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A Friend for Henry Written by Jenn Bailey Illustrated by Mika Song (Review #14)

Bailey, J. (2019). A friend for Henry. San Francisco, CA: Chronicle Books.

Henry, an early childhood-aged child who goes to school in Classroom 6, is looking for a friend. Over the course of this text, Henry grapples with how to select a friend from his community. He considers the goldfish and his teacher, but decides against both. He thinks about various peers around him on each spread of the text, often misunderstood or frustrated by their responses to him. For example, as the group prepares for a read aloud in the classroom, Henry places all of the carpet squares neatly next to each other, eagerly anticipating sitting on the green square, his favorite. But Henry doesn't get the chance to enjoy the book on his green carpet square because Samuel swoops in quickly, scattering the carpet squares about and snatching the green carpet square for himself. Though Henry asks Samuel to wait because the squares are perfectly aligned, Samuel doesn't listen. "A friend listens," (n.p.) Henry thinks to himself as he is depicted angrily--his face flushed, fingers clenched, and feet in mid-stomp.

Henry continues the school day, losing hope that he'll find a friend. Near the end of the day, Henry watches the class goldfish, his head resting on his forearms as he stands in front of a wooden shelf. Katie comes over to watch the goldfish, too. Henry and Katie share a short exchange about the goldfish, and then Henry invites Katie to play blocks. "I don't like triangles,"(n.p.)  Henry shares. "I don't like broccoli," (n.p.) Katie responds. They build a tower together with no triangles and no broccoli. From here, their friendship story begins, starting with an exchange on the playground the next day.

This picturebook reads from a third-person narrator perspective, distinguishing Henry's thoughts from his spoken language with the use of quotations. As a reader of this text, I was at first wary of the title. In my experience, so many texts that include titles such as "friend," "brother," "for," and the like, tend to be dehumanizing and position the character with a disability label as Other. This was not the case in A Friend for Henry. Written from Jenn Bailey's perspective as a mother of a child (Henry) with autism, this story is really about desiring friends in a rule-driven, neurotypical world. Throughout the text, the reader sees Henry negotiating his positionality as a student labeled with autism (though this label does not appear in the book). With each new friend he tries to make, Henry is playing by the "rules," he has been taught. For example, Henry knows that "friends listen" but Samuel doesn't listen to him. A student at snack time takes three crackers instead of two. A girl at recess puts worms on the seat of the swing. All of these acts are things that Henry understands to be against the rules for navigating this world. They're confusing and frustrating. 

Still, Henry is operating in this world as a student. As he attempts a friendship with Katie, the reader is invited into Henry's in-the-moment thought process of how to follow the "rules" of making friends. Katie asks what the fish does in the bowl they are both watching. Henry thinks a list of things to himself--the fish burps pebbles, can breathe underwater, and reflects the sun shining in as colors on the wall. But he doesn’t say any of these things to Katie. Instead, he settles on a response that just lists "fish things" as what it is that the fish does. Here, and in many other spreads of the book, Henry is in a constant position to perform in a normative world that defies the way he sees, acts, and knows. These complex negotiations are tangible and obvious in the text, especially given multiple reads.

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A Screaming Kind of Day Written by Rachna Gilmore Illustrated by Gordon Sauvé (Review #13)

Gilmore, R. (1999). A screaming kind of day. Markham, ON: Fitzhenry & Whiteside.

Scully opens her eyes as the story begins. She wakes in a defiant mood. Outside, rain pours down. Scully notices the rain through her bedroom window and feels it but does not hear it. She bounds downstairs, fighting with her older brother along the way without putting in her hearing aids. Scully's mother has a busy day of grading papers ahead of her and not much time for her two children to be in a spat. Scully greets her mother and returns to her room to put in her hearing aids after a reminder from Mom. Scully loves the rain and wants to feel it all over her, the soft drops pelting her face. She turns her aids up to their maximum volume to hear the drops hitting the window. Scully asks her mother if she can go out in the rain. Her mother responds that Scully and her brother must behave if they'd like this privilege. However, the two do not even make it past lunch time, kicking one another under the table and dropping to the ground to yell and wrestle.

After being sent to her room, Scully decides to make a break for it, tying down the hood of her bright pink raincoat over her hearing aids so they won't get wet. Then, she's off, running out into the rain with mom soon yelling at her through the window. Scully pretends not to see and runs toward the woods, feeling the rain make contact with her skin. Eventually, Mom arrives and pulls Scully back into the house. Now both soaked, Scully is sent to her room where she takes a long nap and returns at the end of the day to dinner with her family. Now calmer and relaxed, Mom, Scully, and her brother go back outside after the rain to enjoy the night air. Scully is relaxed and somber--without her hearing aids.

Winner of the Governor General's Award for Children's Literature, this text reminded me of being a young child growing up with siblings--stuck in a house on a rainy day--with lots of rules. This story is uniquely Scully's, written from a first person point of view. As the reader, I was positioned to consider Scully's thoughts, actions, and words as she spoke them in the story. I felt connected to her as a young child, navigating emotions, having bad days, getting in trouble, and acting out of defiance. The presence of Scully's hearing aids are not central to the plotline of this story. Rather, they just exist as part of daily life. Scully doesn't always wear them or wears them to benefit her needs--sometimes she turns the volume down or up--sometimes she takes them out altogether or purposefully doesn't put them in. In my experience working with individuals who access hearing aids, this sense of agency is common--suggesting that this text invites readers who do wear hearings aids to connect with Scully in ways that I do not directly but also inviting insight for readers who do not wear hearing aids.

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Piano Starts Here: The Young Art Tatum Written and Illustrated by Robert Andrew Parker (Review #12)

Parker, R. A. (2008). Piano starts here: The young Art Tatum. Decorah, IA: Dragonfly Books.

Crafting this biographical picturebook, Parker gives voice to Art Tatum, a famous African American Jazz musician born in the early 1900s. From a first person voice, Tatum offers an overview of his early life, beginning as a young child dabbling with the keys on the piano in the Tatum family home. Though Art's vision declines from early in childhood throughout adulthood, Tatum learns to play the piano, so well that as a young teenager, he begins to play not only in church, but in bars, and later for radio stations and with other famous musicians all over the country. Though these journeys playing music take Art farther and farther from home, he reminds readers that each time he plays, he thinks of those at the beginning of his journey--his parents, church, and those who gave him his start.

A Schneider Family Book Award winner, Parker's portrayal of Tatum emphasizes a life story that includes a disability label, a lived experience made obvious by a famous pianist. However, vision is only mentioned explicitly four times over the course of the whole text. Early on, Art tells the reader that his eyes are "bad" and continue to "get worse" as he grows. Though he does not access a support cane or a probing cane, Tatum's neighbors support him in going to and from school. After these early explanations, Tatum instead turns to telling the story of his journey as an artist. His eyes do not return to the story until nearly the end as he shares that when he plays, he closes his yes, and "I forget that my eyes aren't good" (n.p.).

As a reader of this text, I found myself resisting this dichotomy of "good" and "bad" when referring to Tatum's eyes as it only reinforces narratives around disability as a bad identity characteristic. Still, I wondered if Parker was trying to add historical context to the story, given that Tatum is telling his story to the reader as someone born in the early 1900s. Beyond these language choices, though, the text speaks to a broader humanizing approach to stories that feature disability. This story, after all, is not one that Tatum is telling about vision loss. Rather, this story is about music. It is about finding adventures and being discovered. It is about loving something so much that you forget everything else about what is happening--including disability labels. For those features of this text, I consider this piece to be one that overall reaches for inclusive and humanizing narratives.

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A Splash of Red: The Life and Art of Horace Pippin Written by Jen Bryant Illustrated by Melissa Sweet (Review #11)

Bryant, J. (2013). A splash of red: The life and art of Horace Pippin. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf.

A Splash of Red is a rich biographical picturebook chronicle of Horace Pippin's life. Though he would become a famous artist, Pippin, born in the late 1800s, began life dreaming of drawing and painting in a small town in Pennsylvania. Growing up during this time period as an African American young man meant that while Horace had a strong desire to be an artist, supporting his family meant participating regularly in heavy labor to help provide. Eventually, Horace joins the arm, where his right arm, his painting arm, is permanently injured. When he returns, no employer will offer Pippin a job, as he is unable to complete the heavy lifting tasks required of any job for which he was considered eligible. Slowly, Pippin begins painting again, alongside whatever odd jobs he can find. Though this time when he paints, Pippin must adapt. Commanding his right arm under the direction of his left arm, Pippin takes a full year to complete his first painting. He paints and paints after that but does not see a single piece. Eventually, though, he is discovered by a local art guild, spring boarding him into his own art show and a very successful art career. The text spreads in Pippin's later life, still painting with the support of his left arm.

Text and picture work together beautifully in this text as Sweet has multi-layered every page of this illustrations. These include handwritten notes, depictions that match the text, as well as samples of art Pippin might have created. This text is also deeply complex in its concentration of a character who embodies multiply marginalized identities which are also embedded in a deeply racist time in American history. While Bryant acknowledges the realities of having to quit school to engage in labor to support his family, she does not also include why this was the case for Pippin--ignore important aspects of historical significance. She does, however, provide a humanizing representation of Horace's perseverance in the face of multiple instances of adversity over the course of his life. 

As a reader of this text, I found myself thinking back to an earlier text I reviewed, Silent Days, Silent Dreams by Allen Say (2017). How interesting it might be for readers to pair these two texts in discussing the ranging identity complexities of each character. One character, though a white man near the same time period, is labeled as being deaf and having autism. The author, an African American man with a physical disability label only, receives quicker and more long-lived acclaim. Discussing the intersections and parallels of disenfranchisement between these texts might be a generative opening for readers exploring the complexities of disability labels wrapped up in many other identity performances.

https://www.jenbryant.com/books/inprint/bk_splashred.html

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The William Hoy Story Written by Nancy Churnin Illustrated by Jez Tuya (Review #10)

Churnin, N. (2016). The William Hoy story. Park ridge, IL: Albert Whitman & Company.

 In The William Hoy Story, Churnin (2016) offers readers a look into the biographical life of William Hoy--focusing primarily on his baseball career. Born in the late 1800s, William Hoy did not make the baseball team at his school, The Ohio State School for the Deaf. He did, though, go onto be discovered by the American Baseball League, landing a spot on multiple teams over the course of his career. As the first Deaf professional baseball player, Hoy encountered a number of obstacles, especially early in his career, often centering around the lack of access to American Sign Language (ASL) beyond his interactions with his family. He was offered lower pay and gossiped about by other players who covered their mouths so he could not read their lips. At this time in baseball, balls, strikes, and plays were simply called out loud, with no accompanying hand gestures. It was William Hoy who first introduced the ASL symbols for ball, strike, and safe which are still used in American baseball today. It was William Hoy who taught and suggested to other players and coaches that they begin using hand signals to suggest particular plays, moves, or strategies. These benefits reached beyond Hoy, as during this time there were no loud speakers in stadiums. Now, the audience could see the decisions the umpires made, even the last row of the stadium. At the end of his career, the crowd in the stadium stood to applaud William, raising their hands in a parallel fashion above their heads, the sign for Deaf applause.

Through this careful crafting, Churnin and Tuya offer the baseball aspect of Hoy's life. This story centers on ideas of perseverance, strength, and bravery in moments of adversity. The textual features of this picturebook are deliberate in their positioning of Hoy as resilient but not pitiable. This humanizing take offers insight into the difficult journey Hoy had but also offers clear moments of celebration. These celebrations echo some of the argumentation behind Universal Design, or approaches that seek to benefit everyone. Hoy's suggested use of ASL not only benefitted him but also strategy, audience members, and other players. Still, Churnin does not stop short of also providing the importance of recognizing the rich and important of history of ASL as the audience stands to applaud Hoy in the way his language and semiotic resources represent applause--pushing boundaries on whose languages count.

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Boo's Beard Written by Rose Mannering Illustrated by Bethany Straker (Review #9)

Mannering, R. (2015). Boo's beard. New York, NY: Sky Pony Press.

This short and colorful picturebook offers insight into descriptors of basic human emotions through a dog named Boo's beard. Through this piece, Mannering (2015) offers brief descriptions of Tom, Boo's young owner, who goes to the park frequently to play with Boo. On these trips, Tom and Boo enjoy themselves, but there are other children in the park, too. They do not ask Tom to play, and Tom does not approach them. One day, Boo runs near where the other children are playing and a young girl named Lydia begins playing with Boo's beard, noticing that his long terrier-style beard seems to make different facial expressions such as happy, sad, mad, and surprised when pushed and nudged in different directions. During this exchange, Tom stands off to the side with a monotone expression on his face, which the third person narrator expresses as Tom's confusion during the interaction. Eventually, Lydia and the other children invite Tom to play. Tom agrees, smiling, and stating, "this means I'm happy" (n.p.).

As I entered into this text, I was hopeful that it might reach a humanizing exchange in which the children come together in an effort to understand each other from both sides. However, this text seems to fall short in its tendency toward normalcy. Though Boo serves as a great side piece for the story and offers perhaps places a helpful and even more interesting spin on exploring labels for different emotions--an often difficult task for those on the autism spectrum--I was, on the whole, perturbed by the dog's presence being the isolated reason for Tom's social inclusion. Rather than this text offering a humanizing approach to variation, it appears that Tom's group membership is driven by his pet ownership. This does not disrupt any notions of normalcy at the end of the text but instead leaves the reader wondering what Tom will actually do with the group of children when it comes time for the next activity.

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Rescue and Jessica: A Life-Changing Friendship Written by Jessica Kensky and Patrick Downes Illustrated by Scott Magoon (Review #7)

Kensky, J., & Downes, P. (2018). Rescue and Jessica: A life-changing friendship. Somerville, MA: Candlewick Press.

Rescue and Jessica is a picturebook offering a first person account of Jessica Kensky's experience learning to live and operate in new ways after losing both of her legs. Rescue, who comes to be Jessica's services dog, also has his story told, with first person dialogue of Rescue's thoughts provided. The spreads of the text alternate between the experiences Jessica is having as she learns that first one and then both of her legs need to be amputated. Simultaneously, Rescue, though intended to be trained as a seeing-eye dog, is better suited to serve as a more general service dog alongside (but not in front of) his future human partner. This story offers insight into how Jessica and Rescue tackled this journey together. Kensky and Downes (2018) offer an arc in the story as Rescue and Jessica adapt and shift with varying medical issues but also daily living. This story shares with readers how Jessica and Rescue came to rescue and grow together.

This 2018 Schneider Family Book Award winner, though not mentioned explicitly in the body of the text nor in the pictures, is based on the true story of Jessica Kensky's life, a victim of the Boston Marathon bombing. Still, the bombing is perhaps intentionally omitted from the text because that tragic event is not what the story really invites readers to consider. Instead, this text serves as an opening for conversations around interdependence. Throughout the text, Kensky and Downes (2018) are careful to attend to the way Rescue and Jessica participate in life together--it is the union of the two that makes participation possible. Often, texts position characters with diverse bodies or minds as solely dependent on those around them. Rescue and Jessica offers a refreshing lens on how Rescue nor Jessica could exist on their own, but rather the affordances of their interdependent relationship. These careful textual decisions were also evidenced in the imagery illustrated by Magoon. Spreads of the text include Rescue assisting Jessica in opening doors or helping her when she loses her balance. Other spreads, though, depict Jessica throwing a stick or ball to Rescue in the park, recognizing his needs for support and attention. This partnership serves as an illustrative example of the network of human and nonhuman entities that all humans access in order to participate in the world. However, it just so happens that for Jessica and Rescue, that interdependency and network is exceedingly visible in their physical partnership.

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Max the Champion Written by Sean Stockdale and Alexandra Strick Illustrated by Ros Asquith (Review # 8)

Stockdale, S., & Strick, A. (2013). Max the champion. London: Janetta Otter-Barry Books.

Max loves sports. He dreams about them. He draws them. He plays them. Every aspect of Max's day is focused on when he can either watch or play any sort of sport-related activity--from swimming to soccer to track. The plot line of Max and the Champion centers  textually on these ideas on every page. The accompanying illustrations within the story frame the words with a larger narrative of human diversity. 

Unlike many picturebooks that include storylines related to various disability labels, Stockdale and Strick (2013) do not mention via any textual reference that Max accesses hearing aids nor do they address the multitude of other depicted characters who obviously carry disability labels. Some characters access wheelchairs, others have partial or missing limbs, still others have vision supports in place. Alongside these individuals are plenty of other diverse characters who do not appear to have disability labels. Still, the intermixing of diverse bodies is apparent and obvious in the text.

While this story offers limited depth in terms of its textual content, its inclusion in a humanizing collection of children's literature is most evidenced by its visual features. Not only is there purposeful attention paid to the inclusion of various bodies and ways of being, but this text also seeks to normalize that visibility but not intentionally calling out or making apparent these typically excluded bodies. This text serves as an important model for other picturebooks and picturebook illustrators seeking to broaden physical representation of those who have historically not seen their lived experiences represented in texts. However, it is noteworthy and particularly important that Max the Champion also chooses to highlight an identity feature of its main character that is completely unrelated to labels.

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Six Dots: A Story of Young Louis Braille Written by Jen Bryant Illustrated by Boris Kulikov (Review #6)

Bryant, J. (2016). Six dots: A story of young Louis Braille. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf. 

In this vibrant and complex picturebook, Bryant (2016) offers a biographical account of a French inventor, Louis Braille. Born seeing, Louis' eyes were injured in his childhood, resulting in complete vision loss. Louis was a curious child, always helping his father to create things in his workshop with tools and leather. He also loved to sit and play dominoes with his mother. Though he was happy with his family at home, there were no accessible books available to him that he could read at his local school or even in his town. Louis left his family to attend the Royal School in Paris, a school for children who were blind or visually impaired. At the time, Louis began learning to read using the available tactile system. Clunky and massive, the current system did not allow Louis to read far and wide as he desired. So, he decided to begin his own invention--a simpler, smaller version of tactile reading and writing that would also be faster. Painstakingly, Louis worked, drawing from his inventive and curious days as a child carving alongside his father and playing dominoes with his mother. He comes to develop what we know today as Braille, a system built from only 6 dots arranged in two columns--like dominoes.  

A Schneider Family Book Award winner, the reader becomes lost between the pages of this picturebook as word and picture are interwoven on each page. The story emerges from a first person perspective--told from Louis' viewpoint. Though this story could have heavily focused on Louis' blindness, the tragedy of his young accident, or the later dismal conditions at the school he attended, this story is instead projected as one of perseverance. This perseverance drives invention which is in turn driven by desire--desire to read and write. Louis is a multidimensional character who is creative, smart, resourceful, and enthusiastic about learning. Early in the text, the reader does not realize that Louis' father hands and their ways with leather and carving as well as his mother's insistence on playing dominoes would come to impact his invention in such profound ways. This text offers readers who are unfamiliar with blindness or vision loss an opportunity to learn about the historical context of reading and writing for those who access Braille. This picturebook also offers representation for children with vision loss whose experiences coming to use canes and tackle social relationships is a gradual process.

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Emmanuel's Dream: The True Story of Emmanuel Ofosu Yeboah Written by Laurie Ann Thompson Illustrated by Sean Qualls (Review #5)

Thompson, L. A. (2015). Emmanuel's dream: The true story of Emmanuel Ofosu Yeboah. New York, NY: Random House.  

In Emmanuel's Dream, Thompson (2015) invite readers into a biographical picturebook journey of Emmanuel Ofosu's young life. Emmanuel was born to a caring mother in Ghana who carried him to school when he was small because Emmanuel was born with only one full leg. During his childhood, Emmanuel learned to address his mobility needs with the help of his family, locating a pair of crutches someone else was finished using.

Eventually, Emmanuel's mother became ill. At age 13, Emmanuel traveled by himself to the city of Accra, 150 miles from his home. Here, he worked to send money home to his family for nearly two years. After his mother's death, Emmanuel decided to honor his mother's wish that he "never give up." He began planning a bike trip across the country of Ghana, purposefully exposing and sharing his body and legs with the country. On his 10-day bike ride covering nearly 400 miles, people with and without disability labels ran and rode next to Emmanuel. Raising awareness of body diversity, Emmanuel has continued to be a disability advocate in Ghana and internationally.  

This 2016 Schneider Family Book Award winner demonstrates a humanizing approach to disability experiences based on the biographical account of Emmanuel Ofosu Yeboah's life. In her writing, Thompson is careful to attend to both moments of exclusion in Emmanuel's life (e.g., being ignored by his classmates at school) while also offering moments of character agency. Though Emmanuel's leg is not described linguistically in the text, Qualls offers images of the rounded edge of his right leg extending just beyond the edge of his shorts. Though narrated in the third-person, this story is Emmanuel's--with his journey, his thoughts, and his emotions taking center stage. The story is one of triumph, offering openings for perseverance among children living with disability labels. The messaging around the text, collectively, provides a starting point for pursuing conversations around change, shifting ideas, and marginalized populations.

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Silent Days, Silent Dreams Written and Illustrated by Allen Say (Review #4)

Say, A. (2017). Silent days, silent dreams. New York, NY: Arthur A. Levine Books.

In this complex and lengthy 58-page picturebook, Allen Say (2017) captures a biographical account of James Castle's life. Castle, born in 1899 in Idaho, eventually became a successful and unique artist, selling drawings and other works of art made largely from household art materials, such as soot or coal. However, Castle's journey to becoming a renowned artist in the early 1900s was not a journey the reader might expect entering this piece. James was born deaf. Additionally, based on today's disability categories, James likely would have been labeled with autism spectrum disorder (ASD). From an early age, James was locked in a small room for significant parts of the day because he had difficulty being around large groups, especially at school, and would scream for extended periods of time. Though James attended the Idaho School for the Deaf for five years, he did not develop spoken language nor did he access any form of sign language. Over the course of his life, typically kept in isolation from the rest of his family, James spent his time experimenting with art. In Silent Days, Silent Dreams Say's (2017) spread designs combine both image of the life James might have lived with photos of James' own artwork, his drawings primarily. This careful combination of word, illustration, and artifact creates an experience for a reader to pause, ponder, and linger on spreads of the text, examining complexity and gathering insight into James' lived experiences through his artwork.

Entering into this text, I was particularly interested in how Say (2017) would position readers to think and feel about Castle's life. Given the dehumanizing nature of Castle's childhood and the clear child abuse occurring in today's context, the opportunity to attempt to evoke pity from readers would not have been a stretch. However, Say's (2017) description of Castle's experiences strikes a balance of empathy paired with admiration. Throughout Say's (2017) explanation of Castle's social isolation and marginalization, I was positioned to consider the ways that this happening, this life experience, just was for James. With each moment of exclusion, Say (2017) offers what James did in response. For example, as an adult, James is tormented by local teenagers, who raid his art studio, steal his art, and trash the space. Like anyone, James is extremely upset, evidenced by what Say (2017) describes as a "terrible scream" (p. 45). Still, he regroups, rebuilds, and continues making. This combination of isolation, terrorizing, response, and regrouping characterizes the portrayal of Castle's life, positioning the reader to consider, empathetically, the difficult journey James' had but paired with this empathy is admiration for James' resilience and strength in the face of dehumanizing experiences.

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We're All Wonders Written and Illustrated by R. J. Palacio (Review #3)

Palacio, R. J. (2017). We're all wonders. New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf.

Based on Palacio's novel Wonder, We're All Wonders explores the experiences of Auggie through a picturebook lens. Written in first person, Auggie describes himself as a kid who is not "ordinary." Much like the cover of its sister novel, the spreads in this text feature Auggie as a young, white boy with one eye and no other facial features. Additional visual features in this text include low-set ears. Palacio's (2017) decision in the text not to name or label Auggie's categorical disability appears intentional, offering space for any child who does not feel ordinary to connect with this character. Though Auggie describes the ordinary things he does as a child, such as playing sports and eating ice cream, he notes that he does not look like other children. Though his mother tells him he is a wonder, often peers and adults are not so kind. People point, laugh, stare, or talk about Auggie behind his back. He escapes from these moments through his imagination, wearing an astronaut's helmet to venture off into space with his dog, Daisy. In his journeys, Auggie notes that there are people all over the world who look and talk differently from one another. This, Auggie shares, creates an opening for those around him to change the way they see him. The text concludes with the possibility of a new friendship as Auggie and another child venture toward each other in the park to play with a ball.

Through this piece, Palacio (2017) offers insight into the experiences of many children, including those with disability labels, who may be classified as looking, acting, or thinking differently. This classification as different or, as Palacio refers to it, "not ordinary," has real implications for relationships, especially peer relationships. Rather than ignoring these lived experiences for many children, Palacio (2017) tackles this topic head on, describing the authentic loving relationships Auggie has with his mom and dog but also acknowledging the difficult interactions with strangers and peers that move in and out of his life on a regular basis. The authentic representation of feeling and physically being isolated from others is an important aspect of recognizing the daily interactions of many children with disability labels. Still, Palacio (2017), through Auggie, offers hope as Auggie promotes the importance of recognizing and engaging in conversations around human variation. A potential new friend offers an opportunity for peers and adults to make space for the way Auggie is in the world. So, while Palacio (2017) actively acknowledges the authentic nature of many of Auggie's social relationships as difficult and hurtful, she also offers messaging that promotes humanizing interactions.

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I'm Here Written and illustrated by Peter H. Reynolds (Review #2)

In this creative and imaginative text, Reynolds (2011) offers readers a picturebook adventure into one day on the playground through the eyes of a young boy. No characters are named in this text. Rather, Reynolds (2011) offers imagery of a crowded and diverse school playground on a two-page spread, where children talk, laugh, run, and slide on the left side of the spread. The combination of activities appear desirable for all of those children. On the right side of the spread, though, one young boy, sits alone, covering his ears, crouched down close to the ground. The text on the page reads from the boy's first person perspective. The playground sounds like one extremely loud and bothersome drum to the boy.

The boy continues narrating this experience as a piece of paper drifts across the playground to rest on the dirt just before his knees. The boy folds the piece of paper into an airplane and begins daydreaming. In his dream, the paper airplane becomes big enough to ride and the boy rides the airplane high into the sky. The other children are in his dream, too, catching the plane and helping by pushing it back into the sky when the boy drifts back to the ground. "We've got you," they say. As the reader turns to the final few spreads, the daydream has ended. The paper airplane sits in the sandy lot far away from the boy. A little girl picks up the plane and carries it back to the boy. She is there, the plane is there, and "I am here," the boy finishes.

In this picturebook, text and image work together to present the boy's first person narrative of how it might feel to be on a playground where all of the world around an individual who processes sound and sensory experiences in different ways seems to move and shift quickly, forgetting to notice the child who sits alone. Rather than this text taking a turn toward pity, Reynolds (2011) offers readers a look into the boy's imagination. No longer does the scene on the playground reflect only feelings and tracings of exclusion. Instead, the boy takes readers into his mind, where adventure is alive and well. This presentation of voice offers a first person perspective from a child who lives with a disability label of autism spectrum disorder (ASD), though it is not named explicitly in the text (the label does appear in the description on the book jacket). Reynolds' (2011) purposeful decision to narrate this text from the perspective of this child serves as an important distinction, as textual representations of the experiences of children with autism are often told for them and about them. Reynold's (2011) ends the text with a social interaction, one between a single young girl, who crosses the playground to return the boy's paper airplane. The simple phrase, "I am here," serves as a humanizing expression of voice for a young child who is so often assumed or positioned to not be 'here.'

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Slug Days Written by Sara Leach Illustrations by Rebecca Bender (Review #1)

Slug Days, a short chapter book with illustrations written by Sarah Leach (2017), offers insight into Lauren's social experiences of life at home and school through her inner thoughts. Like everyone, Lauren has days that go really well and other days that are extremely difficult. However, for Lauren, who lives with a label of autism spectrum disorder (ASD), what begins as a good day, or what Lauren refers to as a butterfly day, can quickly turn into what she describes as a "slug day," a day when she feels like she is barely moving through time--a day when the world around her is frustrating and difficult--a day when people don't understand her.  

Lauren, who narrates the story, is an extremely multidimensional character, inviting the reader into her thoughts and reactions as the story unfolds. Lauren loves insects. She loves working on special projects with her mom at home and playing with her baby sister, when she isn't crying. Lauren also really enjoys going to the ice cream shop but not just because she likes the taste of ice cream. Though no one knows this, except of course for the reader, Lauren loves to go to the ice cream shop because, as she waits at the counter, Lauren realizes there is a groove in the counter where ice cream has dripped but isn't unreachable for cleaning. Lauren loves to shove her fingertips into the sticky goo and feel the sensation. This serves as just one example of Lauren's complex character development over the course of the text. Lauren explains her attempts at social interactions with friends and teachers, though her efforts are often misinterpreted or viewed as undesirable.

Leach's (2017) decision to narrate this text from Lauren's perspective offers unique insight into a multidimensional character, primarily through Lauren's thoughts. If the story had been told from a third person perspective, the reader may only have seen Lauren's interactions from the outside, leaving much unknown in terms of Lauren's complexity. In her daily interactions, Lauren does have multidimensional and authentic relationship with those around her. Often, these relationships and interactions go well. Other times, they do not. Slug Days gives readers insight into why Lauren makes the decisions she does and often acts in ways that others consider different. It is in demonstrating character complexity that Leach (2017) presents a humanizing depiction of Lauren's experiences.

Check out some of the book here: https://books.google.com/books/about/Slug_Days.html?id=AuxiDwAAQBAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=kp_read_button#v=onepage&q&f=false

[monicakleekamp-blog]

Review of: My Shoes and I Written by René Colato Laínez and illustrated by Fabricio Vanden Broeck

Reference:  Laínez, R. C. (2010). My shoes and I. Honesdale, PA: Boyds Mills Press.

Laínez takes readers back to his own journey with his father as a pre-adolescent in 1985, crossing three borders from El Salvador to Guatemala to Mexico to finally arrive in the United States where Laínez’s mamá awaits their arrival. René’s mother has sent him a brand new pair of shiny yellow shoes for the journey.

The trek for René and his father is long, exhausting, and treacherous, with various natural elements casting doubt on the journey. Laínez and Broeck illustrate these dangers, weaving together word and text, through René’s shoes. Over the course of these crossings, the shoes are covered with mud, punctured by a nail, nearly lost in the river, and on and on and on. With each discouraging experience, René reminds his shoes, “Sana, sana, colita de rana” [everything will be okay].

The story concludes with a two-page spread, Mamá, Papá, and René in a smiling embrace, René’s shoes clutched in his hands. The journey has ended, but the shoes, love, and family remain.

My Shoes and I offers an illustrative example of one immigration story, told from a first person account. Rather than Laínez disclosing his own feelings as a young person embarking on a difficult and treacherous exploration, his shoes take on emotional symbolism. “Sana, sana, colita de rana,” Laínez says to his shoes on nearly every spread of the picturebook. Though speaking to his shoes, the reader infers the reassurances Laínez might actually be offering himself. This text serves as an opening for dialogue among young and older readers alike, creating space for one story and offering opportunities for other stories to be told, experienced, and felt.

#latinxpicturebooks