Ana María Reyes Does NOT Live in a Castle

author: Hilda Eunice Burgos

Tu Books, 2018

 grades 4-7 

Dominican

Eleven-year-old Ana María (Anamay) Reyes’s surname means “kings,” but she, her parents, and her three sisters live in a too-small apartment in the Washington Heights neighborhood of New York City, home to many immigrants from the Dominican Republic. Because Mami is pregnant again, the apartment is about to get even more crowded. And a baby will cost money, something the family doesn’t have much of, so budding classical musician Anamay is hoping that her performance in a piano recital will lead to a full scholarship at the posh Eleanor school, which her best friend, Claudia, attends. To Anamay and her sisters, the school “looks like a castle.”

My parents laughed. “Maybe we should live here then. We are the Reyes, after all!” Mami said.

Enter Tía Nona, visiting from the Dominican Republic with her fiancé, Juan Miguel. Tía Nona and Juan Miguel are fabulously rich, and they’ve invited Anamay and her family to the island for their wedding – all expenses paid. Though excited to go and spend time with her cousins, whom she hasn’t seen in years, Anamay worries about not being able to practice her piece for the big recital. At her aunt’s home, she notices glaring class differences. While everyone in Washington Heights seems to live at the same lower middle-class level, Tía Nona has servants, whom she doesn’t treat very well. Anamay quickly becomes disillusioned with her once favorite aunt:

I stood there and looked at the closed door. Tía Nona seemed different from the person I always thought I knew—a person who cared about other people and treated them fairly. How could I have been so wrong about her? And now that I knew the real Tía Nona, could things ever be the same again?

Ignoring her aunt’s warnings, the good-hearted Anamay befriends Clarisa, whom her aunt disparagingly calls “Cosita,” or “little thing.” Clarisa works day and night and cannot go to school, and when she gets a day off, she returns to her family’s makeshift home in a grim shantytown. Anamay unwittingly contributes to Clarisa’s firing, and she doesn’t know how to apologize or help. But she doesn’t forget Clarisa, even when she returns to New York City.

Anamay’s year is full of ups and downs, friendships and misunderstandings, dreams attained and crushed. Like most preteens, she comes to see the fallibility of the adults in her world—not only Tía Nona but her unreliable alcoholic Tío Lalo, and even her parents as well. At the same time, she learns the importance of forgiveness, or cutting others—and herself—some slack. In the hands of debut novelist Hilda Eunice Burgos, Anamay’s story is endearing and real. Music is threaded throughout as she struggles with the emotion of her recital piece even after she masters its technical intricacies. Readers will cry along with Anamay, cheer her successes, and appreciate the warmth of family and friends who help her along the way. 

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

—Lyn Miller-Lachmann

Cuddled and Carried / Consentido y Cargado (“Beginnings” Collection)

author: Dia L. Michels

translator: Victory Productions (text)
translator: The Spanish Group (teachers’ guide / back matter) 
illustrator: Mike Speiser

Science, Naturally! 2018, 2019

preschool

A year after its publication, Cuddled and Carried / Consentido y Cargado is being re-released in a 6 x 8-inch edition, with a new teacher's guide and supplemental back matter. The book is also still available in a larger format in paperback and hardback.

Rather than pre-readers themselves, the target audience appears to be parents and preschool teachers. Rather than being geared to very young children, this series uses an adult framework. Even with illustrations, the vocabulary is far beyond what pre-readers can relate to. Words such as “grooms,” “guides,” “cuddles,” “snuggles,” “shelters,” “nurtures,” “nuzzles,” and “nourishes” lose pre-readers. 

Six pages of back matter are presented in very small type, and text, illustrations and activities appear to be tailored to students way beyond preschool—more likely, at grades 5-up. The first part contains definitions and activities, including a list and description of  “Animal Classes / Clases de animales” (Bird / Pájaro, Reptile / Reptil, Fish / Pez, Mammal / Mamífero, Amphibian / Anfibio, and Arthropod / Artrópodo). This section instructs students to match the animals pictured in the book to its correct class, and identify which classes appear more than once, and which do not appear at all. Another section, “Care and Attachment / Cuidado y Apego,” includes Cache Mammals / Mamíferos que escondan, Follow Mammals / Mamíferos que siguen, Nest Mammals / Mamíferos que anidan, and Carry Mammals / Mamíferos que carman; and instructs students to “review the definitions provided here and try to match the mammals in this book to the way the mother cares for her babies.” 

Except for the excellent cover illustration, Speiser’s watercolor artwork is for the most part flat, with a limited range of colors and shades; and lacking texture and feeling. The animals in some are naturalistic and in others, exhibit human expressions. The design is awkward, with illustrations falling into the gutters and cutting off the images. (In one case, the mama elephant’s left ear is cut off and, on the other side, parts of the mama seal’s head and body are chopped off.) The full-bleed spreads, while somewhat better, still do not come together smoothly.

Almost all of the Spanish translations—in the text and the back matter—are either incorrect or presented in standard American English rather than standard or colloquial Spanish. Here are a few examples:

• “Consentido” means “consented” or “indulged,” not “cuddled,” which would be “acurrucado” or “abrazado.” “Cargado” means “loaded,” not “carried.” When a diaper is full, it’s said to be “encargado.” “Carried” would be “llevado.”

• “Mi mamá me limpia” means “my mom cleans me,” which is appropriate, but it’s not a translation of “My mama grooms me,” which would be “Mi mamá me prepara.” (Animals sometimes groom each other and humans sometimes groom their animals, but human moms don’t groom their young children, so this example in English is meaningless to pre-readers.)  

• “Mi mamá me mima” means “my mom pampers me,” not “My mama snuggles me.” That would be, as above, “Mi mamá me accurruca.”

• “Mi mamá me da calor” means “My mom makes me hot” or “My mom gives me warmth,” rather than “My mom cuddles me,” which would sound better as “Mi mamá me abraza.” 

The final two-page spread depicts a family, whose members are sitting together on a couch. In English, the text reads, “My family loves me very much,” and it’s translated as, “Mi familia me da mucho amor.” This is literal, word-for-word Spanish; no one talks like that. Rather, it would be “Mi familia me quieren mucho” or “Mi familia me ama mucho.”

And, finally, that everyone in a Black family (dad, baby, grandma,  mom, older sister) is depicted with the exact same complexions, eyes, eyebrows, noses, and teeth—and, except for one of them, the exact same facial expressions—is a racist trope.

Books that are presented as bilingual or multilingual must be faithful to both or all of the languages. Especially when they’re marketed as educational materials for children, there is no room for error. Cuddled and Carried / Consentido y Cargado does not meet this important criterion and is not recommended.

—Beverly Slapin

(published 9/11/19)

Míl gracias a mis amigas y colegas, María Cárdenas y Judy Zalazar Drummond.

Seven Pablos

author: Jorge Luján 

translator (English): Mara Faye Lethem 

illustrator: Chiara Carrer 

Enchanted Lion Books, 2018

all grades 

Argentinian, Brazilian, Chilean, Ecuadoran, Guyanese, Mexican, Peruvian

Dedicated to “the children of the world,” Lujän, Letham and Carrer gift us with seven evocative vignettes written in the third person narrative voice, each about a young boy named “Pablo,” each from a different country in the colonial world. Each Pablo has a story, and here, young readers will get a glimpse of their lives.

Seven Pablos is not something that youngsters will pick up and quickly put down. An oversize clothbound book with a black spine, it’s unusually heavy for a picture book—in content, design and actual weight—and will slow down readers as they absorb what’s happening in and around the lives of these children. 

Rendered in graphite pencil on a dark, somber palette with occasional spot colors of yellows and reds, some of Carrer’s drawings may appear to have been hurriedly drawn and colored in by children—perhaps by the Pablos themselves. But young children don’t often portray the depth of expressions or emotions seen here.

“Pablo is eight years old and lives in Chile.” His father labors in a copper mine and, when he comes home, he quickly eats and falls into bed. Pablo softly puts his hand on his sleeping father’s chest, and “it feels like he’s touching the center of the earth.” On the left side of the double-page spread, readers will see two run-down, tin-roofed houses in the precariously built shantytown where this impoverished family lives. 

“There is also a Pablo living in Ecuador,” deep in the heart of the Amazon jungle, where his mother ekes out a living by picking and selling fruit. One day, they meet a group of traveling musicians, adding their songs to the trills of the jungle. Pablo’s mother runs after them to share an orange, and mother and son call out, “Don’t forget us!”

“Pablo is an Argentine boy who lives in Mexico.” His eyes show his sadness as he thinks of all his friends and relatives who have been taken away by the military dictatorship from which he and his family have escaped.

In school, Pablo attends a poetry workshop, and he has written this:

Stiff and cold, the soldiers march,

crushing the roofs

with their enormous boots.

The full-bleed, double-page spread that follows depicts the faceless, booted soldiers, standing stiffly in line, their arms pressed to their sides. Except for their hands, the entire spread is dark gray. Connecting with the text and Pablo’s poem on the previous page, readers will recognize what this horrifying spread represents.

Another Pablo, from Guyana and living in New York, confides in a guest poet that, when he grows up, he wants to be “a big guy in a uniform” so that he can “beat people up and get away with it.” After the poet quietly encourages Pablo to write down and draw his fantasy, the poet asks him if he would like someone to get away with doing that to him. And, “a few moments later, Pablo picks up the sheet of paper and rips it again and again and again.”

Pablo, the son of a teacher, lives in Peru. He thinks of his godfather, Frejolito, who used to be the mayor of Lima and would give cups of milk to all the poor children. Everyone remembers him, and Pablo thinks of how things might have been different if he had become president.

“Pablo also scavenges in a favela in Rio de Janeiro,” picking through an enormous garbage dump with other children, looking for things to sell. Each child is weighed down by a large canvas bag, filled with junk, hung over one shoulder. When a well-dressed journalist from the city (who carries an oversize leather envelope bag hung over her shoulder) asks him what he’s doing in the garbage and why he doesn’t go to school, he’s embarrassed and confused because she doesn’t seem to understand what’s obvious to him. 

Riding on the top of a speeding train with hundreds of other desperate refugees, another Pablo, who was born in Chiapas, is on the way to the US border. This is his third try; the other times, he was grabbed by the border patrol and sent back. This time, he wears his mother’s wedding ring around his neck. (These trains are collectively known as “La Bestia,” the Death Train, and travelers weigh the chances of arriving alive against being killed or maimed by accident or murder. Pablo carries his mother’s wedding ring in case he has to pay a gangster for protection.)

As each vignette ends, readers move on to the next while at the same time looking back. Luján relates the stories of the Pablos with care and respect for them and the young readers as well. He does not tell complete stories here because there are no easy answers; rather, he leaves room for child readers to search further and think deeply about the world’s children; the harrowing social, political and economic situations that confront them—and what we can all do to become part of the solution.

“There are many Pablos in the world,” Luján writes, “yet they are all one. Inside of each is a heart that beats and with the same rhythm as the ocean’s waves and the rotations of the planet.”

On the cover, Carrer has painted five smiling children, joining hands in a circle dance. And on the final spread, her evocative art shows 11 children, virtually bathed in yellow, some smiling, all looking directly at the reader, as if to say: “Here we are. Don’t forget us.”

Seven Pablos is complex and hard-hitting, yet at a child’s level of understanding and empathy. Luján, Carrer and Lethem are speaking truths to children about poverty, racism, militarism—and privilege—so that children can speak truths about power. 

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

—Beverly Slapin

(published 9/8/19)

Babies Nurse / Así alimentan los bebés

author: Phoebe Fox

translator (poetry): Zahydée Gonzalez, 

Victory Productions

translator (back matter): The Spanish Group

illustrator: Jim Fox 

Platypus Media, 2018 

preschool-grade 2

In this cross-species tribute to mothering and motherhood, youngest readers and listeners will find short, rhyming poems in English and Spanish that partner with luminous artwork. The diverse cast of mammal moms and their young includes horses, tigers, monkeys, seals, zebras, dogs, pandas, bats, polar bears, cats, deer, dolphins, and humans. 

Fox’s soft, evocative watercolor-and-pencil portraits, each of a particular mammal mom and her young in their natural environments—on the ground, in the snow, in a glade, underwater, on 

a tree, upside down, on the beach—are gentle and quiet, effectively complementing the text and communicating to young readers the tenderness of the nursing experience. The single-page illustrations work better than those on the double-page spreads, which, unfortunately, often result in gutter loss. 

In outstanding examples of “show, don’t tell,” each quatrain (abcb) in English followed by its Spanish counterpart is as soothing and warm as the art accompanying it. Although some of English text seems a little forced, for the most part it’s very good. And rather than an attempt to mimic the English, Zahydée Gonzalez’ beautiful Spanish interpretations of the artwork maintain their own rhythm and syntax, independently showing the story of each painting. Her technique recognizes and honors young hablantes and their parents and teachers.

For older readers of English only, the back matter (“Did You Know? / ¿Sabías?”) is informative and enjoyable. Among other things, they will discover that: horses can’t vomit or burp, tigers can’t purr, and monkeys hold hands when they groom each other. However, it’s unfortunate that the Spanish contains numerous errors. For instance, while the English text states that seals can  hold their breath and sleep under water “by resting half their brain at a time,” the Spanish translation states that they do this by “adormeciendo una mitad del cerebro a la vez” (numbing one half of the brain at a time). “Resting” would be “descansando.”

In this form, the back matter is useless for older readers who are hablantes and / or English speakers who want to become fluent in Spanish. This issue places an additional burden on Spanish-speaking teachers, who would have to end the book on page 21 and verbally modify the text or summarize the information in the back matter.

Any book—especially one for children—that’s presented as bilingual or multilingual must be faithful to both or all of the languages. If and when the Spanish errors in the back matter are corrected, Babies Nurse / Así se alimentan los bebés will be highly recommended. But as it is now, we can’t in good conscience recommend it. 

—Beverly Slapin

(published 9/5/19)

Míl gracias a mis amigas y colegas, María Cárdenas y Judy Zalazar Drummond. 

If My Mom Were a Platypus: Mammal Babies and Their Mothers // Si mi mamá fuera un ornitorrinco: Los bebés mamíferos y sus madres

author: Dia L. Michels
illustrator: Andrew Barthelmes

translator (Spanish): The Spanish Group, LLC

Science, Naturally! 2014 (English), 2019 (Spanish) 

grades 3-6

Each of 13 short sections begins with an attractive full-bleed double-page spread of a particular mammal with her young at home in their environment. The final section depicts a human family. The text on the right and a first-person heading connect young readers with each particular mammal: “If my mom were a platypus…I would have hatched from an egg!” (English edition) and “Si mi mamá fuera un ornitorrinco…¡yo hubiera salido de un huevo!” (Spanish edition).

Barthelmes’ detailed naturalistic animal portraits, in thick oils on gesso paper, are colorful and inviting: a soon-to-be-mama platypus about to prepare her almost-hatched eggs, a mama elephant protecting her newborn calf with her trunk, a mama koala on a eucalyptus tree with her joey on her back, a mama giraffe with her calf peeking from between her front legs. Opposite each portrait the baby mammal is asked, “How were you born?” (“¿Cómo naciste?”) 

Details highlighted in pen-and-ink and brown-tinted watercolor sketches of various aspects of the mammal and her baby fill out the next two pages. There are three more questions: “How did you grow?” (“¿Cómo creciste?”), “What do you know?” (“¿Qué sabes?”), “And what do you eat?” (“¿Y qué comes?”), followed by a third-person “Fascinating Fact” (“Un hecho fascinante”).

This premise requires young readers to suspend disbelief, which is a fairly easy thing for most of them to do. It’s not a bad formula; rather, in some ways it’s engaging. Readers will look for similarities and differences between and among species of mammals to see how “mothers” do what mothers do. (This might have worked better had questions been posed that actually related to human children as well as other mammals—such as “Where do you live?” “What do you eat?” “How do you learn?” “Who are your friends?” “What games do you play?”)

But there are several major problems. One is with the Spanish edition. Good literary translators are interpreters who are skilled in capturing a story’s spirit, humor, and rhythm. But when publishers contract with translation companies, what they get are commercial rather than literary translations. Generally, this has a poor outcome, and that’s what happened here. While Michels’ text is evocative and young-reader friendly, the Spanish sections are clunky and contain mistakes.

For instance, this is part of the English version of the elephant sequence: 

Then the other elephant cows and calves gathered round, rumbling loudly, waving their trunks, and flapping their ears. I dropped to the ground from between my mom’s hind legs with a big thump.

This is how it was translated: 

Luego, los otros elefantes hembras y sus crías se reunieron, haciendo mucho ruido, moviendo sus trompas y aleteando sus orejas. Caí al suelo de entre las patas traseras de mi mamá, haciendo mucho ruido. 

This is the Spanish translation back to English: 

Then, the other female elephants and their young met, making a lot of noise, moving their trunks and flapping their ears. I fell to the floor between my mother’s hind legs, making a lot of noise.

In skimming over the “How Were You Born?” sections, several examples of poor translation jumped out.  

This is part of the English version of the golden lion tamarin monkey section: 

We all slept huddled together, enjoying each other’s warmth, companionship, and smell.

This is how it was translated: 

Todos dormíamos juntos, disfrutando del calor, la compañia y el olor de los demás.

This is the Spanish translation back to English: 

We all slept together, enjoying the warmth, company and smell of others. 

And this is the correct Spanish translation: 

Todos dormíamos juntos, disfrutando, el uno del otro, el calor, el compañerismo, y el olor.  [“Companionship” would be translated as “compañerismo” and “of each other” would be translated as “el uno del otro.”]

And this is part of the English version of Mexican free-tailed bat section:

My mom cradled me in her up-turned tail, nipped the umbilical cord, and licked me clean. Then I nursed while she gave me a thorough sniffing-over, squeaking constantly. I answered back in my high, clear voice.

This is how it was translated: 

Mi mamá me meció sobre su cola, que apuntaba hacia arriba, mordió el cordón umbilical y me lamió para limpiarme. Luego, me amamantó mientras me olió bien, chillando constantemente. Yo respondí usando una voz alta y clara.

This is the Spanish translation back to English: 

My mom rocked me on her tail, which pointed upwards, bit the umbilical cord and licked me to clean me. Then, she nursed me while it smelled good, screaming constantly. I responded using a loud and clear voice. [“Squeaking” is “chirriando.” “Screaming” is “chillando.”]

Although the publisher of Si mi mamá fuera un ornitorrinco assumes Spanish-speaking children as its readership, it’s clear that it was not translated with Spanish-speaking kids in mind and will not appeal to children who are hablantes (native Spanish speakers). Rather, the faulty Spanish and clunky translation are an insult to the intelligence of Spanish speakers—teachers and parents—who are expected to read this to children. 

The last section of this book—“But my mom is a human…and I was born in a birthing center!” / “Pero mi mamá es humana…¡y yo nací en un centro de maternidad!”)—is problematic as well. Switching from animal mammals (which have many different species but are pretty much the same within species) to human mammals (one species that contains at least hundreds of cultures and a variety of socio-economic classes) doesn’t work in the way it’s shown.

The illustration is of a white mother and father encircling their newborn baby. Mom, in bed, holds her swaddled newborn in her arms. She appears exhausted (of course) and dad, looking into her eyes, appears concerned. Behind them is a Black woman in a uniform. She appears to be balancing a scale to weigh the infant. 

Using a particular culture to refer to all humans—the “universal human experience”—centers and prioritizes the white Western nuclear family. All of the art and text in this section  marginalizes or erases all the many ethnicities, cultures, and socio-economic realities of our communities. To do this is not only inaccurate, it’s wrong to inflict this superiority on young readers. 

The final pages of this book—text and illustrations—could have accurately reflected the multicultural and multiethnic nature of the human family. Given Barthelmes’ talent, he might have created a full-bleed, double-page spread (or two) showing several families of varying cultures, ethnicities, gender identities, and structures. And given Michels’ talent, she could have created a text that would have brought the concepts of “mother” and “family” full circle. 

The Spanish translation could have accurately reflected the spirit and humor of the English text, the quality of writing and translation that was done for Science, Naturally’s first bilingual books, the One Minute Mysteries series. (See our reviews, https://decoloresreviews.blogspot.com/2016/10/one-minute-mysteries-more-short.html and https://decoloresreviews.blogspot.com/2017/07/one-minute-mysteries-short-mysteries.html).

If My Mom Were a Platypus: Mammal Babies and Their Mothers // Si mi mamá fuera un ornitorrinco: Los bebés mamíferos y sus madres could have been interesting and absorbing books that would have engaged young readers in an aspect of the biological sciences and with a human cultural component as well. As it stands, there’s too much lacking. It was a good idea without the imagination to make it work. Not recommended. 

—Beverly Slapin

(published 9/1/19)

Míl gracias a mis colegas, Judy Salazar Drummond, Lyn Miller-Lachmann and Noam Szoke.

Zombies Don’t Eat Veggies! // ¡Los zombis no comen verduras!

author: Megan Lacera

illustrator: Jorge Lacera 

translator (Spanish): Yanitzia Canetti 

Lee & Low, 2019

kindergarten-grade 3 

Zombie

In the latest series of Kraft Foods TV commercials, non-Zombie parents who insist that their children eat nutritious foods chase them around the room or verbally battle with them—until discovering that offering them macaroni and cheese solves everyone’s problem. 

Ineffectual parenting

notwithstanding, the point is that just about all families want their children to be healthy. Although their definitions of “healthy” might be different from those of the rest of ours, Zombie families want the best for their kids, too. 

In Zombies Don’t Eat Veggies! and its Spanish version, ¡Los zombis no comen verduras!, young Zombie Mauricio (“Mo”) Romero cannot and will not abide his parents’ cultural food preferences. Among them are—yum!—arroz con spleens, chili con ojo, dori-toes, and arm-panadas. No, Mo is different. He has a secret, “deep, dark, dreadful, devious” craving for something “absolutely despicable”—horrors!—vegetables. Vegetables of all kinds! 

Mo earnestly attempts to convince his parents to integrate vegetables into their Zombie culinary world. First, he presents them with the stomach-churning (to them) book, Eating Vegetables by "Jonathan Saffron Gore," a Zombie tongue-in-cheek reference to Eating Animals, in which author Jonathan Safran Foer challenges readers to examine their eating habits.

When that argument fails, what Mo secretly concocts for his parents—with ingredients from his hidden veggie garden and prepared in his secret kitchen—is too good to divulge. (OK, it’s a delicious vegetarian gazpacho disguised as a delicious bloody mess, which he calls “blood bile bisque.”) Although Mo’s ploy is a bust—his Zombie parents hate the gazpacho—they know they must support their young Zombie son because they are a Zombie family and they love him beyond death.

Megan Lacera fills her tale with hilariously exaggerated puns (Mo’s mom offers him a bowl of delicious “finger foods,” and Mo begs his parents to “give peas a chance”), which Jorge Lacera complements with over-the-top cartoon images on a Zombie-centric palette of mostly darkened browns and greens. Here, for instance, young readers will see Mo and Mom proudly gazing at Dad, who displays his first-place trophy in the much-(Zombie)-coveted “competitive brain-eating contest.”

Lacera’s digitally rendered illustrations, in which the individuals in this Zombie family have varying complexions—Dad is brown, Mom is dark green, and Mo is light green—authentically reflect the multiethnic reality of the Zombie community. Plus, they’re very, very funny.

While the English version contains appropriate conversational code-switching, super-talented translator Yanitzia Canetti’s Spanish version not only reflects the cultural nuances of the spoken language, but effortlessly blends in spot-on Zombiana, which she has apparently studied. While Mom hopefully presents Mo with a bowl full of (literal) “finger foods,” the Spanish might be “comida de dedos.” But Canetti refers to it as “deditos en salsa” (literally, “little fingers in sauce”). She also adds or subtracts words or word parts to Zombify the Spanish, creating delightful names for the foods to reflect an unmistakable Zombie-centric flavor. For instance, she uses a hyphen to morph “patatas” (potatoes) into “pata-tas,” with “pata,” of course, meaning “foot.” As well, she employs Espanglish phrases in a way that will have young hablantes giggling. For instance, when Mo’s parents hesitantly agree to try his vegetarian dishes, an illustration shows them grimacing and taking (in English) “only a teeny tiny bit,” while in Espanglish, it’s “una probadita rechiquitita” (“a tiny retch-inducing taste”).

Hablantes and English-speakers—Zombies and non-Zombies alike—will love this well-done and totally silly story of the meaning of family, yearning to belong and daring to be different. And non-Zombie kids will see connections to their own lives as well. 

*Highly recommended for home, classroom and library collections. 

—Beverly Slapin

(published 7/18/19)

Muchísimas gracias a mis amigas Zombistas, Judy Zalazar Drummond y Lyn Miller-Lachmann.

My Friend / Mi amiga

author: Elisa Amado
illustrator: Alfonso Ruano 

Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press, 2019 

grades 1-4 

Indigenous, Mexican, Guatemalan

What does it mean to be alone and lonely in a strange place? What might it mean to feel safe? To be loved and accepted? To have a friend you can rely on? And what does it mean when that relationship becomes strained and possibly disrupted? 

In this intimate, heart-wrenching second-person narrative, a newly arrived refugee girl relates the story of her tenuous and emotional relationship with a white girl. In a sense, this narrative style invites young readers into the young girl’s life and challenges them to be like her friend. 

On the cover, the young narrator wears a red-and-white striped polo shirt and her dark hair is neatly braided and pulled into traditional Indigenous chongos. She faces a white girl in denim overalls, whose blond hair is casually pulled back into a loose ponytail. In the background are the Brooklyn Bridge and the East River. 

Amado frames this young girl’s story between two versions of a song written in 1915 by José López Alavés, an Indigenous man from Oaxaca, after he had migrated to northern Mexico. The first, in Spanish—entitled “Canción Mixteca—My Father’s Version”—appears on a front end page. The second, in English—entitled “Mixteca Song—My Translation” is on a back end page. Both languages portray the song as a lonely, mournful yearning for home. In a brief note, Amado informs the reader that her translated version is what she thinks her “favorite family song sounds like in English.” 

“For us, in Spanish,” she writes, “it’s exactly how we feel about living so far from the home that we left behind, that we miss.”

Told from her perspective to her white friend, My Friend is a poignant chapter in a young girl’s refugee story. The second-person narration throughout—without identifying the young girl by name or her family’s specific ethnicity, while inclusively incorporating the various heritages and pan-Indigenous images from the southern Mexico-Guatemala region—transports young readers directly into the story and heightens its intimacy. 

Amado hints at the backstory, so readers will learn from the song—and from a few words from the girl’s father—that this family has survived tough times, has limited choices, and, for better or worse, is settling into a community of strangers. And, for this story, that may be enough. There’s no further explanation because none is necessary.

Soon after the narrator and her family arrive in Brooklyn, she forms a fast friendship with a white classmate; the two are always there for each other. “I knew you would be my best friend the day I came to school the first time,” she says. “I know you and you know me. That is why we are best friends forever.” 

But when she invites her new friend over for a special dinner with her family, things appear to go awry. The girl’s best friend does not seem to like the food. Or the loud music, a song “that makes us remember where we were before we came here and what it was like.” Or the shouting and arguing. “That was so weird!” she says, and decides to go home early.

The narrator is bereft; she’s internalizing the horrible thought that her best friend doesn’t like her anymore. Echoing the song, she says she “feels like dying.” This is not hyperbole; it’s her pain, the loss and betrayal that wrap around her.

“I want to go home,” she cries. “I hate it here!” But for this refugee family, as for so many others forced to come here, returning to their homes and communities is not an option. Her family’s loneliness and sorrow are palpable. “We can’t go back,” her father tells her. “We have no choice. Just be glad you are safe…”

That night, she plays the sad song over and over. “I know you and I thought you knew me…. But you don’t know anything about me!…I was so mad at you that I never wanted to see you again.” On her way to school the next morning, she worries. She’s lost so much and now she’s lost her best friend as well. But as she reaches school and sees the girl, she remembers, among other situations, when her best friend challenged the mean kids who were bullying her: “Drop dead! She’s way cooler than you!”

And when her white friend thanks her for dinner and says that she “really had fun,” the two walk in the door together. Best friends.

Ruano’s art, rendered in watercolor on paper, effectively complements this refugee family’s realities, emotions and dreams. In one particular full-bleed double page spread, for instance, while the self-conscious white girl sits on the family’s couch, the young narrator and her father—their exuberance demonstrated by the rainbow colors that pass through them and the Indigenous art that frames them—belt out the song from their homeland and their hearts.

Elisa Amado was born in Guatemala, and it appears that My Friend might be part of her story as well. While the family sings this mournful song of loneliness and despair, the father is enraged at a situation he can’t control—they must stay here. For refugees desperately fleeing to the US—“into the mouth of the shark,” so to speak—this story couldn’t have been published at a better time. 

My Friend will resonate with youngsters who are immigrants, migrants or refugees everywhere. Amado is an amazing translator as well, and I look forward to seeing her Spanish version. Highly recommended. 

—Beverly Slapin

(published 7/11/19)

Muchísimas gracias a mis amigas y colegas, Rachel Byington y Lyn Miller-Lachmann. 

author: Elisa Amado
translator (Spanish): Elena Iribarren
illustrator: Alfonso Ruano 

Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press, 2019 

grades 1-4 

Indigenous, Mexican, Guatemalan

Elisa Amado is a wonderful writer and an excellent translator. Although Elena Iribarren’s Spanish translation here is adequate, it doesn’t reflect the nuances of the story—especially the child narrator’s own voice and her sense of self. 

Central to the story is “Canción Mixteca,” a song of loneliness and despair and wanting desperately to go home. It’s this refugee family’s favorite song, and the child narrator deeply feels the song’s refrain, “quisiera llorar, quisiera morir” (“I would like to cry, I would like to die”).

Most of the problems children have to deal with in middle school include being dissed and not having friends. For newly arrived immigrant or refugee children, their troubles and anxieties may be multiplied. Both the English and Spanish versions deal with this anxiety; however, Amado’s English version appears more realistic than Iribarren’s Spanish, which is stilted and sometimes misleading.

When kids at school mock the young newcomer as “weird,” her friend immediately shuts them down: “Who cares? We’re best friends. Is that a problem?” In the Spanish version, however, her friend’s words appear self-conscious: “A mí no parece rara. Es mi mejor amiga. ¿Cuál es el problema?” (“She’s not weird to me. She’s my best friend. What’s the problem?”) Today’s tweens don’t talk like that—they’re more confrontational when a friend is dissed. Like, “¿Qué les importa?” (“What do you care?”)

After a special dinner that the new child’s refugee family has prepared, her friend laughs and remarks: “That was so weird!” The child is bereft: “I felt like dying.” 

But the reason for her deep hurt in the English version is not reflected in the Spanish. In that version, her friend says, “Sabes que? Nunca he estado en una cena como esta!” which can be interpreted as curiosity about or enthusiasm for the meal rather than disdain (“You know what? I’ve never been to a dinner like this!”). Yet the protagonist is heartbroken, thinking, “Yo me quería morir” (“I wanted to die”), an emotional disconnect resulting from an awkward translation.

The refugee child is miserable. She doesn’t know how she will exist without a best friend. But then she remembers her friend’s confrontation with the kids who had made fun of her clothes: “Drop dead! She’s way cooler than you.” In the Spanish, however, her friend says, “Callate. Ella es míl veces más interesante que tú.” (“Shut up. She’s a thousand times more interesting than you.”) 

While “callate” would be appropriate here—unless you really wanted a person to die, in which case you’d say, “muerate”—the rest doesn’t even come close to a rejoinder to kids who are trying to embarrass your friend. Rather, you’d probably say “¡Callate—Ella es mucho más chida que tú!” (Shut up! She’s way cooler than you!”)

In comparison to the vividness and specifics of Amado’s English version, Iribarren’s Spanish feels flattened and generic. It doesn’t reflect how tweens express themselves; it fails to convey the passion of a child in pain or the validation she feels when her best friend defends her. While My Friend is *highly recommended for all home, library and classroom collections, Mi amiga is not.

—Beverly Slapin

(published 12/16/19)

Muchísimas gracias a mis amigas y colegas María Cárdenas, Amy Costales, y Lyn Miller-Lachmann.

Illustrations copyright © 2019 by Alfonso Ruano. Reproduced by permission of the publisher, Groundwood Books (www.groundwoodbooks.com).