Dancing Home

author: Alma Flor Ada

author: Gabriel M. Zubizarreta

Atheneum / Simon & Schuster, 2011 

grades 3-5 

Mexican, Mexican American

Dancing Home utilizes elements of “A Margarita” (“To Margarita”), a lovely poem penned by the great Nicaraguan poet, Rubén Darío, and skillfully interpreted in English by Rosalma Zubizareta.

In alternating third-person narratives, readers learn the perspectives of fifth-graders Margie, born in Texas of Mexican parents; and Lupe, Margie’s Mexican cousin, newly arrived in the US. Margie, whose voice predominates, is proud to be “American,” does not speak Spanish, and is embarrassed by her cousin’s Mexican ways that seem to invite negative attention.  At the same time, Lupe, whose voice is clearly secondary, does not speak English, knows that her cousin is uncomfortable with her and is embarrassed at not knowing what is expected of her in this new place—“What she really wanted was to crawl under the desk, or better yet, to run all the way back to Mexico.” Meanwhile, Margie, who sees her life as becoming more difficult, is resentful of her parents’ positive relationship with their niece, with whom they communicate in “enthusiastic Spanish.”

In order to portray Lupe as sufficiently grateful that she is here with her “American” relatives, there is a long description of Mexican family life that contains just about every stereotype there is: Lupe’s school is regimented and uninteresting, her family is impoverished, her undocumented father abandons them, her depressed and emotionally distant mother neglects her, and her new stepfather is drunk and abusive.

Yet, as a secondary character, Lupe does not express any particular needs. Rather,

Lupe felt so grateful for this new home she had that she could not bear the thought of her own joy causing anyone else pain. She hoped that Margarita knew that in sharing her own parents, she was not losing anything. If need be, Lupe would find a way to help her see that.

Later, while Margie comes to enjoy speaking Spanish and learning about Mexican foods, dances and holidays, Lupe puts her own interests aside and selflessly adapts:

Having to be constantly moving forward, faster than she could take in all of the new experiences coming her way, was not a good feeling. Yet Lupe smiled. Even bad feelings got better when you understood where they were coming from. 

In case readers hadn’t realized that Margie’s voice is more important than Lupe’s, the final chapter practically shouts that the story is, indeed, all about her: “As the poem ended with the poet saying goodbye to the girl to whom he had dedicated the poem, it seemed to Margie as though the words were being addressed directly to her, as though she herself were the Margarita in the poem.”

Lupe’s father reappears towards the end of the story, describing the horrible life of an undocumented worker, “acknowledging his own errors, making a sincere effort to free her from carrying the burden of his own mistakes, and encouraging her to be fully in charge of her own life. Standing before her as a brave and fallible human being, he was doing his best to make amends.”

In one of their many digressions from the story, the authors describe the US Bracero Program in this distorted way:

The program had started when many of the old family farms were bought up by large agricultural enterprises. These new factory farms needed many seasonal workers. Since few people in the United States were willing to do this kind of low-wage work, laws were passed allowing growers to bring men from Mexico to do farmwork in the United States and then return to Mexico.

The reality was that there was no shortage of domestic seasonal workers. Rather, The Bracero Program brought in men from one poverty-stricken group (low-paid Mexican farm workers) to compete against another poverty-stricken group (low-paid domestic farm workers) for the benefit of the agricultural corporations, which greatly profited from the impoverishment and desperation of both groups.

The story lacks subtlety; its messages of acceptance and uniqueness are heavy-handed and didactic, telling young readers what to think rather than showing them how to develop critical thinking skills. Margarita’s acquisition of Spanish and respect for her cultural heritage, and Lupe’s linguistic and cultural adaptation to her new country come all too easily to engage young readers, especially young readers who may have similar issues. Dancing Home is not recommended.

—Beverly Slapin

 (published 9/20/15)

Mr. Sugar Came to Town / La visita del Sr. Azúcar

author: Harriet Rohmer

author: Cruz Gomez

translator: Rosalma Zubizarreta

illustrator: Enrique Chagoya

Children’s Book Press / Lee & Low, 1989

kindergarten-up 

Mexican American

About 25 years ago, I taught afterschool classes for migrant children through the Santa Clara County Office of Education. During some of these classes, migrant college students visited and performed puppet plays about the importance of proper nutrition and the dangers of smoking. My children loved the puppet plays, especially because young people who could have been their older sisters and brothers performed the plays. The puppets were kind of magical for the young children, who could see that the puppets were on someone’s hands, yet they were able to suspend disbelief and pay attention to the message. These puppet plays came to mind as I read Mr. Sugar Came to Town.

Mr. Sugar Came to Town is adapted from a puppet play by Cruz Gomez, Bárbara García, Jesus Gaytan and Jeff Steinhardt and produced by the Food and Nutrition Program of the Watsonville, California Rural Health Clinic as part of its outreach program to agricultural workers and their families.

In the book, a character named “Mr. Sugar” arrives in town and quickly gets a young brother and sister addicted to junk food. They get sugar highs and lows, put on a huge amount of weight, and get in trouble in school. Grandma saves the day by pulling off Mr. Sugar’s mask and revealing the ugliness of Mr. Sugar and his junk food. Mr. Sugar disappears “in a cloud of sugar smoke” and the family celebrates: “They ate rice and beans, chiles and meat, fruits and vegetables from the garden.” And Mr. Sugar goes on to try to addict innocent little kids elsewhere.

Since they were performed in the migrant camps, these puppet plays were for whole families to enjoy together. The evil Mr. Sugar, probably cackling as he distributes his addictive substances to the unsuspecting little kids; the children stuffing their faces and blowing up like balloons; grandma’s confronting Mr. Sugar, struggling with him and pulling off his mask to reveal his ugly face—the shows were fun and there were nutrition lessons to supplement them. But reduced to a children’s book, it’s all just blah.

While the intention here is to teach young children about the dangers of eating too much sugar, it’s didactic and exaggerated and doesn’t give the message of moderation or balanced eating.

The problem with food and obesity in this country—and worldwide—is that agribusiness corporations widely advertise junk food, and aim these commercials specifically at young children. And poverty is not a small issue, either: When I was teaching preschool, I visited a parent who told me that she gave her children cookies and milk in the morning because that’s all she was able to afford.

The Spanish, which is not incorrect but is an almost exact literal translation, is blah as well. It doesn’t hold its own as a story; rather, it replicates the humdrum English version. Chagoya’s illustrations, rendered in multicolored pencil and pastel, complement the story as well.

If Mr. Sugar Came to Town / La visita del Sr. Azúcar were accompanied by a puppet show and some curriculum about nutrition education, maybe there would be some value in it. But it’s not and, as such, I cannot recommend it.

—María Cárdenas
(published 6/27/14)

Mediopollito / Half-Chicken

author: Alma Flor Ada

translator: Rosalma Zubizarreta

illustrator: Kim Howard 
Dragonfly Books, 1995
preschool-up
Mexican

On the double-page frontispiece, a Mexican mother and her son are sitting at a fountain, their shoes off, relaxing. The mother is gesturing as she begins to tell her son a story, and the little boy is taking it all in. In the background are rolling hills, a road, and several small houses and buildings—every one of them sporting a weather vane.

The story of Mediopollito—how weather vanes came to be—originated in Spain and, over the years, traveled to various Latin American countries. Alma Flor Ada writes that she heard it from her Cuban grandmother, who had heard it from her grandmother. Rather than setting the story in Spain, Alma Flor Ada chose to locate it in colonial Mexico.

Mediopollito is the story of a little chicken who’s born with one wing, one leg, one eye, half a beak, half a body and half a head. Mediopollito—“Half-Chicken”—is a vain, haughty little guy who looks down on everyone around him. One day, over his mother’s objections, he hops off, on one foot, to see the world.

In the old story, Mediopollito is an unlikeable, nasty little creature. He ignores his mother, he’s rude to everyone he meets, he picks fights with the other animals, and he’s really, really mean. On his trip to visit the king, the haughty chicken refuses to help those in need—water, fire, and wind. When he arrives at the palace, the royal cook tosses him into the pot for the king’s dinner. Here, Mediopollito gets his comeuppance from water, fire, and finally wind, who blows him up to the top of a church, where he becomes a weather vane, never to hurt anyone else’s feelings again.

In Alma Flor Ada’s kinder, gentler version, Mediopollito is vain, but not totally nasty. On his journey, when he encounters someone in trouble, he decides to lend a foot. So when he gets to the palace and the royal cook dumps him into the pot to boil him for the viceroy’s dinner, those he helped—water, fire and wind—return the favor and save his skin—literally. Wind blows him up to one of the towers of the palace, where he is able to see everything he wants, “with no danger of ending up in the cooking pot.”

Several other versions I’ve read are so cloyingly lesson-heavy that they’ve had me gnashing my teeth. But Alma Flor Ada’s story is none of this. Rather, Mediopollito is a well-told tale that works well with youngsters and adults who appreciate the style of a good storyteller.

With Spanish text on the left side and English on the right of each double-page spread, Kim Howard’s lush mixed-media art is rendered in festive colors, complementing both languages and lending continuity to the story. Rosalma Zubizarreta’s excellent Spanish translation has its own rhythm and cadence, so hablantes and English-speakers can follow along in their own language—or in both. Mediopollito is highly recommended.

—Beverly Slapin
(published 6/5/13)

Family Pictures / Cuadros de familia // In My Family / En mi familia // Magic Windows / Ventanas mágicas

author: Carmen Lomas Garza

illustrator: Carmen Lomas Garza

translator (Family Pictures): Rosalma Zubizarreta

translator (In My Family and Magic Windows): Francisco X. Alarcón

Children’s Book Press/ Lee & Low, 1990 (Family Pictures), 1995 (In My Family), 1999 (Magic Windows)

all grades

Mexican American

In her introduction to the Fifteenth Anniversary Edition of Family Pictures / Cuadros de familia, Sandra Cisneros writes: “It’s as if we’re pressing our face against the window screens and peeking inside our house. These are family pictures. And it doesn’t matter if your family is from Kingsville or Cairo, Sarajevo or Katmandu. They are your family’s pictures, too.” 

With those words, she truly captures the magic of both Family Pictures and its later companion, In My Family / En mi familia. Carmen Lomas Garza’s snapshots are real, personal, and compelling—full of details that you couldn’t make up. On the cover, for instance, you see a toy truck, along with tamale wrappers, in the middle of the kitchen floor. There’s a dish rag hanging off the counter next to the stove. These are not posed photos; indeed, they really are family pictures.

As Cisneros puts it, “They say every picture tells a story. But the pictures of Carmen Lomas Garza tell many, many stories.” These are paintings you can get lost in, imagining all the alternate stories unfolding on each page. In Family Pictures, there is a curandera caring for a sick neighbor, a cat with nursing kittens stretched out on Grandma’s bedroom floor, a birthday barbeque with children playing piñata and a teenage couple meeting behind a tree, and children finding out exactly how chickens get to be soup.

In In My Family, we see a barefoot quinceañera attendant running across the church steps, relatives preparing dozens and dozens of empanadas, Grandma telling the children stories of La Llorona, dead rattlesnakes hanging in warning from a water tower, and a mother’s wedding-day blessing of her daughter.

Carmen is an amazing narrative and visual artist whose work lovingly reflects her Chicana childhood, family and culture. Her oil and acrylic paintings, on a palette of bright colors, are filled with love and light, and rich in glowing detail. From the dates on the paintings, you can see that they are part of a large collection spanning years. Each has a life of its own, and, rather than “merely” being illustrations for a story, come together in a wholeness that I can’t remember being duplicated elsewhere.

Both of Carmen’s books will appeal to children, from the youngest listeners to the oldest readers; and to hablantes and English speakers as well. While Family Pictures centers on Carmen’s experiences as a younger child, In My Family begins to explore some more adolescent themes that may appeal to upper elementary school children.

In Magic Windows / Ventanas mágicas, as in her two earlier two picture books, Carmen introduces young readers to her family and community through the magic windows of the traditional folk art form called “papel picado.” With bold, thick lines framing delicate connectors (such as corn silk and cactus spines) that hold each image together, each piece is breathtaking. Here are the author’s grandfather, cutting nopales and watering the corn in his garden; skeletons dancing on El Día de los Muertos and family members making paper flowers for the tombstones; hummingbirds crossing the barbed wire Mexican-American border to get to the cactus flowers on the other side; an eagle with a rattlesnake; and many scenes in this delicate art form—including a self-portrait of the artist creating a papel picado. Magic Windows / Ventanas mágicas is a lovely bilingual book, seamlessly combining art and story from Carmen’s family and ancestors.

Unfortunately, the title pages on all three books note that each of the stories is an “as told to,” actually written by Harriet Rohmer. Since these are picture books that focus on Carmen’s family and these are Carmen’s stories and art, using this literary descriptor diminishes Carmen’s artistic genius and her storytelling ability. It’s also disorienting. Nevertheless, we highly recommend all three of Carmen’s books.

—Grace Cornell Gonzales and Beverly Slapin
(published 4/7/13)

Gathering the Sun: An Alphabet in Spanish and English

author: Alma Flor Ada

author: Rosalma Zubizarreta 

illustrator: Simón Silva

HarperCollins, 1997

preschool-grade 5 

Mexican American

In this beautiful bilingual homage to César Chávez and the agricultural workers he led, Ada and Zubizarreta have matched each letter in the alphabet with a word or concept in Spanish (a is for árboles, g is for grácias) and a poem in both Spanish and English about some facet in the lives of the workers and their families. 

The letter “C” and the sound “ch” are for César Chavez:

César chávez

Ya tus pasos no cruzan los campos polvorientos

ni los alumbras con tu buena voz

pero tu ejemplo 

y tu palabra

retoñan en los surcos

en brotes de callada esperanza.

Your steps no longer cross the dusty fields

where your strong voice once shone

yet your example

and your words

sprout anew in the field rows

as seedlings of quiet hope.

The brilliantly colored, vibrant gouache illustrations by Simón Silva remind me of the murals of Diego Rivera and José Clemente Orozco. Both hablantes and English speakers will appreciate knowing where our food comes from.

Gathering the Sun: An Alphabet in Spanish and English is highly recommended. 

—Beverly Slapin

(published 4/6/2013; revised 7/13/2021)

Woman Who Outshone the Sun and the Zapotec Water Rights Struggle

authors: Rosalma Zubizarreta, Harriet Rohmer, 

David Schechter 

from a poem by Alejandro Cruz Martinez

illustrator: Fernando Olivera

Children’s Book Press / Lee & Low, 1991

kindergarten-grade 3 

Zapotec

In the The Woman Who Outshone the Sun / La mujer que brillaba aún más que el sol, Lucía Zenteno arrives at a village, and because of her great beauty and her magical ways, all the creatures of the earth, air, and water—and the river itself—fall in love with her. The jealous villagers run her out of town, so she takes the river with her, leaving only “a serpent of sand.” The villagers find Lucía, the elders convince them to apologize, and, after a few words about the necessity of treating everyone with kindness, she returns the water and disappears again, coming back as a fond memory: “Lucía had not really left them. Though they would not be able to see her, she would always be there, guiding and protecting them, helping them to live with love and understanding in their hearts.”

Oaxacan artist Olivera’s gorgeous oil paintings, saturated in rich, bold colors, are full of “magic realism,” where fishes and otters swim in and out of Lucía’s hair, butterflies fly in and out of her skirts, and her sorrow at the behavior of the villagers is palpable. Olivera’s Zapotecanas are big and beautiful, and his Lucía is lush and glorious—a dark, zaftig Indian woman, with big hips and big feet, a Mother Earth figure.

The book, winner of an Outstanding Children’s Book Award from Parenting Magazine, has garnered numerous positive reviews praising it for its strong moral message about kindness and understanding and respect for nature and responsibility for the earth.

As a long-time educator, I’m always looking for children’s stories that teach conflict resolution by encouraging kindness, caring, empathy and respect. So, after the first reading, I really liked this story. But there was something about it that made me vaguely uneasy. A second read and a critical look at the copy at the back of the book made me think more deeply. “Alejandro was killed in 1987,” the copy said, “while organizing the Zapotecs to regain their lost water rights.” Why, I wondered, would a water rights activist write a poem about a holy person who takes away a village’s water?

A few days later, a colleague gave me a copy of the poem that Cruz Martinez had written, called “la voz del poeta canta” (“the poet’s voice sings”), which he published in San Jerónimo Ixtepec, Mexico, in 1984. The only thing that his poem has in common with the children’s book is the name of its central character. In Cruz Martinez’s poem, Lucía Zenteno, with her skirt full of butterflies, roams the land, stealing not only the attention of all the men, but the men themselves. She has no friends, no morals, and no conscience. She comes to wreak havoc and bring misery; and when she gets angry, she takes away the river and everything that depends on water to live. And she doesn’t return. She is that pure evil we warn our children about and guard our men from.

Last week, I viewed Maureen Gosling’s excellent film, “Blossoms of Fire,” and all of this came together for me.

A brief digression to set Cruz Martinez’ poem into historical context: The Isthmus of Tehuantepec is one of the most fertile areas in the world and the fact that it’s an isthmus has left the land accessible to plunder. For at least four centuries, the Zapotec people here have struggled against colonialism in one form or another. In 1981, the people of Juchitán successfully challenged the one-party system of the PRI (Revolutionary Independence Party), which had ruled for over 60 years, and voted in a progressive party, COCEI (Coalition of Workers, Peasants and Students of the Isthmus). Under the new government, roads and schools, clinics and libraries were built, public programs flourished and there was a cultural flowering. In 1983, to break the power of COCEI, the PRI sent in repressive forces that openly murdered and disappeared movement leaders, who became known as “los desaparecidos.” Fighting for the land and water was their crime, and Alejandro Cruz Martinez was one of the many casualties of this repression.

This is exactly what water rights struggles are about: right-wing governments and vulture capitalists’ diverting the water and effectively killing villages. This happens all over the world, and the Indigenous peoples rarely, if ever, win. Africa is rife with this history, over and over; where once were fields full of food for entire populations, nothing is left but deserts. Nowhere in reality—or in Cruz Martinez’s poem—does the Zapotec people’s begging and pleading bring back the water once it’s been stolen. That is what Cruz Martinez died for: the basic right to life.

There is nothing real or dignified in Children’s Book Press’s teaching our children about how Zapotec villagers begged for life-giving water, and then honored the one who stole it in the first place. Rather, it’s an insult to the memory of Alejandro Cruz Martinez and the Zapotec members of COCEI who struggled and died for access to the resources on their own land. The Woman Who Outshone the Sun is not recommended.

—Judy Zalazar Drummond
(published 4/6/13; revised 9/9/18)

Note: Below is Alejandro Cruz Martinez's original poem, la voz del poeta canta, and its English translation, The Poet's Voice Sings.