Thursday, January 11, 2018

Reviewing While White: Tinyville Town: I’m a Police Officer

Cover of Tinyville Town: I'm a Police Officer
by Brian Biggs.
Board books are often one of children’s first experiences with literature. Young people chew them, cuddle with them, and yes, read them. They serve as an introduction to what many caregivers hope will be a lifetime of reading. They help children make sense of the world. Creating successful board books is no easy task given their limited format, length, and broad audience (they must be enjoyed by children and, at minimum, tolerable to adults, even upon their thousandth re-read). This challenge increases when a book is about a complex topic about which audiences will have varied opinions and experiences.

I thought of this challenge when I first saw Tinyville Town: I’m a Police Officer, written and illustrated by Brian Biggs. I also thought about Amy Martin’s post, “Rethinking Books about Police” and the police book evaluation toolkit created by the Oakland Public Library. A book about a police officer for young readers is an ambitious topic, especially considering the racism, mass incarceration, and police violence in our world. 

In its Kirkus review, this book is described as “A worthy introduction to the concept of police officers,” so I was interested to see how this book might follow the pattern of the other Tinyville Town books (such as I’m a Librarian) while also setting itself apart. 



The police officer and town residents discover
a monkey eating bananas and donuts.
The book opens with a Black police officer and her cat, waking up and heading out for their day. Her fellow officers have different skin tones, as do the people in their community of Tinyville Town. The officer is shown rescuing a cat from a tree and making sure a girl doesn’t slip on a banana peel. When the bakery and grocery store are robbed, she searches for the culprit: “Big ears. Long tail. Likes bananas and donuts.” As she follows the clues (and readers recall a White, bearded zookeeper putting “missing” posters up throughout the book), the “perpetrator” (not “suspect”) is shown having a picnic. The robbera monkeysmiles wide as the White zookeeper pulls it away (off the page, presumably back to the zoo). The officer heads back home for a good night’s sleep.

The monkey character smiles and waves goodbye
to the police officer as it is taken away.
I am deeply troubled by the perpetrator in this book being a monkey. The police force kills a disproportionate number of Black people in this country, and there is a racist history of comparing Black people to monkeys (as explained by Wulf Hund and Charles Mills here). I’m sure some readers will say that I’m reading too much into thisthat an animal is just an animal. But of all the non-human characters from which one could choose, it is a monkey, and it is important to remember that monkeys have been used throughout history to dehumanize Black people and justify genocide. Conversations continue today about this type of imagery, as seen this week when the clothing company H&M apologized for posting a photo of a young Black model in a hooded sweatshirt with the words “Coolest Monkey in the Jungle." Furthermore, for the suspect to return to the zoo sends a message to readers that those stopped by police are brought to places where they belong. Right now New Jersey prisons are trying to ban Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow, and schools in Texas are trying to prevent students from reading The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas. These stories and messages do not exist in a vacuum, and neither does this book.

I am sure that the team that worked on this book did not intend to have those connections drawn. The “messy thief” monkey is in the book all the same. I do not believe one book has to do everything, nor do I think I can predict how every reader will react to every text (consciously or unconsciously). Some readers aren’t even speaking, so I’ll never know exactly what they are thinking in the moment. But just because readers don’t express their feelings through speech doesn’t mean that they aren’t paying attention and growing in understanding of their surroundings, their literature, and themselves. They’re taking it all in. What messages are we endorsing as they do so?

-Elisa Gall
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Monday, January 8, 2018

Rethinking Books about Police: Putting OPL's New Toolkit to Work

 
Amy Martin is the Children's Collection Management Librarian at the Oakland Public Library in California, and has worked as a children's librarian in Oakland, San Francisco, and Chicago. All views expressed are her own, and do not reflect those of her employer.

Let’s talk about police books for children.

When I worked as a branch children’s librarian in East Oakland, I had preschool teachers ask me for books on community helpers--firefighters, postal workers, teachers, police. I handed over the early nonfiction titles we had on police, even as something pinged in my brain telling me I wasn’t giving them the right information.

I am White and grew up in a middle class suburb, and with the exception of having been detained without cause during a protest, I have not experienced a threat to my safety or civil rights at the hands of police. I have a vivid image of the one time my family called police to our home in my childhood: we had come home and found a door slightly open, and an officer came to check the house for us. He arrived within minutes of our call and greeted us politely. After confirming that no one was in our house and nothing was missing, he left without incident.

The books about police in my library’s collection matched my experience. However, they did not match the experience of everyone in our community. For example, the patron who told me quite cheerfully one morning that she and her four children had been pulled from their beds by police in the early morning and made to kneel against a wall for hours while officers searched their building for a suspect. The books in my library did not match the experience of the children I met who’d had parents arrested, or stopped or searched without cause, or had loved ones brutalized.

It was after the murder of Philando Castile that it clicked for me: we were not seeing the experiences many people of color have with police in children’s books, and something was wrong with that. Are we doing children a disservice when every book we provide about police says they only protect, never harm, when it is possible to watch police officers harming unarmed people on video? Where is the book for the four-year-old daughter of Diamond Reynolds, Castile’s girlfriend, who was sitting behind him in the car while he was killed? Or the book for a child in need of reassurance after hearing about a police killing?

My colleagues at Oakland Public Library (OPL) and I began a conversation that month that eventually led to Evaluating Children’s Books about Police: a toolkit for librarians and other evaluators of children’s literature. Almost a year in the making, it grew from shared observations of working with children and talking with them about police. We took extensive notes on the books in our collections. We talked about what was missing. We reviewed our work with community members, activists, and an officer from the Oakland Police Department.

We developed the toolkit as a professional book evaluation tool. The guiding questions it offers can certainly be used to evaluate nonfiction “community helper” books, but they can also be used with picture books and fiction. As an example, I’ll use a book that, at first glance, may seem an unlikely suspect:  I’M AFRAID YOUR TEDDY IS IN TROUBLE TODAY, by Jancee Dunn, illustrated by Scott Nash.


The title page of TEDDY shows a lone police car in front of a house. The story opens with two police officers in front of the closed front door, addressing the reader directly. A brown-skinned officer with feminine features has arms crossed, while the white-skinned male-appearing partner stands with fists on hips. (The officers’ genders are never stated, so I will use the  singular “they” pronoun to refer to both.) Both wear angry expressions. “Oh good. You’re home,” the brown-skinned officer says, then introduces themself as “Officer Hardy,” who goes on to say  that the police station “received a number of calls,” and that they’re “afraid your teddy got in a little trouble today.”


On the following page, as they open the door, Officer Hardy warns the reader to “prepare yourself. It’s not a pretty scene.” Balloons and streamers are now visible both inside and outside the house. On the pages that follow, Officer Hardy details the (lighthearted) destruction that has been wrought on the reader’s home by their teddy bear, who invited other stuffed animals over for a wild party: pancakes and sprinkles everywhere, a broken bed, crayon drawings on the walls, and chocolate syrup in the bathtub. A page with four angry human faces shouting into phones states that “your neighbors” were “not happy. Not happy at all,” indicating that neighbors called the police with noise complaints when the stuffed animals started playing loud music and dancing.

Officer Hardy states that police pursued the fleeing stuffed animals, “searching house to house,” eventually catching them all with the help of the Fire Department. They then reveal all the stuffed animals confined in a closet.

Teddy is then singled out, with the next illustration showing Teddy standing alone between the two officers, both of whom look angry, rubbing his paws together with a worried facial expression. Officer Hardy points at Teddy as they ask him to “Come with me, please. I’m going to have to take you down to the station.” All three appear against a white background, removing them from the immediate setting of the story.

In three illustrations across the two following pages, Officer Hardy shrinks to a child’s size, their expression shifting from stern to delighted as they comment that “I used to have a teddy bear once. He looked a lot like you. Gosh, I haven’t thought about him in years.” On the following page, Officer Hardy bends down to Teddy’s level and places a hand on Teddy’s shoulder. Wearing a friendly expression, they inform Teddy that “this time I’m going to let you go.” The officers then assist all the other stuffed animals into their squad car, saying “I’ll drop you all off at home.” On the final page, Teddy smiles and winks underneath a gentle admonishment to “be good, now.” The lit cell phone in Teddy’s paw, along with his mischievous expression, hint that Teddy does not necessarily plan to heed this recommendation.

With that long summary complete, I’ll turn now to Evaluating Children’s Books about Police, and demonstrate some ways an evaluator of children’s books might use this tool to examine TEDDY.

The evaluative content of this toolkit is arranged in two sets of bullet points: “What could an inclusive perspective look like?” and “Questions to consider when evaluating a police book for bias.” In the first section, we imagined what elements--words, images, concepts--we didn’t necessarily find in the existing body of literature that might acknowledge young readers who feel discomfort or negativity around police officers. In the second section, we focused on problematic elements of existing books that seemed to pop up over and over again (I have a spreadsheet of occurrences of these problematic elements, if numbers are your thing). I’ll talk through the elements in each section that stand out to me in reading TEDDY.

  • Does this book acknowledge the feelings of fear and anxiety children may have on seeing police? For example: "sometimes, if you see a police officer, you may feel scared."
  • Does this book acknowledge that some people have negative experiences with police officers? If so, is there any discussion of how these experiences might impact a person, family, or community?

TEDDY is a picture book about stuffed animals coming to life and having a wild party. The emotional core of the story is in the tension that exists between smiling stuffed animals playing with balloons and sledding down couch cushions and stern, angry adult humans, primarily two uniformed police officers, dealing with the resulting mess; the resolution comes from those officers relenting and deciding not to pursue punishment for the toys. The overall tone of the narrative is tongue-in-cheek; the fun of Teddy’s party contrasts with the sharp law enforcement cadence Officer Hardy uses to describe it: “We don’t know for sure who thought of the chocolate sauce, but we suspect it was the cow.”

Have you seen those videos of police officers pulling over people of color who have not committed any traffic violation, then surprising them by handing them ice cream? This article in The Root by Preston Mitchum describes how these videos get shared on social networks as moments of joy, for the “fun” of seeing people’s fearful expressions turn to laughter and relief when they realize they are the subjects of a prank intended in lighthearted fun by its perpetrators. The police department of Halifax, Virginia executed the ice-cream stunt twenty times on a Friday in summer 2016 as a PR move, believing that videos of people of color laughing and accepting ice cream from a benevolent white officer would generate good feelings toward their department. Mitchum’s article points out that what looks like happiness on the part of the drivers is actually “That relief every time we interact with police officers because we never know if we will leave that interaction alive.” Ijeoma Oluo takes this one step further in The Establishment, likening the videos to an abusive partner hinting that they might hurt you, only to say it was a joke; the relief in this sudden revocation of a threat is meant to create loyalty in the victimized partner.

There is generally nothing amusing or cute about arriving at one’s home and seeing a police car parked outside, or uniformed and frowning officers blocking the resident from entering their home. The decision to open TEDDY with both of these images introduces the central problem with the book, similar to the problem with the ice cream videos: ice cream pull-overs are cute and happy to viewers who’ve never felt their lives were in danger during a traffic stop. The worst they’ve escaped is the minor annoyance of a traffic ticket, not the physical danger of being shot. TEDDY is meant to be funny and charming, but this book is only funny and charming if you do not believe there is any inherent danger in police being in your home.

Could a child who has had a frightening encounter with a police officer at home, or who’s heard about or been warned about such encounters by family or friends, enjoy this book? Could any person who has had a negative police encounter read this book and see it as funny? The lack of respect for readers who share these experiences amounts to a flat denial of “the feelings of and anxiety children may have on seeing police.”

  • Do this book's illustrations show diversity in race, sex, age, gender expression, and religious identity among police, as well as people with whom they interact?

There are two officers in TEDDY. Officer Hardy, who delivers the entire text of the book, reads visually as African American. In my research leading to Evaluating, it was common for a children’s book about police to feature a person of color in a primary role. Creators of these books seem to have gotten the message that it’s racist to show only people of color as suspects and white people as police officers, and it’s actually rather difficult to find one that features only white officers. The Kirkus Review for TEDDY noted that “investigating officer Hardy is a black woman and her subordinate a white man, in an especially nice touch,” but I’d argue that it’s an expectation in a contemporary children’s book, if an unspoken one.

The illustrator seems to avoid questions about race in supporting characters because they are mostly stuffed animals. It’s worth noting, though, that the one human doll among the toys is white with blond hair, and Teddy himself is a light golden-tan in color. Regardless of why the illustrator made this choice, the fact remains that children see a bear with light not dark fur who is spared a trip to the police station.

  • Does this book explain the rights children have in interacting with police--for example, that children may ask to have a parent or other adult present during questioning?


The text of this book is in second person, directed to the child reader of the book. There’s no indication as to whether an adult resident of the home is also present. A throwaway line such as “I see you’ve got your grown-up with you” could have placed an adult on the child’s side in the interaction. There’s no mention of the fact that a child has the right to ask for a parent or guardian to be present during questioning by police. If this is a child alone, as the text implies, then the book is modeling that it is safe and normal for police officers to question a child alone without asking if they would like a parent present.


  • Does this book acknowledge that some people choose to call the police and some people do not?  Does it acknowledge the perspective that calling police is not the only way or right way to get help?

Police in this story were called by “neighbors,” all of who appear angry, to investigate a loud party. Noise complaint calls are an example of “quality of life policing,” or what’s more commonly known as “broken windows policing.” Creators of Campaign Zero describe how “broken windows policing has led to the criminalization and over-policing of communities of color and excessive force in otherwise harmless situations. In other words: police calls for issues such as excessive noise tend to inversely impact people of color, and benefit White people. In fact, writers like Nikole Hannah-Jones have argued that the act of calling police is, itself, primarily available to white people, since people of color are disproportionately at risk of being harmed or killed after police are summoned, even if they are the ones who make the call.

Of the four neighbors depicted making angry calls to police in TEDDY, two appear white, one is racially ambiguous (light skin and dark hair), and one has light brown skin. The artist appears to have made an effort not to show four white people calling police with noise complaints, but in this case the attempt to show diversity begs the question: Is this realistic?

  • In many communities, police officers are required to wear body cameras on their uniforms. Do this book's illustrations depict body cameras on police uniforms?

In Oakland, police are required to wear body cameras, which, as Campaign Zero notes, have been shown to be an effective tool for capturing instances of police brutality. In fact, California is one of five states with laws requiring police officers to wear body cameras (in a couple states, only under certain conditions). Other states have laws about how body cameras are to be funded or documented in public record, for a total of thirty-four states with some form of legislation on the books about body cameras for police. Although the officers in TEDDY are drawn with enough detail to show they have badges, radios, batons (no guns), disabling chemical sprays, and notebooks, they do not have visible body cameras.

Now I’ll move  to the second section of Evaluating:

  • How does the author of this book refer to people being pursued by police? Many children's books refer to people being pursued with language implying guilt, such as "criminals" or "bad guys." However, US laws protecting due process render such terms inaccurate, as people being chased by police have not been proven guilty in a court of law. People being pursued or arrested are suspects.

This implication of guilt and “badness” comes up so often in children’s police books that its absence in TEDDY is actually what is noteworthy. In 2016, when OPL children’s librarians began our research, every single police book I reviewed contained language implying guilt used inappropriately: books consistently described police as pursuing and arresting “bad guys” or “criminals.” One of the first points contributed to our toolkit by a children’s librarian was that “People being pursued or arrested are suspects,” and it is inaccurate to call them a bad guy or criminal. There’s no such use of this language in TEDDY, which is consistent with the fact that all escape punishment in the end.


I’ve already discussed the book’s failure to indicate the presence of an adult. Though Teddy is (presumably) not a parent and is ultimately not arrested, it’s worth noting that a great body of literature exists around parental arrests and optimal procedures for ensuring the safety of affected children, including the two resources linked above. What’s visible in the work that exists around parental arrest points to this indisputable fact: it is traumatic for a child to witness the arrest of a parent, guardian, family member, or friend. In the case of a parent, it’s so traumatic that a common recommendation is for the arresting officers to ask the parent if they would like their child to be cared for in another room during the arrest.

It can be assumed that a child’s teddy bear is a close companion, in a familial role. The moment in which Officer Hardy informs Teddy that they will be brought to the police station is not a depiction of arrest, but it is not far off. Furthermore, the illustrations then imply Officer Hardy changes their mind based on the fact that Teddy reminds them of their own childhood teddy bear. While this makes for a happier ending, with Teddy released rather than led away in handcuffs, it also suggests that either Teddy was going to be detained for frivolous reasons, or that the officer has given preferential treatment to a suspect based on a personal connection.

I’ll note that Evaluating is pointedly not a bibliography. Any list of titles we might have produced would be outdated as soon as it was published and require constant maintenance to stay relevant. We definitely found books that tempted us to recommend them to everyone, but to be practical, the children’s librarians who collaborated on this toolkit chose to focus on empowering librarians to evaluate police books for children themselves.

TEDDY received three reviews in professional journals: Kirkus and Publishers Weekly in July, and School Library Journal in October. None mention any of the problems I’ve discussed. Publishers Weekly states that “readers will revel in the vicarious, rule-breaking fun.” School Library Journal calls it a “humorous tale of stuffed animal mayhem that will entertain early elementary students and provide a fun read-aloud for younger children.” Kirkus notes the intended humor of the story while saying it could have been stronger, ultimately calling it a “fair if somewhat ephemeral story.” Oakland Public Library might have purchased TEDDY as a read-aloud based on these reviews; fortunately, I was sent a review copy and discovered the problematic elements;  selectors chose not to buy it with this additional information.

The fact that all three professional reviews of TEDDY missed the problematic police content assures me that now is the right time for Evaluating Children’s Books about Police. It’s somewhat more accepted today among children’s book reviewers that race, class, and privilege must be considered in evaluating children’s books; however, racism in police-community relations did not occur to any of the reviewers for TEDDY as something critical to consider and as important to mention as skin tone.

In releasing this toolkit, OPL hopes to bring awareness to the need for sensitivity toward varying experiences of police in children’s books. We welcome feedback and consider Evaluating a living document, open for review and conversation.


Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Giving Tuesday Ideas

For Giving Tuesday this year, I’ve compiled a list of organizations that I believe are doing essential work to fight racism and injustice.

(I recognize that it is a privilege to be able to donate money, and don’t want to pressure anyone to donate to all--or any--of these causes.)

This is by no means meant to be a comprehensive list of worthwhile organizations, just a starting point.   Leave more in the comments!



The People’s Institute For Survival and Beyond is a community organizing collective and home to the Undoing Racism Workshop. Donate here.

Colectivo Ilé works to fight racism, colonialism, sexism, and militarism in Puerto Rico. Learn more and donate to their Huracán María fund here.

The International Refugee Assistance Project (a sub-organization of the Urban Justice Center) mobilizes legal aid from lawyers and law students to advocate for human rights for displaced people and refugees. Donate here.

UndocuFund provides support to undocumented people in Sonoma County, CA, who were directly impacted by the recent wildfires and do not qualify for federal aid from FEMA. Donate here.

Thousand Currents funds and connects grassroots organizers who are working towards climate, food, and economic justice. They work primarily with organizations led by First/Native Nations people and women. Donate here.

ProPublica is an independent, non-profit team of investigative journalists specifically dedicated to exposing corruption and abuses of power. Donate here.

The Wôpanâak Language Reclamation Project, which includes classes for adults and an immersion school for children, works to reclaim and revive Wôpanâak (Wampanoag language), which European invaders killed for five generations. Donate here.

Safety Pin Box gives money directly to Black women who are organizing and serving Black people. Subscribe here, or just donate here.

The NAACP Legal Defense Fund works for racial justice in the fields of criminal justice, education, voting rights, and more. Donate here.

The Trevor Project provides crisis intervention for LGBTQ youth and advocates for legal and systemic justice for LGBTQ people. Donate here.

The Center for Reproductive Rights advocates legally for reproductive freedom as a human right. Donate here.

The Southern Poverty Law Center, founded in 1971, advocates for many marginalized groups; it’s also the umbrella organization for Teaching Tolerance, which provides free resources to educators, and the Intelligence Project, which tracks hate groups in the United States. Donate here.

Though I’ve done my best to vet all of these, I recognize that I can never 100% know whether an organization is guided by, and lives out, anti-racist principles, and am open to any feedback (use the comments).

-Allie Jane Bruce

Monday, November 13, 2017

Reading Stories, Reading Lives



Over the summer I read a New Yorker article about the paintings of British-Ghanian artist Lynette Yiadom-Boakye (“A Bird of Few Words,” June 19, 2017). In it, Zadie Smith discusses the response of critics to Yiadom-Boakye’s work, including the commentary of Robert Storr in the catalogue accompanying the exhibit of Yiadom-Baokye’s work at the New Museum in New York.

She quotes Storr as follows:

“The impact of her [Yiadom-Baokye’s] pictures is of encountering people ‘we’—the general North American art audience—have never met, coming from a world with which ‘we’ are unfamiliar. One that we have no basis for generalizing about or projecting our fantasies onto.’”

In responding to Storr’s commentary, Zadie Smith writes: “There is a respectful caution in this kind of critique which, though undoubtedly well intended in theory, in practice throws a patronizing chill over such work. Yiadom-Boakye is doing more than exploring the supposedly uncharted territory of black selfhood, making—in that hackneyed phrase—the invisible visible. (Black selfhood has always existed and is not invisible to black people.)”

As I read these words they struck me deeply, because it resonated with a lot of what I’ve been thinking about, and trying to articulate, in terms of children’s and young adult literature criticism.

“Black selfhood has always existed and is not invisible to black people.”

Of course the same is true for any group of people historically marginalized and dehumanized by the mainstream narrative: their selfhood has never been in doubt--except by those of us (read mainstream society if you must, read White critics and readers if you’re feeling less threatened and more courageous about looking our profession and ourselves in the eye) who, in reading a work by an African American author or Mexican American author or Korean American author or Choctaw author, try to fit into the framework we’ve constructed to understand their experience, rather than letting the experience and selfhood that exists on the page—and in the real world—speak for itself.

There’s a genuine tension here, I know. Isn’t the whole point of being a critic to say what we think about the book? How can we do our jobs if we don’t?

Well, to begin with, we can ask ourselves what we should constantly be asking ourselves: What assumptions are we making about the lives of people of color and from First/Native Nations in the real world that influence our response to the book?

And what assumptions are we making about readers—is our idea of audience expansive and inclusive?



“Black selfhood has always existed and is not invisible to black people.”

Writers who are cultural insiders understand this innately and it shows in their writing. Critics/reviewers who are cultural insiders know it, too. And so, of course, do readers who see dimensions of their own experiences and identities fully realized on the page.

Sometimes, though, I think the rest of us don’t take this selfhood on faith. So we look for clues, and we don’t always see them, even when they’re right in front of us, in characters who laugh and cry and argue and make amends and annoy and get annoyed and have quirks and contradictions in the way every living, breathing human does. Instead we see the struggle. Or the violence. Or the streets. Or the outsider.

I worry we see the context but not the characters and by extension the lives those characters represent, or we do see them and they are held up as something exceptional. Either way, they are othered.  

Perhaps this is also why we have too often admired inaccurate books by writers who are outside an experience--they fit our perceptions of that experience but not the reality.

“Patronizing chill,” to quote Smith, is a real danger in our field, too.
Because publishing for children and teens has always to some extent responded to the world as it is (along with imagining the world that we want), it’s not surprising that we’re seeing a number of books in which racism and police violence plays a role or is a theme. The high profile cases in the news in recent years, and the Black Lives Matter movement in response, have raised our social consciousness. And by “our,” I mean mainstream society’s, and I mean White people’s. Because racist police violence targeting Black and brown-skinned people, if I can use  Zadie Smith’s words in a different context,  “has always existed and is not invisible to Black people.”

All American Boys by Jason Reynolds and Brendan Kiely has become a deservedly popular choice for all-school reads.The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas topped The New York Times bestseller list for months. A number of other books exploring and reflecting dimensions of police violence against Black and brown-skinned people are also coming out this year. It seems we (read those of us who aren’t Black and brown-skinned) are finally seeing what has been visible and known but went unseen by us for for decades. (Remember the ending of If You Come Softly by Jacqueline Woodson, published way back in 1998?)  The new graphic novel I Am Alfonso Jones, written by Tony Medina and illustrated by Stacey Robinson and John Jennings, offers a more expansive look at this painful history too many of us haven’t seen. 

We need to own our ignorance. But we also need to be careful how we use our newfound understanding.

I haven’t read all of the new books out this year addressing or even touching on this reality of  life in our country. I have read some of them, and one of the things I’m aware of is not wanting to fall into the trap of easily summarizing them as being  “about” police violence or racism. Once they get into readers’ hands, I believe a deeper truth becomes obvious: what they are about is people’s lives. The ones I have read, anyway, are about contemporary teens laughing and crying and arguing and annoying and being annoyed. They’re about kids trying to figure things out, and what those things are changes from book to book, character to character, life to life. But all of it--the living, the learning--ends up being violently disrupted by the reality of racist violence.

For me, this is not a subtle difference, because these stories--these characters’ lives--don’t matter because of the violence that happens in them. They simply matter.

Here’s something else I think we who are White librarians and teachers need to also keep in mind: What message are we sending to children and teens if the only books we ask or demand White kids read about children of color or from First/Native Nations speak to the violent disruption of their lives?

It’s wonderful seeing All American Boys as an all-school read. It’s wonderful seeing The Hate U Give being so widely talked about and shared. But please, let’s not stop there. Black selfhood is complex in both those stories, but no single book is ever enough, however important the story it tells of and to the world we live in.

In her novel Piecing Me Together, Renée Watson’s main character, Jade, is an African American scholarship student from a poor neighborhood in Portland, Oregon, attending a predominantly White private high school. After Jade is chosen by her guidance counselor to be part of a mentoring program, she is paired with an upper middle class African American alum of the school. Jade did not ask to be part of the mentoring program, it’s just assumed she’ll find it useful. Then Jade is NOT chosen to participate in an international volunteer trip her school sponsors, despite having tutored some of the students chosen to go. The volunteer program is the reason Jade was willing to leave her neighborhood high school and make the long bus trip every day. When she asks her teacher why she wasn’t chosen, he explains it’s because she has already been given the opportunity to participate in the mentoring program. Why, she challenges--her teacher, her guidance counselor, her mentor--does everyone assume that because she's young and Black and poor she only needs help, and "opportunities," but has nothing to offer, anything to give?

Jade’s story is no less important for White readers than All American Boys, or The Hate U Give, or The Boy in the Black Suit by Jason Reynolds, or Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson. These and other works--by Jason Reynolds and Jacqueline Woodson, by Renée Watson and Nikki Grimes and Rita Williams-Garcia and Varian Johnson and Walter Dean Myers and Virginia Hamilton and so many other Black authors, and other writers of color and from First/Native Nations--need to be shared widely.

Yes, many of us all say that all the time. But how do we act on it? And in what way are  assumptions we make about or labels we attach to books, and readers, and the lives of children and teens, getting in our way?

Sharing stories is powerful. We all believe that or we wouldn’t be doing the work we do. And we absolutely need to be intentional about diversity in selecting and in reading, but we also need to give readers diverse stories without limiting either the stories or the readers by labels of our own making.

Beauty and pain, joy and challenge, humor and heartache, injustice and kindness. None of these things is mutually exclusive in selfhood, in stories, or the lives of children and teens.

Megan Schliesman




Wednesday, November 8, 2017

RWW Interviews: Sarah Park Dahlen


Our RWW Interviews series continues today with a conversation between Sam Bloom and Sarah Park Dahlen. Sarah is an associate professor in the Master of Library and Information Science Program at St. Catherine University and an advocate for diverse books for youth. Her dissertation examined representations of adoption, specifically adoption of children from Korea, in books for children and teens. She is married to an adoptee from Korea. She is not an adoptee herself. (Note: Sam is a White adoptive father of two Black children.)  #DiversityJedi #Ravenclaw


Thank you, Sarah, for sharing your insights with us!

Can you share your origin story? How did you get started in this work?
In the early 2000s, I was in graduate school at UCLA – it was a Master of Asian American Studies program – and I had always loved children’s literature growing up. One day I went to Border’s, and I found a picture book called Smoky Night. It shocked me because it took place during the 1992 Los Angeles Riots, and my dad owned a grocery store at the time, and I remember so much about the violence, about the fear, the conversations that my parents and a lot of our family and friends were having. A lot of people I knew – Korean Americans – had businesses in Los Angeles. Some of them burned clear to the ground. We were more fortunate; our business suffered I think only $7,000-$8,000 worth of damage, which is incredible given how much other people’s properties were destroyed. But my dad’s store was in the middle of a residential neighborhood. It wasn’t along the main corridors where a lot of the damage was. So anyway, the protagonist [in Smoky Night] is a brown or black character – it’s not entirely clear the way the illustrations are done – but definitely not white. But who is also clearly not white is Mrs. Kim, the Korean store owner across the way. And the protagonist talks about how he doesn’t really know her very well, she speaks this other language… and it blew my mind that there was a picture book about the L.A. Riots! Obviously [Smoky Night] was not from a Korean American’s perspective, so I wondered: are there children’s books about the L.A. Riots from a Korean American perspective? When I started looking, the closest thing I found was Marie Lee’s young adult novel Saying Goodbye, in which her protagonist goes off to college at Harvard, and there she meets a boy whose parents owned a store in Los Angeles. It was a little bit removed, but that was the closest thing I found at the time. In the course of doing that research I found other children’s books that depicted Korean people. I was like, “There are Korean people in children’s books?!” It was amazing to me! And then I learned that [in 2002] Linda Sue Park had won the Newbery for A Single Shard, and An Na had won the Printz for A Step from Heaven. All of these things came together at the same time while I was in my graduate program. Originally, I had wanted to be a high school history teacher. But when I discovered these children’s books, I decided I wanted to study children’s literature – Korean American children’s literature – instead.


After that I had to go and get a PhD, so I did that. I went to Illinois and then I got hired as an assistant professor.


You took Debbie’s Reese’s class [while at the University of Illinois], right?


I did! One of the classes I took was called the Politics of Children’s Literature, and that was taught by Debbie Reese. Even though I had been an Ethnic Studies major before, it was my first time learning from someone who is an American Indian about all of the issues related to American Indians in children’s literature, and pop culture in general, because we talked about a lot of things – you know these stereotypes and misrepresentations [in children’s literature] don’t happen in a vacuum. At the time, Debbie was very involved in the fight against the mascot. [UPDATE/related news: the U of I recently banned the “war chant” during sporting events.] She was very outspoken, very vocal about it, and we talked about it a lot in class. I’m ashamed to admit how much I didn’t know about American Indians as I was growing up, and in my schooling, and how much I had to unlearn and relearn and how much I’m still learning – because there’s still so much that we should know.


We didn’t become close friends until later. It was a few years before we spent more time together and became more friends and colleagues. At the time it was very much student and professor.
How cool that you two go back so far! Okay, this next question is in reference to the children’s literature world in general. What, in your mind, has changed over time?


There were not as many children’s books about Asian Americans that explore so many things (and there are still a lot of topics that aren’t talked about). I think we’ve seen an explosion of Asian American books – I mean, that BookRiot article [about books with Asian American protagonists]… I thought that was just amazing to have such a strong list. But when I was starting, I read people like Junko Yokota, Lorraine Dong, Violet Harada, Rocío Davis – Asian Americans who are scholars of Asian American children’s literature. To be able to name them on one hand and say, “These are the foremothers who I respect and look up to”… there are more now, and I wish there were even more people doing this work, because there’s so much more to say about it. I think we are still not seeing enough intersectionality. There are so few books that depict Asian Americans with different gender identities, sexual orientations, those who are differently able in various ways… I think we’re a little bit better about socioeconomic diversity. But there are also still an awful lot of immigrant stories, and not all of us are immigrants now. (I mean, there are still a lot of immigrants but that’s obviously changing in this political environment.) But a lot of times we’re still perceived as immigrants, and if we have a lot of children’s books that depict us only as immigrants who don’t speak English, then that’s a problem. So it would be nice to see more intergenerational children’s books, or children’s books written about the later generations. I think Laurence Yep does a really good job with that, because some of his novels take us way back in time, but then also a lot of them are very much set in the present and they’re the children of people who have been here for generations.


I was talking to someone recently at Bao Phi’s A Different Pond book launch party about  intergenerational stories and transracial adoption. For example, Sun Yung Shin, who is transracially adopted and has a biracial son, wrote Cooper’s Lesson because she was thinking about what it is like for the biracial child of an Asian person (though Cooper’s mother is not an adoptee). There are so few books with multiracial Asian characters (see Amina Chaudhri’s research). And I’m trying to think if there are any children’s books that depict not the adopted person as the protagonist, but their children. What kind of conversations might happen there? “Mom, how come your parents are also Korean, but Dad, how come your parents are white?” So we have these books where we can explain transracial adoption through the eyes of the protagonist, but we don’t have books where we can explain it to the children of adoptees who are now… some of them are in their 50s, and 40s… and they have children, and grandchildren, and we need resources to help explain adoption to them. So the literature is going to take time to catch up to our realities.


I think it was in 2014 that the CCBC’s numbers where the books by but not about [Asian Americans] eclipsed [the books by *and* about Asian Americans]… I think that’s really interesting, we’re the only group out of the four groups where the numbers are different in that way. I’ve heard from a lot of different Asian Americans what they think about that. For example, at the 2017 Asian American Literature Festival Ellen Oh said Asian American authors are told, “We don’t want to hear your Asian American story, that doesn’t sell…” until it does, right?! And so a lot of people will write about other things until they can get their foot in the door. But we still have so many stories that are not yet told about our communities… I was trying to think, there are so many books now that depict gentrification in some way or another, like The Education of Margo Sanchez, The Family Fletcher Takes Rock Island… There are a lot of things that have happened in Asian American history that we don’t have a lot of books about – the fall of the I-Hotel in San Francisco, the founding of Ethnic Studies (which is celebrating its 50th anniversary next year)… we also need books about the murder of Vincent Chin, which was a huge, huge thing in our community. I’ve been talking to poets… to different people like, “Do you think we can have a book about Vincent Chin, what would that look like?” We have a lot of community activists, a lot of people who are legends in politics and education that we don’t have biographies on. It’s really exciting, the Rad American Women books and also the Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls… those collections are really diverse. I like having them for my daughter because where else am I going to find these biographies? I think we have a lot (relatively speaking) of biographies about Maya Lin, but not so much about some of the other people who have done really important work in this country. (And I think I’m going off on a tangent now!)
That’s okay! It’s really embarrassing to me… you’re talking about some really important things in history. And I have not heard of so many of these people or events you’re talking about. So I would certainly appreciate books on those people and events!


Tell us about your research in the representation of adoption in children’s literature. What questions are you asking? What have you learned so far?


My research was specifically on representations of Korean adoption in American children’s and young adult literature. And one of the big questions that came out of that is, “Why aren’t more of the books authored by Korean adoptees themselves?” And I say that very deliberately, in contrast to asking the question, “Why aren’t more Korean adoptees writing?” Because they are writing: they are writing memoirs, and poetry, and novels, and making documentaries, but very few are writing children’s literature. When I did my initial research, out of approximately 50 books, I think 2 of them were written or illustrated by adopted Koreans, and more than 20 were written by white adoptive parents… specifically mothers. Today we’re having these conversations about #WeNeedDiverseBooks and #OwnVoices, and I didn’t have that language when I was writing my dissertation. But we did have phrases like “insider/outsider authorship,” and this is a clear case of outsider authorship; even if the mothers are within the constellation of adoptive families, it still is not the same as having a book written by a Korean adoptee. I also wondered what kinds of stories were being told, and how different people were being represented, and one of the things I found was that birth mothers, if they were present at all, were largely written out of the narrative. Or their mothering was sort of just discursively taken out.


One example: in the first book of a young adult quartet, the [Korean adoptee] protagonist said she started a birth search, but then she hit a wall and so she stopped, but you know, whatever, because her birth mother was “probably a prostitute” anyway, “most [birth mothers] were…” which is a really terrible thing to say of anybody (and particularly about Korean birth mothers because a lot of them were raped, a lot of them had no choice in placing their children for adoption, in a lot of cases the children were taken away from them, a lot of times poverty pushes women into prostitution when that isn’t something they would have naturally chosen for themselves. A lot of Korean female adoptees are told that, if they had not been adopted into their white American family, it’s likely that they would have also ended up as prostitutes in Korea, which is also not a nice thing to say). So anyway, I was just appalled when I read that, and as a reader I would not have wanted to finish reading [the book]… but as a scholar I had to! By the fourth book the white adoptive mother, who is a lovely character, has passed away, so that sort of opened space because around the same time, shortly after, the birth mother in Korea makes contact with the protagonist, they exchange letters, and the birth mother comes and visits. And it turns out she was not a prostitute, she was a well-educated women who found herself pregnant and decided that it wasn’t viable for her to keep the child. But like I said earlier, her mothering abilities had been taken away discursively. They’re having this conversation about relationships, and the protagonist says something like, “I’d rather think of you like a sister, I’ve already had a mother.” And then the birth mother says something like, “That’s fine, I would like that,” but then she’s not called a mother, or perceived to be a mother. Relationships with birth parents and adoptees are really complicated, and everyone has to choose for themselves how they are going to navigate them – they could change over time. I have a lot of Korean adoptee friends, many who have sort of “smooth” relationships with their birth families, but I also have a lot of friends who have very up-and-down, “We’re talking”/“We’re not talking” relationships… every adoptee has to navigate for themselves how that relationship is going to look. But when it’s a pattern in American children’s literature and young adult literature, where the birthmother is discursively taken out of the text, or the birth mother is revealed to be deceased, or someone says, “Well, I’m never going to find her anyway,” as in the case with We Adopted You, Benjamin Koo… What is different from the norm: in Kimchi and Calamari, the protagonist says, “Maybe I can go to Korea when I get older and do a birth search.” The reality is that with most agencies in Korea, you can’t do a search until you’re 18 anyway, so that’s realistic. But he leaves open the possibility that he can go to Korea and search for his mom there. I’d like to see more opportunities like that presented, as opposed to foreclosing the opportunities all together, or if there is a reunion: “But you’re not my mom!”


Something interesting (and not in a good way) is that a lot of Korean adoptees in real life are named Kim because Kim is a very common Korean last name. So when white adoptive parents adopt a kid named, say, (first name) Jin-Yong (last name) Kim, they’re going to call the kid Kim because they think, “Oh, that’s also an American name.” And so then in children’s literature, we have something like seven characters out of the fifty characters or so are named Kim. I thought that was interesting… the way that is depicted. I once went to a Korean adoptee conference, with about 500 adoptees from around the world, and I looked through the program, and there were about 15 or 20 Kims.


And then there were the factual errors: for example, in the Diary of a Teenage Girl series, the birth mother said she was from the city “Puson,” but it was spelled incorrectly; there are a couple of acceptable ways to spell it (Pusan and Busan), and [the author] doesn’t use either one. And then there was the situation when the birth mother was writing to her daughter and she’s talking about the location of the city, she says it’s next to the Sea of Japan. Now, any Korean person who knows anything about being Korean, is not going to say “Sea of Japan” – it’s really contentious! Koreans call it the East Sea. Those two things signal that the author did not have a deep understanding of either Korean adoption or Korean culture. I mean, enough about Korean adoption to throw in that stereotype about the prostitute mother, right?! But not enough to deal with it in a more critical way. And people could say, “Yeah, but she turned out NOT to be a prostitute!” But you have to read book 4 to figure that out!
In all the work you do, what are you most proud of?


I don’t know how to answer this question!


Infographic on representation in children's literature
You’re allowed to brag!


Well… the infographic that David Huyck, Molly Beth Griffin and I worked on together, in consultation with K.T. Horning, Debbie Reese, Edith Campbell, and Ebony Thomas. I think we produced something that was really useful to a lot of people in pushing conversations about the lack of diversity in children’s lit. And I name all those people who worked on it together because it truly was a group effort to get that out there.


I’m also proud of the forthcoming journal that we’re doing – Research on Diversity in Youth Literature. I’m working with a team of really thoughtful and intelligent and passionate people, and I’m excited about the interventions we can make using that journal.


I’m really proud of my students. I teach both a Library Materials for Children class and a specific Social Justice in Children’s/Young Adult Literature class. You know, some students are required to take the (first class), but then there are a lot of students who elect to take the (second class), and especially this last semester I’m just really proud of the space that my class provided for my students to deal with some really hard questions and to produce work for community partners. Also, I think since coming to Minnesota, I’ve probably brought to campus a lot of authors and speakers by having personal connections with, say, Gene Yang, or Zetta Elliott or Jody Gray, or Debbie Reese, and through building these networks I was able to bring people to campus and have really important conversations with my students and community members. Almost everything we’ve done has been free and open to the public, and it’s really important to me that people have access to these conversations.
How did you get involved with the Lee & Low Diversity Baseline Survey?


I had been friends with Jason Low of Lee & Low for a while; we’d been in conversation about different things and I’d always supported their books. In the spring of 2015 I knew that Jason was trying to get this survey going – I’d read about it on their blog, I think. Jason thought it was important to have an external partner – maybe a researcher - manage the data, so he reached out to me and asked me if I’d help administer the survey. I mean, I don’t know if he went through 50 different people before coming to me, it’s very possible… But when he asked me – and I really strongly believe in the survey, I believe we need to have data to back us up – I talked to my dean about it and she gave me her blessing. From that point onward, my graduate assistant and I were the only people with access to the survey. Jason would make a connection, and then send me an email, and then I would work with the publisher or review journal to gather the data. So that’s how that came to be.


I think a lot of things that happen in this industry are about relationships. I believe if you’ve established relationships then you’ll give opportunities to other people, and other people will give opportunities to you, and then together we can do a lot of great work. And that was a LOT of work, it was a lot of data for my graduate assistant and me to comb through. Jason wrote in the final report that there was a segment of the data that was compromised. Someone hacked a portion of the data and we were able to cut that out, but it was really infuriating to have a project that was so important be messed up like that. Because of that work, some publishers have made significant changes, and it will be exciting to see if another survey is done in the future, and what publishing looks like then.
How do you stay motivated or promote self-care when facing frustration or pushback?
I recently discovered – I think Ebony or someone else had posted them – some podcasts by therapists who are women of color. So I’ve started listening to those and that has been really helpful.


Also because I’m a person of faith, I tend to be hopeful. That keeps me grounded; I think without my faith I wouldn’t be able to survive all this terrible stuff that is going on around us!


The other thing is having a community of support. Over the years I’ve really learned who my friends and allies are, particularly in this community. I check in with Edi and Ebony and Debbie every single day, and then I also have conversations going on with other women – women of color, queer women. We just really try to lift each other up and support each other in the work that we’re doing, so that’s been really helpful. Before social media it must have been harder to do this kind of work together, or to at least have the immediacy of communication! I’m thankful I’m doing the work in this era and not in an earlier one!


And then things like chocolate (though it doesn’t always help, sometimes it gives me headaches), coffee helps me, being outside – I’m not outside as much as I should be and I’m not exercising as much as I should. And spending time with people away from some of the things that are going on. And then when I come home, Jeff listens to me rant about a lot of different things, and that’s helpful too! (laughter). So yay Jeff!


And I think knowing that I don’t have to fight all the battles, and also I don’t have to fight them alone. For instance, I saw a lot of people post that Vulture piece [about the “toxicity” of YA Twitter] on Facebook. Almost every single time I was like, “I’m not going to get into it… I’m not going to get into it…” because I don’t think it’s always going to be a very productive conversation. But then one of my former students posted it – and it turns out I had actually misread something she wrote – but when I challenged her on liking that article her response was that we were learning together… so I think knowing sometimes it’s going to be productive and sometimes it’s not, and knowing when to engage and when not to engage is really important. But yeah, with that one I didn’t engage too much publicly, but I did talk about it a lot privately with my friends and my colleagues.


And I think the word “motivated” is really important too. Because we’re motivated by the desire to have good books for all children. And particularly good books for children who haven’t had a whole lot of good books. That has to be our primary focus. I think when we derail the conversation and it becomes more about winning, that’s not productive. And Debbie always talks about how the reason why we’re doing this work, we’re thinking of the kids we’re giving these books to, and that has to be our motivation. So for me, that’s a really big deal. And I talk about the fact that when I was a kid I didn’t have these books, but now my daughter has these SHELVES… not only of Korean American [books], but all kinds of diverse books, and that’s what I want for all children. That’s one of my motivations.


What advice do you have for others looking to do equity work in the world of libraries and youth literature?


Know that it’s important. Know that it’s hard. And know that you’re not alone.


Find a community or communities that will work alongside you, that will support you, that will build you up and give you opportunities. And also, watch out for those coming up after you. Because there’s always going to be a new generation of people with energy and ideas, and we want to make sure that we’re including them and bringing them into the fold, and also protecting them because it is a vicious world out there, preparing them to face that world. I think about how in the Bible Paul discipled Timothy, and then Timothy discipled others, so making sure that you’re both a Paul and a Timothy… know who you look up to, who your role models are, who your mentors are, and also know that you’re responsible for building up the next generation. Because this fight is not going to end next year, it’s not going to end when we reach parity with the numbers, we’re going to be fighting this for a long time! So we have to build a movement that’s sustainable.

-Sam Bloom