the beans / slowly get soft.”

On the last page—¡Ayyy, que sabor!—the aroma of the bean soup has invited the whole family to the table. Sopa de frijoles: Un poema para cocinar / Bean Soup: A Cooking Poem is highly recommended.

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

—Beverly Slapin

(published 10/18/15)

White Flower: A Maya Princess

author: Victor Montejo

translator: Chloe Catan

illustrator: Rafael Yockteng

Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press, 2005

grades 4-6 

Maya

Montejo’s grandmother, who was Jakaltek Maya, told him this Mayan version of the Spanish folktale, Blanca Flor. In this story, which is set in the classic Maya civilization, the father is W’itz Ak’al, the shape-shifting Lord of the Mountains and the Valleys, who rides huge deer and eats the spirits of those who had bargained their hearts for extreme wealth. W’itz Ak’al’s daughter, Saj Haq’b’al (White Flower)—rather than being a wimpy, self-sacrificing “Snow White”—also commands the forces of nature. One day, an impoverished young prince, Witol Balam—who has lost his family, his wealth, and even his memory—wanders into the area, searching for work and shelter. He encounters a kingdom and falls in love with Saj Haq’b’al and, despite all the fierce power that confronts him, takes on a series of impossible tasks in order to marry the strong young woman who makes the impossible possible while ameliorating her father’s wrath.

Yockteng’s softened watercolor and graphite pencil illustrations reflect both the detailed Maya symbols and patterns in the great city, and the flora and fauna of the lush, endless jungles. Here is Saj Haq’b’al, giving her voice to an ear of corn, transforming herself into a thorn hedge, and turning into a deep blue lake. Here is the pursuing queen, riding into an endless magical cornfield, futilely searching for the one ear she knows to be Saj Haq’b’al. Here is a seven-pointed ribbon becoming a path with seven branches to confound W’itz Ak’al in his pursuit of the bold fugitive couple.

Of course, we always knew the story would end well—the marriage party “lasted many days and the musicians played age-old songs on their marimbas, so that the people of the city could dance and forget all their sorrows.” Don’t let the length of the narrative stop you—White Flower is a well-told and beautifully illustrated story full of magic and magical realism that young readers will love. Highly recommended.

—Beverly Slapin
(published 9/24/14)