JOHN'S TURN

By Mac Barnett

 

Illustrated by Kate Berube

 

(Candlewick Press, 2022)

 

 

 

I checked this book out of my local library based on the writer’s name and the cover image. Mac Barnett is a clever, sparkly writer of children’s books like Sam and Dave Dig a Hole and Count the Monkeys. I figured I could use some amusement. But this isn’t that kind of book. (More on the cover in a bit.)

 

The book focuses on a regular feature of a school’s Friday morning assemblies. At the end, one student performs a special talent, such as playing the tuba, performing magic tricks or doing stand-up. This Friday, as the title notes, it’s John’s turn. 

 

At breakfast in the school cafeteria, John doesn’t look so good. The students around him eat, chat and laugh. John does none of that. He’s got a case of the nerves. Later, backstage, he changes into a white leotard, black pants and slippers. He sits, anticipating his performance, still looking nervous as the assembly proceeds through its normal agenda items:

                            Mr. Ross reminded us permission slips

                            were due Monday. We all sang a song.

 

At last, it’s time for John.

 

                            “What’s John gonna do?”

                            Andre asked without raising his hand.

                            Mr. Ross looked at his paper.

                            “He’s doing a dance.”

                            “Cool,” Andre said.

                            He never raises his hand. 

 

There’s always an Andre. And the fact there is, makes the reader worry a little for John. This is unlikely to be Andre’s (and others’) version of a cool dance. 

 

John dances. Neither John’s movements nor the music—“strings, violins and things”—is familiar. Kids laugh.

 

But they stop when shushed. John commits and, yes, he shines. He takes a bow. How will his peers respond? The ending, of course, is how we want things to go for every young John, daring to be different, sharing his true passion.

 

Bravo!   

 

I do have a quibble over the cover. I admit the image of a young boy in ballet gear, complete with pointe shoes, drew me in. I knew this kid book would be different. I figured it would confront stereotypes and traditional gender roles. As an adult, I saw the cover’s message: Very Special Book. But, for kids, the cover may make them giggle—boys, especially—and steer clear of picking it up. I would have preferred an image of John’s face nervously peeking through a stage curtain at the expectant audience. Indeed, there’s a suggestion of this in part of the title page. Given that the book avoids mentioning John’s talent right away, the cover is also a spoiler, making the reveal less dramatic.

 

On my second time paging through the book, I focused on Kate Berube’s illustrations, done with ink and paint on cold-pressed watercolor paper. She skillfully depicts each scene. The title page shows students gathering in the open assembly room (aka the cafeteria), some finishing up breakfast, some chatting, some seated facing the stage, ready for what’s to come, one intently reading a book in his lap. 

 

Whenever Mr. Ross talks, there’s at least one audience member talking to a neighbor. By contrast, when a student performs, the students give them full attention.

 

And then comes John’s turn. Classical music plays and the students look bored, skeptical; one looks primed to heckle. John looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, his face full of angst. His face is tentative during his first moves.

 

And then… 

 

In a double-page spread, Berube depicts six stages of one grand leap and we see John’s face change from worried and cautious to proud and accomplished. From that point on, there is no turning back. John is in his element.  

 

This is a well-told story and a highly useful book to share with children before talent shows or any school assembly when students or a theater/dance group performs. It’s also a great conversation starter about following one’s interests no matter what the peanut gallery might say or do. Pot-shots are easy. Sometimes they come when someone feels uneasy, the subject matter unfamiliar. Sometimes they arise from a desire to mock. There will always be critics. 

 

Let John and boys like John dance on.

 

  

BIJAN ALWAYS WINS

Written by Adib Khorram

 

Illustrated by Michelle Tran

 

(Dial Books for Young Readers, 2024)

 

 

 

This is a curious book, for the wrong reasons. The title doesn’t match the text, at least not to my satisfaction.

 

I checked out the book, thinking it would be about poor sportsmanship—yes, winners can be bad sports. I figured it would include a comeuppance, an occasion when the main character must deal with defeat and, in the process, realize it’s not about winning or losing; rather, it’s about playing the game. A great lesson to learn.

 

I also figured there would be sports involved. Soccer is perennially popular with kids. Maybe some meanness during dodgeball. Perhaps some cheating during hide-and-seek. (Guess who peeks when they’re It.) 

 

But there were no sports. No games. Not even board games or a retro round of Go Fish. 

 

The book isn’t really about a poor sport—not on-the-nose enough for me, at least. Instead, it’s about being boastful. And, in the situations presented, main character Bijan is off the mark when he constantly says, “I win!” 

 

He wins at drawing birds.

He wins at eating vegetables.

He wins at brushing his teeth.

 

What?

 

The situations are ones in which a person is more likely to say, “I’m the best!” or “I’m better than you!” 

 

I can swing the highest.

I have the best Matchbox cars.

My painting is better than yours.

 

Nope. None of that. To Bijan, it’s always, “I win!”

 

I felt Bijan had some language issues. I wondered if he had cognitive challenges. He also seemed obsessive.

 

All I wanted was a book on sportsmanship. Kids need that. 

 

Kids also need a book about modesty and toning down boastfulness. 

 

Somehow Bijan Always Wins blends and blurs these topics to the point it is confusing and the point is lost. Really, I should not have been wondering if Bijan has special needs. This is not supposed to be that book.

 

Part of my letdown comes from having read author Adib Khorram’s vivid and sensitive young adult novel, Darius the Great Is Not Okay.[1] (I gave that book five stars on Goodreads back in 2018.) A promising writer, for sure. Unfortunately, this picture book disappoints.[2]

 

It’s a head-scratcher. How did this get published by a major publisher? Who did (or didn’t do) the editing? Change the title—e.g., Bijan Boasts—and get more specific (and varied) about boastful phrasing. This could have been a great book, worthy of the digital art by Michelle Tran which is reminiscent of the work of Harry Bliss. 

 

Surely, there’s someone out there feeling boastful: I could write a better book…on boastfulness or on sportsmanship. There is room on library shelves for both.

 

 

---

[1] On the back flap, the YA title is missing a capital for the verb, typed as Darius the Great is Not Okay. Major miss by a major publisher.

[2] It’s only worth a footnote to quibble over specific content. Four of the double-page spreads are devoted to separate dreams Bijan has on a single night. (The books is not supposed to be about dreaming.) One dream would have sufficed. The extra pages might then have at least touched on games or sports. 

I AM A STORY

By Dan Yaccarino

 

(Harper, 2016)

 

This is a simple picture book with a valuable purpose: to help young readers understand the enduring love of stories. Writer and illustrator Dan Yaccarino takes us on a journey of story, through time. It begins with people from the Stone Age, cavemen gathered around a fire, a man speaking with his hands in the air, his audience captivated. There is nothing like a good story.

 

We access stories 
through various means.

Yaccarino takes his reader through the ages, chronicling the evolution of how stories are told and published, from pictographs to hieroglyphs, from tapestries to printing presses, from stage to hand-held tablets. The book ends in present day, a family sitting around a campfire, another man animated in the story he is telling, his family captivated. Story, Yaccarino asserts, “will live forever.” Isn’t that a lovely Happily Ever After?

 

Stories will endure.

I don’t love Yaccarino’s illustration style. It’s simplistic, intentionally cartoonish but, in the process, it comes off as cold despite sometimes colorful splashes of background color. The ideas are clearly conveyed, but the drawings don’t draw the viewer in. They’re seen on the surface; the reader can quickly flip to the next page. What I do love is the sweeping passage of time and the message that, despite occasional prognostications of gloom and doom for books (e.g., with the onset of the television era, ebooks and AI technology), story remains, in one form or another. It’s informative for a youngster and both reassuring and empowering for those of us striving to create new stories for people to discover (in whatever form) and enjoy.

 

  

THE SWING

 

By Britta Teckentrup

 

(Prestel Publishing, 2023)

 

The Swing is the picture book version of a tome, straying far from the customary 32-page format and coming in at 160 pages. Still, it’s a fast read. Or it has the potential to be. I found myself lingering.

 

The book is an ode to a swing set perched seaside, at the end of a bushy meadow, with two swings dangling from a red bar. Occasionally, they get tangled. Sometimes they’re wrapped around the upper bar. In some images they’re empty; other times, they’re a resting or a play place for one or two people, for a cat, for birds. Swingers sit, stand, gaze upside down and jump. The illustrations remind the reader how diverse the experiences can be when coming upon such a simple apparatus, sometimes coveted, oftentimes overlooked. 

 

The text is usually sparse. On one of the opening pages, Britta Teckentrup writes, “It looked out to sea and invited everyone to take a seat.” In a few places, a vignette expands beyond a single sentence such as when Mia and her grandmother stop at the swings every morning on the way to school or when young Peter rests alone on a swing after a daily swim, dreaming of his future and avoiding what awaits him at home.

 

The book chronicles the “life” of the swing set over a generation or two as some of the briefly mentioned characters get another cameo later on. Max and Paul, for instance would meet at the swings each day after school. Flashing forward, Teckentrup tells us, “They still do.”

 

The Swing evokes our own nostalgia around times spent on a swing, pumping legs to go ever higher or dangling downward, our bellies held by the seat strap as we stare at seemingly nothing in the dirt, feeling mopey or thoroughly bored. How many times did we insist someone push us one more time—or a hundred more times? Harder. Let me go higher! How many times was a swing a thinking seat or a momentary escape from dark thinking? How many times were occupied swings a place of power as someone arriving too late begged for a turn?

 

Martha had an imaginary friend
who arrived whenever she needed her.

That's the beauty of this book. Despite 160 pages of experiences, most of us can still recall our own special memories. The Swing gently pushes us to think beyond the page.

 

The illustrations are as calming as a standard swing ride though sometimes they go higher—farther out there, becoming magical as the sun’s golden orb seems within reach or the journey transports someone to a place that’s part forest, part safari. The color choices are drawn from a generally soft, muted palette, giving the book a sense of timelessness. 

 

And isn’t that typical of a swing ride? Time stops. We’re in the moment. Until the next time. And the one after that. Indeed, I found myself flipping through the pages many times, sometimes reading and observing all the way through while other times find joy and serenity in a few random flips.

 

This lovely picture book would also serve as a great coffee table book, celebrating the child that remains in each of us, eliciting conversation and an unspoken “Whee!” from a visitor. It is a perfect go-to for paging through, side by side with someone else, like a photo album on one of those afternoons when the weather makes an actual swing ride seem less appealing. But, wouldn’t you know it, Teckentrup sees ways around that as well. 

 

As with its real life counterpart, The Swing is simply beautiful.  

A POLAR BEAR IN THE SNOW

Written by Mac Barnett

 

Art by Shawn Harris

 

(Candlewick Press, 2020)

 

I’ve reviewed a couple of Mac Barnett book, Count the Monkeys and The Wolf The Duck & The Mouse [a comma-free title, presumably, in part, to avoid that whole Oxford comma divide]. Barnett’s stories are often quite humorous and, by comparison, A Polar Bear in the Snow is subdued. I would imagine Barnett was amused by white pages described as a polar bear caught in a snowstorm and decided, Well, why not go with it? There’s a story there but, truthfully, not much of one. The appeal of this book is in the art by Shawn Harris who uses rough card stock for the snowy background and then uses cut-out pieces and minimal black ink to create the arctic’s flora and fauna.

 

A blank white page is the start and then blank ink shows the polar bear emerging, first just his nose, then his eyes as well. As the bear begins to stir, Barnett invites the reader to wonder where he is going. Thick, torn paper in off shades of gray and white makes for a snowy terrain. There is a Jon Klassen influence in the text—indeed, the two have collaborated in the past—when Barnett asks, “Is he going to visit the seals?” We see a cluster of cutesy, frolicking seals. The answer on the next page may startle the young reader: “No. He is not hungry.” Hello, reality check.

 

The destination, after briefly terrorizing a human, turns out to be the sea. This provides a striking shift in color, the whites giving way to shades of blue, as the bear gets his own opportunity to frolic, the seals wisely out of sight and the fish apparently not to the polar bear’s liking at that moment. The scant story—nothing more than a jaunt—ends back on land, the familiar image of white…a polar bear caught in a snowstorm, though this time Harris has left some abstract tracks on the page. 

 

It's a calming book, somewhat captivating in a low wattage sort of way. Worth a browse.

 

  

AND TANGO MAKES THREE

Written by Justin Richardson and Peter Parnell

 

Illustrated by Henry Cole

 

(Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, 2005)

 

Almost two decades ago, penguins were having a moment. “Trending,” we would say today. In 2005, the $8-million documentary, “March of the Penguins” grossed $127 million at the box office. “Happy Feet,” an animated feature, followed in 2006, with a risky budget of $100 million. Happy ending: it took in $384 million. 

 

Preceding these was a 2004 article in The New York Times, “Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name,” featuring Roy and Silo, two chinstrap penguins in the Central Park Zoo, described as “completely devoted to each other.” The article noted that Roy and Silo were not a zoo penguin anomaly. “Before them, the Central Park Zoo had Georgey and Mickey, two female Gentoo penguins who tried to incubate eggs together. And Wendell and Cass, a devoted male African penguin pair, live at the New York Aquarium in Coney Island.” There were more scientific revelations, including reference to a book that noted homosexual behaviour in 450 species. 

 

Interesting. But let’s get back to penguins and that Central Park pair, Roy and Silo. In 2005, they starred in the nonfiction picture book, And Tango Makes Three. Book shelf lives are short and this penguin title would have gone the way of the dodo by now but for book bannings and missions to remove certain content from elementary school libraries. On the positive side, it also gets a mention every June during Pride month when publications put out lists of gay books. I finally decided to browse the book myself.

 

Opus adorned in a 

fruity hat...is this

problematic?

My first impression was neither a sense of shock nor pride at the suggestion of gay penguins. (Note: “gay” is never used in the book.) Instead, I was aghast that Roy and Silo would be held up as gay icons of the animal world. I am no penguin aficionado—in fact, I’ve never seen either of the box office hit movies I mentioned in the first paragraph. Perhaps penguins are true “bird brains” in the sense they’re not all that bright. My favorite penguin is Opus, a clever, amusing comic strip creation of Pulitzer Prize-winner Berkeley Breathed, appearing in the classic syndicated titles “Bloom County,” “Outland” and, at long last, just “Opus.” Neither Roy nor Silo would be able to match wits with Opus. As the book explains, the pair gathered stones, as penguins do, to make a nest. With the nest in place, “[e]very night Roy and Silo slept there together, just like the other penguin couples.” In time, they realized that the mama penguins perched on the other nests had each laid an egg.

 

It gets embarrassing. “Roy and Silo had no egg to sit on and keep warm. They had no baby chick to feed and cuddle and love. Their nest was nice, but it was a little empty.” Hoo boy. Good thing they’re cute in their little tuxedos. Let’s not make them grand marshals at any Pride parade. 

 

It gets more embarrassing. “One day Roy found something that looked like what the other penguins were hatching and he brought it to their nest. It was a rock”—um, kinda like the stones that made the nest?—“but Silo carefully sat on it. And sat…” The two took turns sitting on the rock. SPOILER ALERT: “But nothing happened.”

 

Really, book banners, is this a story you want to keep away from impressionable young children? If you’re homophobic, it seems this book may even help your cause. Being gay makes you dumb. Maybe conservative media would run with it, appearing on Fox News with the news banner, “Homosexuality kills brain cells.” 

 

I don’t know. Far be it for me to offer fuel to enemy lines.

 

I suppose when you’re singularly focused on “gay is bad” you don’t bother with nuances or any sort of critical thinking. The book explains that Roy and Silo are “boys” (forgoing males since that term may be too sophisticated for its targeted readers) and “they did everything together.” Everything includes bowing, singing, walking and swimming. 

 

Again, I’m feeling neither proud nor scandalized.

 

At any rate, on to the smut…

 

Offensive necking?

Maybe all hell broke loose though when Roy and Silo “wound their necks around each other.” To be clear, neither hugging nor kissing is mentioned. Certain adults might read all sorts of lascivious behavior into that, but a kid (whose development understands “boys” but not “males”) is going to think that’s the equivalent of joshing, play-fighting or putting their arms around one another. This is what primary students do. Who’s taking this to supposedly taboo terrain? I suppose it’s the one human character in the book, Mr. Gramzay, a zookeeper, who must finally make book banners rabid, when he “thought to himself, ‘They must be in love.’” Sounds sweet to me. 

 

Typical young girl reaction: “Ahhhh” because any mention of love elicits that. Typical boy reaction: “Ewwww” because any reference to love is gross. This isn’t a knee-jerk homophobic response. Young boys are socialized to think lovey-dovey stuff is icky. 

 

I’m having a moment, wondering how many book banners might be more like Silo and Roy than they’d like to believe, someday being reincarnated as penguins who would wait for their own rocks to hatch. Naturally, they’d dismiss the absurdity and heresy of such speculation since reincarnation is not a Christian concept. But I’m still wondering.

 

Ain't she cute...

Eventually, Gramzay finds an egg that needs tending and sets it in Roy and Silo’s nest. They’d done such a good job of tending to a rock, after all. (Kudos, guys! It didn’t roll away!) Unlike the rock, the egg hatches. Gramzay calls the chick Tango, reasoning, “because it takes two to make a Tango.” Most primary kids won’t know that a tango is a dance so, whoever is reading to them can explain this. I suspect kids will just be happy that the baby was born. If anything, they’ll wonder why the egg came up as a spare during nesting season. The author’s note at the back of the book tells readers that the egg was one of two belonging to penguins Betty and Porkey, but that pair had never been able to care for two at once so, basically, one of the eggs would need to be tended to by other penguins to hatch. Seems like an above and beyond pro-life effort the book banners could have spun, but winding necks and loving “boy” penguins had already been duly offensive.

 

Whoops! I'd forgotten about the "two

daddies" reference. Really, it didn't 

register. I must have been still overcome

by baby penguin cuteness. That's the

"normal" takeaway.

I’m sorry, it seems preposterously silly to get stirred up over this book and to seek to keep it away from children. There is no doubt that banning efforts have led to more young and older readers reading this book than would ever have been imaginable. For young penguin lovers—and, relax, easily triggered conservatives, I’m speaking generally of affection, not bestiality; what makes people’s minds go to such places anyway?—I’d recommend the picture books 365 Penguins, wherein a growing domesticated colony is content to be stashed in filing cabinets or stacked as pyramids, and Penguin and Pinecone, about another dopey main character who befriends, yes, a pinecone. It’s a super cute story, at least. (Where are the activists seeking smarter portrayals of penguins in children’s lit?) 

 

Personally, I’m not giving the Tango book another thought. I’d rather spend twenty minutes reading old “Bloom County” comics, smiling over Opus and saving any offense for the antics of Bill the Cat. In fact, that’s exactly what I’m setting out to do…

 

 

     

LAST WEEK

Written by Bill Richardson

 

Illustrations by Emilie Leduc

 

(Groundwood Books, 2022)

 

 

Kids don’t know how to process death. I’m not sure I ever came to terms with the possible death in Bambi. I saw the movie at the drive-in as a kid, but I don’t remember anything about that part. I’ve heard rumblings it involved Bambi’s mother. Even now, I won’t Google it. Why mess with my precious, imprecise memories of Bambi and Thumper, two blissful forest creatures? I can Disney-fy Disney.  

 

Adults aren’t exactly good role models in talking about death. When I was eight or nine, I asked my mother, “How come we don’t visit Great Grandmother Carmichael anymore?”

 

She looked at me, stunned. Eventually, she said, “Honey, she died. I told you that.”

 

Maybe she did and I filed my deceased relative away with Bambi’s mom. Still, I’m convinced she didn’t. Banked on the fact the woman didn’t mean much to me since she was always calling me Reggie. The mistake always made me cranky and I’d be shooed off to explore her old brick house with its secret back stairway, a musty basement and a room I thought was a jail cell. 

 

Huh?! I should have been more inquisitive.

 

Fortunately, there are books for children that help us broach the subject of death. When I did an online search, books about the death of a pet popped up the most. I’m not sure they would have helped me cope with the deaths of my goldfish, Chloes I, II and III. The wise move was to turn the fishbowl into a terrarium. 

 

I have high praise for Zetta Elliott’s Bird, which deals with the death of a boy’s brother, a rare title that shouldn’t be confined to a parent support shelf in a bookstore. Most books are understandably designed to be more educational than masterful works of prose, the illustrations often typical of what appears in low-budget publishing. I’m guessing death books aren’t big sellers in children’s lit.

 

I was intrigued when I stumbled upon mention of Last Week by Canadian author and radio personality Bill Richardson. At the time, a friend of mine was dealing with news that her husband had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. As a couple, they were considering Canada’s Medical Assistance in Dying (MAiD) as an option for when living became more of a struggle and the prospect of a painful death neared. As well, I’d listened to an older friend of mine speak with grief and confusion over his ninety-year-old mother’s decision to pursue MAiD as part of her end-of-life journey. 

 

Some people find MAiD repugnant. It has been in the news more this year as Canada was about to extend making MAiD a legally protected option for people with mental health disorders. As of now, that remains on hold. Still, assisted death is an option, under very specific circumstances, for people with terminable physical conditions. In listening to my friend whose mother chose MAiD, I realized that loved ones need various supports to understand this decision and to be a supportive presence in the final days. Last Week, a novella, serves as a tool to talk about it with children.

 

As the title indicates, the book chronicles the last week of a grandmother’s life from a grandchild’s point of view. Grandma is called Flippa, a nickname arising from her love of swimming in her wetsuit and fins, the name representing the distinct sound she’d make whenever she’d walk in her gear to the water for her hell-or-high-water daily swim. But the swims have stopped. Her arms are thin. She’s in bed much of the time. As Richardson succinctly tells the reader, “What’s wrong with Flippa can’t be fixed.”

 

Richardson makes sure to include brief but essential conversations to help the grandchild understand what is happening and to ease some of the emotional pain.

 

“Will it hurt?” I asked.

“No,” said Mom. “It’s very gentle.”

“Does it hurt now?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Flippa. “Now, it hurts.”

 

Last Week familiarizes the young reader with some of the rituals that correspond with a person’s final days. Lots of food dropped off. Visits that aren’t entirely sad. There are stories, there is laughter. With Flippa’s final day known to all, there’s a cutoff to the visits, after which it’s just close family on hand. The grandchild cuddles in bed with Flippa. 

 

Flippa said, “Ask me anything.”

I thought for a long time. I said, “Are you sure?”

She didn’t need to think.

“Yes,” she said. “Very sure.”

 

In addition to the sparse prose, the story includes black and white digital illustrations by Emilie Leduc, double page spreads of blackness to represent each night so each day of the week is more distinct, plus drawings that project a sense of pleasant quietness. Flippa smiles regardless of whatever pain she’s experiencing.

 

In the medical note that follows the story, Dr. Stefanie Green, co-founder and president of the Canadian Association of MAiD Assessors and Providers, offers her professional perspective to complement Richardson’s words: “When a person has an illness that will cause their body to die…they might ask the doctor or a nurse practitioner to help them to die a little sooner in order to end their suffering, or to be sure they are not alone…Because a medical professional is involved, assisted dying does not hurt.”

 

There is a time and place for this book. Children don’t get to make the decisions about a loved one dying but let this be a support to understand the process prior to and after death. Last Week is a story a child may need to revisit many times, hopefully with an adult on hand to answer questions and offer emotional support.