JOURNEY on a rainy night

I was walking to a drawing group earlier this evening and I thought, in my mind's running narration of the book of my life (this is normal, right?), "It had been eleven years since she went to her first comic drawing group." Eleven, my editor commented, I don't know where you came up with that--and then I counted, and if I place myself in the year that I first dated the ex who got me into comics and before I moved to California, I would have been 24, and so that means that it would have been ten years ago, which is pretty darn close. I was living in Chicago then, and I remember it was very cold, and there was a lot of snow and slush on the streets. So it may very well have been February. And it's possible, so, yeah, why not, let's just go with this--TODAY was my ten year anniversary of making comics. As of today, I have been making comics for ten years. 

On that day in Chicago, I walked and took the bus to an overly warm coffee shop near Wilson and Broadway, where I met a really nice guy named Dirk and some other lovely nerdy types. Today, I went somewhere off another Broadway in a different city, met some new people who were just as lovely, and by way of introduction I passed around Aaron Becker's JOURNEY, a fine example of sequential art, wordless, in picture book form. I think the only complaint I have about JOURNEY is--it isn't long enough? It feels like it ends just as the adventures start to ramp up. I could see it being a long graphic novel that goes on to cover multitudes of time and space and cycles the two kids and their magic bird through archway after archway into distant lands.

(But, I'm a homebody. I like JOURNEY the way it is.)

People ask me if I'll ever move back to Chicago. I say I won't, but I think the real answer is I can't. I go back to visit friends, and I spend every visit in the jaws of nostalgia--there was one day I was struck, walking along the edge of Grant Park, nearly to tears by the arrangement of tiny pebbles in the cracks between each square of the sidewalk, because those were the pebbles I spent hours picking and choosing and layering in the bottom of my terrarium so the soil I put in for my pet crickets would drain properly. Yuh huh. I am a nerd AND a giant sap. But while I can travel to Chicago any time, and I could pack up and move back to Andersonville, I can never move back to that sidewalk pressing points against my bare knees as I carefully chose the best rocks for the cricket jungle. I can't move back to the way it felt to wear a jean jacket on the first warm day of spring even if that song did give me the strongest sensory memory of warm wind with a little rain.

I wish I could go back to ten years ago some days--I wish I could go back to the warm rush of people in a coffee shop liking me, asking me what kind of microns I've tried so far. I wish I could go back to fresh and new in art. Aaron Becker is a first-time picture book author and he got a Caldecott Honor, so I guess you could say he nailed it. I wish I could move back to the time before I failed and made mistakes... big, adult mistakes. Not like filling your terrarium with soil without a layer of stones at the bottom so then your crickets are too damp and don't survive. Oh no.

Not that it's all been mistakes! So many wonderful things have happened too. I moved to California. I lived in San Francisco. I fell in love and got a dog. I learned to speak the truth, to look honestly at things even though I didn't like them. I danced in party dresses until 1am and fell exhausted into cabs, too warm to even think about putting my coat back on even though it was probably February. Most of all, I made lots and lots of art. Some good. A lot of it bad. In every way I drew a door of my own engineering and hurled my little body through it. I didn't have a deeply saturated red balloon, but all the same, it's been nice.

When I visit Chicago I get to look through a knothole, the last ten years peeled away. I can flip through the book. But as I close the cover it occurs to me that someone really ought to tell that little girl that if she goes through the door she can never come back out.

I walked home from drawing group and it was raining. I tried at first to duck my head, squinching up my face to, I don't know, spook the rain away from it? But then I remembered that in Chicago I gave up umbrellas--they so often flipped inside out that I decided they were a waste of money, and the worst that was going to happen was I would get a little bit wet. So, tonight, I put my face up and walked in the rain. I was glad I did because it was a misty kind of rain, and under the streetlights it looked just the slightest little bit like snow.


Trying something new here

Because I'm also really interested in illustrated children's books, illustration in general, and children's librarian stuff:

-I just discovered Clementine Bouvais' blog, thanks to Betsy Bird, and I am grateful. Dr. Bouvais is a French lady living in England writing academic critiques of children's literature. And she has recently started an academic study of "cultural and literary representations of child precocity." I love this. Also she has pretty hair.

-I'm a nerd for the ALA Youth Media Awards, and my reasons are twofold: 1) without fail, they showcase writing and art that is outstanding; and 2) they speak to the conservatism and limited perspectives that are common in librarianship. This last one is for better or for worse, and I do not count myself outside of that limited perspective. I am a white lady from a middle class background who possesses an advanced degree and works in a professional classification; I do not have lived experience as a person of color, a person who struggles with poverty, or a person of an underrepresented race or social class. I deeply appreciate when I get called out on views that I have that exclude or disrespect people not of my background.

I like LOCOMOTIVE, the 2014 Caldecott winner. It's lovely, and I don't necessarily dispute its choice as the most distinguished picture book for children of this year. However, I did notice while reading it that it's a white, white book. It's about a white family who travels across the country on the Transcontinental Railroad in 1869. Picture books about white people make up the vast majority of picture books (well, the ones not about animals, anyway); what is noteworthy about this one is that the family's voyage takes place through American Indian lands, and the latter half of the railroad was built by Chinese immigrants. Both of these groups make small appearances in the book, but ya know... not much. 

Debbie Reese took Brian Floca to task over this... and he responded. And then she responded. The whole discussion should be required reading. It's great stuff. And now Debbie Reese is my hero.
Again, I don't dispute the selection of this book for the Caldecott--I DO think the conversation between Debbie Reese and Brian Floca should be spread far and wide and included in lesson plans that spring up around the book. It's part of the context of the book now (the most interesting part of any book, imho). 

-At the Mock Newbery I attended this year, we had a discussion around the book ERUPTION: VOLCANOES AND THE SCIENCE OF SAVING LIVES. Several of us perceived a negative bias on the part of the author toward the people living in communities affected by the volcanoes. But we had a hard time nailing down why. The one that jumped out at me was on page 22, in the caption under a photo of people evacuating a village; it reads "Aeta tribespeople threatened by Mount Pinatubo flee their village with their meager belongings." Why choose to describe the belongings as "meager?" Most of the people in the picture are carrying one bag; one small child is carrying a puppy and another what might be a chicken. Do the people in the photo consider their possessions "meager?" The word "meager" implies pathetic to me, deserving of sympathy or pity. If the author's intent was to highlight how few possessions the people had, a word like "minimal" could have conveyed that with less negativity.... but why couldn't she just say "with their belongings?" (Side question--does the author usually write the captions for a book's photos? Or does the photographer? I can't find any indication in this book.)

Someone else in the room stated an objection to the author's use of the word "villagers" to describe the people living in volcano-impacted communities, and this was echoed by a commenter on Heavy Medal (scroll down). I scanned the book again and noted that the author seems to use the word "villagers" interchangeably with "locals" (as on p. 45) and "citizens" (as on p. 25). She describes the communities in which they live as "villages," which seems accurate, and therefore "villagers" seems to be an accurate description. However, most often she uses the word "people." And other similar words, like "woman," "man," "children," etc. Which I find pretty downright respectful, actually.
What was it, then, that made some of us feel the word was loaded? And that made some of us uncomfortable with the book's presentation of the people living around the volcanoes?

What I've come up with, after much thought, is that the book as a whole lacks the voice of the people who live in the communities affected by the volcanoes... in kind of the same way that LOCOMOTIVE lacks the voice of the American Indians impacted by the transcontinental railroad. And in both books, you could make the counter argument "the book wasn't about that." And that's true. LOCOMOTIVE is, in Brian Floca's own words, "a book about what it was like to operate and travel behind a steam locomotive in 1869." ERUPTION is a book about scientists working on a problem related to their field of science. It told the story of an international communitiy of volcanologists working to save lives by predicting volcanic eruptions, and it did a great job at that. LOCOMOTIVE tells the story of a family riding the brand new transcontinental railroad in 1869 exceptionally well. Do those books HAVE to tell the stories of the people who were impacted by the volcanic eruptions, or had their lives and cultures ruined as a result of the TR? (And I should note that I do not equate volcanic eruptions and American colonialism! eek.) 

No, they don't HAVE to. But, they could. And the fact that they don't means that once again, someone's voice has been left out of the conversation. Guess whose? (Give you a hint: it's not the dominant class.)

Of course we evaluate a book for what it is and not what it isn't.... but as a children's librarian, I really value books that include the perspectives of those who are usually excluded: people in poverty, people of color, people of minority races, etc. Like, REALLY value them. It makes me genuinely sad to encounter books that are ripe with opportunity for the inclusion of minority voices, and they just.. don't do it. It sucks. It feels like a great opportunity passed up.

I don't think that missed opportunity makes a book not good, or not valuable... but geez, it's a bummer that it wasn't even MORE good and valuable, when it had the opportunity to be so.  For example, the Aeta people mentioned in ERUPTION. The name "Aeta" only appears twice in the text of the book, and it's not in the glossary or the index. So I googled. There's a Wikipedia article (don't hate, I love Wikipedia) that describes the Aeta people as nomadic, with an average life expectancy at birth of 16 years. The references at the end of the article point to other sources, some of which can't be accessed online, but they could surely be gotten by somebody researching a book. I found an article in one of my library's databases that talks about how the Aeta's way of life changed enormously after the eruption of Mt. Pinatubo--the eruption that takes up about three chapters of ERUPTION. A sidebar about the Aeta people would have been a fascinating inclusion. Why isn't there one? Is it necessary in a book about volcanologists? Possibly not. But I wonder about the kid with the puppy. What's her life like? From my minimal research, I know that the western clothing she wears is a relatively new thing for her community, and that if she is lucky and healthy and survives the eruption of Mt. Pinatubo, she may reach her tribe's upper life expectancy of 27 years. I would love to know more. I would love to have learned this from ERUPTION.

-Switching gears. I ILLed the book LITTLE BOY BROWN and promptly forgot why. It sat on my desk for about two weeks while I tried to remember. Finally, I googled the title and remembered the Brain Pickings article that highlighted its re-issue by Enchanted Lion. (It also made Brain Pickings' list of Best Children's Illustrated Books of 2013.) Maria Popova describes it as "a magnificent ode to childhood and loneliness, easily the greatest ode to childhood and loneliness ever written." Well, I can get behind that. The drawings are lovely too.



More new cat, and East Bay Zine Fest

Another fun comic for you. If you like this stuff, you should catch me this Saturday at East Bay Zine Fest. If you can't, good news for you! I'm re-opening my etsy store. Should be back up and stocked by Monday.



Judgey cat is judgey

We got a new cat recently, and as he spent his customary first day sniffing everything in the house, I started feeling self-conscious about things. Like "oh, I don't know why I still have that," or "I've been meaning to fix that thing."


The other white meat

When choosing desserts this Thanksgiving, don't forget about APPLE.