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Move over Prince Charming, for Cinderella and a Mouse Called Fred (Anne Schwartz, $18.99, 9780593480038). Deborah Hopkinson (a frequent contributor to BookPage) and Paul O. Zelinsky’s queer retelling of the age-old Cinderella tale centers on a tiny gray mouse living in a pumpkin patch. The kind Cinderella (or “Ella,” as her friends call her) gives him his name, Fred. A grumpy fairy godmother turns Fred into a horse so that Ella can go to the big ball. The prince, however, is a brat, and Ella heads home at midnight—but not until she grabs some seeds from the pumpkin that had been her carriage. Later, she watches as the prince tries to fit her glass slipper onto her stepsisters’ feet. “I’ll find my own destiny, thank you very much,” Ella says to Fred.
The following spring, Ella plants the pumpkin seeds, and one grows to a splendid size. At the fair, she wins a blue ribbon and meets her future wife: another young farmer “who fell madly in love with Ella, just as she was.”
Zelinsky combines bustling, full-bleed spreads with an eye-catching palette marked by various shades of pink and—naturally—the deep orange of pumpkins. The masterfully composed spread in which Fred transforms into a horse at the tip of the fairy godmother’s magic wand is especially striking. And Hopkinson’s characters sparkle on the page: The fairy godmother is a hoot, Fred is charming and Ella possesses a refreshing amount of spunk. The text is funny (“Seriously?” says Ella, “Glass high heels?”), and the abundant dialogue flows seamlessly, making this spirited and romantic retelling a great choice for storytimes and classroom reader’s theater activities.
If you don’t see something, can it still exist? This engaging picture book takes inspiration from the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein, who once argued to his professor Bertrand Russell that one couldn’t prove there wasn’t a rhinoceros in the room.
Enhanced by the vibrant blue, gold and green palette used by GOLDEN COSMOS (Berlin artists Doris Frieigofas and Daniel Dolz), Ludwig and the Rhinoceros: A Philosophical Bedtime Story (NorthSouth, $19.95, 9780735845275) opens with a red-haired Ludwig sitting on his bed at night and chatting with a large blue rhinoceros. However, when his father pops in to ask Ludwig whom he’s talking to, Ludwig answers, only to have his father assure the boy that there isn’t a rhinoceros—it’s just his imagination.
Ludwig directs his father to search in various places: in the dresser, under the bed and under the desk. While Ludwig’s father can’t see the rhinoceros, young readers will delight in pointing him out. (Ludwig’s blue friend even manages to snag a pair of briefs on his horn!) Matters soon come to a head as Ludwig challenges his dad to actually prove there isn’t a rhinoceros, using the example of the not-yet-risen moon to illustrate the notion that even if you don’t see something, it can still be there.
While at first glance Wittgenstein may seem a little advanced for a picture book, author Noemi Schneider has found a clever way of introducing philosophy to children. Adults will appreciate the back matter, which includes further context about Wittgenstein and his argument.
This original offering makes for an unusual bedtime tale that combines humor and depth—just right for budding philosophers everywhere.
Everybody in town is excited to participate in the library’s Libro Love book festival. There are secondhand books to buy, crafts to make, authors to meet and new skills to master . . . something for everyone!
Written and illustrated by Pura Belpré Award-winner Raul the Third, ¡Vamos! Let’s Go Read! pulls readers into an explosion of true book love starring the spirited Little Lobo and his friends. This latest addition to the World of ¡Vamos! series is an energetic tribute to libraries, their patrons and readers of all stripes.
With colors by Elaine Bray, ¡Vamos! Let’s Go Read! is a visual explosion in the style of a graphic novel, combining narrative text, dialogue bubbles and bold characters against warm-hued, detailed backdrops. It’s hard not to catch the excitement of the cast of animal characters, who are spirited, devoted book-lovers. Loosely based on the author’s hometown of El Paso, ¡Vamos! Let’s Go Read! reflects a celebration of Mexican-American culture in every image. Raul the Third’s narration nimbly flows with Spanish as well as English, creating a sense of place and introducing non-Spanish readers to new words. A glossary at the end, although definitely not needed to follow the story, helps fill in any gaps.
Beyond the sheer joy of books, ¡Vamos! Let’s Go Read! recognizes all the different ways people can enjoy libraries. We see characters use books to learn new skills like cooking and skateboarding. They hunt for their favorite titles, listen to audiobooks, take classes and make artwork. They even create their own books. Libraries are often portrayed as places for shushing and serious reading, but ¡Vamos! Let’s Go Read! showcases them as the bright, welcoming places of learning that they truly are.
Lengthier than most picture books, ¡Vamos! Let’s Go Read! is recommended for ages 4–8, but there is plenty to entertain keen-eyed older readers, including Easter eggs such as a brilliant nod to Stephen King: Gallos of the Corn by “Estéfan Rey.” There is so much to see in this vibrant ode to libraries that readers may be surprised upon a second reading by all the things they missed the first time around. There’s also a hefty dose of self-discovery and empowerment woven into each scene as ¡Vamos! Let’s Go Read! asks: What will you discover at the library?
In the poem “Book of Genesis” from his 2007 poetry collection, There Is an Anger That Moves, Kei Miller considers the famous declarations—”Let there be . . .”—uttered in the creation story from the Hebrew Bible’s book of Genesis. Miller asks: What is it about the word let that allows a whole world to be made? Let: A Poem About Wonder and Possibility adapts “Book of Genesis” into picture book form, continuing Miller’s exercise in allowing the open possibility of let to fashion and shape from each reader’s imagination a brand-new world “in which everyone has the freedom to realize one’s dreams.”
The Nigerian Italian artist Diana Ejaita’s beautiful, intricate and bright illustrations immediately stand out when one picks up Let. Inspired by her Nigerian heritage, Ejaita’s art incorporates movement, texture and rich colors. Each image features the silhouette of a child, whom we follow through Ejaita’s imagined world full of suns, rabbits, stars, birds and endless beauty. These spreads suggest a sense of motion that will keep readers mesmerized.
Miller’s poem encourages ongoing creativity and reminds us that the act of creation is a daily practice of leaning into the wonder and awe all around us. Making a world requires attention, optimism and curiosity. Let invites each reader to embrace the gifts of the children in our midst and allow the power of let to make our world a better place.
The combined efforts of Kei Miller and Diana Ejaita will leave readers uplifted and ready to see the beauty and joy all around them.
When opening an envelope from his recently deceased father, a young boy is confused to only find a map of the woods: “The woods were our place. Why would Dad ask me to go back without him?”
Begrudgingly, the boy laces his hiking boots and begins down the familiar path, along which he is able to recognize several animals—showing how many hours he and his father have spent in the woods. Eventually he comes to a lone chimney, the last remnant of a long gone home. “What was it Dad used to say? There’s always something that remains.” Inside, the boy finds a locked metal box containing drawings and scribbled stories about the forest wildlife.
Nikki Grimes, Brian Pinkney and his late father, Jerry Pinkney, have gifted us a heartbreakingly beautiful picture book about loss and grief. Endnotes explain the creation journey behind A Walk in the Woods (Neal Porter, $18.99, 9780823449651), where life imitated art in an almost unbelievable way. After Jerry’s wife (and celebrated author) Gloria Pinkney asked in 2019 why Jerry and Grimes had never worked together, the two longtime friends began to lay the groundwork for a story featuring an African American child exploring nature.
In October 2021, Jerry died, leaving behind an incredible legacy in children’s literature—but also incomplete artwork for A Walk in the Woods. Brian was given his father’s artwork just a few short weeks after his death, along with an invitation to finish the story his father began. With the help of Charnelle Pinkney Barlow (Jerry’s granddaughter and Brian’s niece), Brian began to merge his ethereal watercolor paintings with Jerry’s original line work, in an experience he calls “mysterious and mystical.”
Grimes’ text is full of depth and feeling and combines with the art in a brilliant display of color and life, capturing in detail the animals as well as the boy’s emotions on every page. The cool blues and purples in the beginning feel rife with grief, while the golds and reds of the woods bring a sense of lightness to both the story and the reader, and hints of green signify that life will continue.
A Walk in the Woods is truly an exquisite story of heartbreak and hope. The collaboration between Grimes and both Pinkneys is seamless, as if all were completely of one mind.
On the last page of the book, as the boy gathers his father’s drawings and begins his trek home, he asks, “Can you smile and cry at the same time?” Readers likely will.
Upon opening A Cloud in a Jar, this reviewer let out an audible gasp at the deep blues and blacks of the midnight sky and crashing ocean that saturate the pages with edge-to-edge colors. Across the endsheet, a mysterious, cluttered cityscape collides with itself.
A Cloud in a Jar’s first stanza will hook readers as two intrepid kids and one less intrepid cat set off in a boat to bring rain (via a captured cloud) to a lovely seaside town of Firelight Bay, where they have everything but rain. The three adventurers make their way across the water to fulfill their mission aided by their wit, a coat full of useful items, and a little bit of the fantastic. But success might look a little different than they anticipated.
Aaron Lewis Krol’s rhyming pattern is vaguely reminiscent of both Dr. Seuss and Edgar Allan Poe’s “Annabel Lee.” A departure from rhymes traditionally aimed at children, Krol’s verse has an elevated, sophisticated feel that is further enhanced by eloquent alliteration, poetic similes and an intelligent vocabulary. This entertaining, not quite tongue-twisting read-aloud pulls you along like waves toward an unknown shore.
Carlos Vélez Aguilera’s fantastic and energetic multimedia art is an endless feast for the eyes and an invitation to explore. The dark and imposing oceans and skies are just the right amount of scary. Intricate details such as lightning over the city, prints on a handkerchief and the aforementioned cloud in a jar will keep readers scanning the pages. Aguilera captures attention and evokes emotion throughout: We feel the alarm in the eye of a stranded whale, the hostility and chaos in a flock of aggressive birds, the electricity of a storm over water and the rush of diving far below the waves into safety.
A Cloud in the Jar has everything: clever narration, a straightforward message about bravery and determination, and brilliant artwork. This tale of innovative adventurers is engrossing and a true delight to read out loud.
You’d know the sound of Bob Odenkirk’s voice anywhere: its punchy, dexterous cadence has captivated audiences for decades, from his earlier days hosting the sketch comedy series “Mr. Show” to his legendary turn as smarmy yet sympathetic criminal lawyer Saul Goodman on “Breaking Bad” and its prequel, “Better Call Saul.” It turns out that same voice is also perfectly suited for reading children’s poems, which Odenkirk demonstrates on a video call from his Manhattan apartment by launching into an effortless impression of a nasally, feeble-voiced doctor character he once used to entertain his daughter, illustrator Erin Odenkirk, and her brother, Nate Odenkirk. “Has the child had enough hot fudge?” he croaks, running his words together in a manner that would delight any kid.
Erin, joining the call from Brooklyn, says it was “the silliest thing you’ve ever heard when you’re 6.” Dr. Bluestone, who thinks kids need to eat more sweets—“Have you administered any sprinkles lately? / They should be ingested daily”—is part of a cast of memorable characters that populate Zilot & Other Important Rhymes, an illustrated poetry collection that Bob and his children started around 20 years ago as part of a family activity that began with bedtime reading.
“We read to our kids every night as part of our nighttime ritual, starting when they were 2 months old.” Together with his wife, Naomi Odenkirk, Bob introduced his children to the likes of Dr. Seuss and Caleb Brown (Dutch Sneakers and Flea Keepers), and the family went through at least four or five picture books—sometimes more—each night.
A few years into this tradition, Bob considered how to further help his children feel empowered as creators. “One of the things that I feel held me back in my journey was just believing that writing or being a director or being an actor was allowed—that it was a possibility for me. You may look at my career and say, ‘Well, I don’t think you were held back very much.’” (Understandable, considering Bob was a “Saturday Night Live” writer at 25). “But even after I was working professionally, I still had years of going, ‘Can I do this? Is this okay? . . . Am I allowed?’ And I just think that mentality is worthless. It’s one thing to perceive writing or acting or being in the arts as challenging . . . But it’s not helpful to believe that you don’t belong, that you shouldn’t be allowed to do this, that you’re not worthy of it.”
“So I thought, right from when they were little, why don’t I write a poem with the kids after we read five books.” The family—including Naomi, who came up with a few of the poems in Zilot—did this about twice a week and ended up with around 80-100 poems: “I wouldn’t always fix things. I would let them write a silly line or pure nonsense.” Bob made sure that his children saw that he wrote each poem down—regardless of quality—in a book that he called Old Time Rhymes, which he stuck on a shelf.
“It’s one thing to perceive writing or acting or being in the arts as challenging . . . But it’s not helpful to believe that you don’t belong.”
Erin would grow up to obtain a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Critical and Visual Studies, from Pratt Institute in New York, and Old Time Rhymes always remained in the back of her mind. She considered what to do with the book, taking inspiration from illustrator and family friend Travis Millard, who often creates art based on his old journals.
Bob was also interested in making something from the poems in Old Time Rhymes, but any plans were far off: “I actually thought: When I’m a grandpa, I’ll sit down and rewrite these.”
But along came COVID-19. “I had to come home from college during the pandemic, as a lot of people did,” Erin says. “I was just sitting around in my room. . . . So my dad took initiative and pulled [Old Time Rhymes] out.”
“Everybody was wondering what to do with their time during the pandemic,” Bob says. “Erin had spent all her life becoming an artist. She’d gone to college and done lots of work developing her style. I thought: Now’s the time. And we got to work.”
For Erin, illustrating Zilot meant returning to the poems with an adult perspective: “I was surprised to find just how unabashedly silly and creative they were. I feel like I am a creative and silly-at-times person, but you lose some of that as you get older, and you start to believe you never were that way. It was really sweet to go back and find that sort of childhood rawness—to have things that you totally forgot about be triggered in memory.” She cites one of the earliest poems in the book,”A Trip to the 99-Cent Store” as an example. “It was something that we would do: go to the 99-cent store. Each of us would get $2 to buy whatever we wanted. That was a genuine joy. To be reminded of both that experience and what was fun to me about it at the time was wonderful.”
“Working together as adults was also wonderful and interesting,” Erin says. “I think a lot about how glad and honored I am that Bob trusted me to do this with him. . . . He was willing to work with me on something back when I was 19, which meant a lot to me.” Every day, Erin would share her her illustration drafts with Bob, even those on which she felt stuck. “Every single time he would go, ‘Oh, I have an idea.’ And the kid in his idea would always have the same facial expression: an ‘I’m up to no good’ kind of smirk. It’s so funny to think of this world in that way—it was our sort of ‘I’m up to no good’ world. I grew up with that, and now we’ve translated it to give to everyone.”
Read our starred review of ‘Zilot & Other Important Rhymes’ by Bob Odenkirk and Erin Odenkirk.
From a parent’s perspective, Bob couldn’t help but think of the Monty Python sketch where John Cleese plays a lawyer who visits his mom—except she can’t stop cooing over him and squeezing his cheek as if he’s a baby. “Having a kid is just where some part of your brain is broken. You just see that person as a child, even though they’re an adult now, and it’s hard to shake it. That’s why Erin calls me Bob; I think she’s constantly trying to reset the energy: ‘I’m an adult too now.’“
“I remember trying to call you Bob once when I was 10 or 11,” Erin adds. “Just to see what would happen. And you were like, ‘No, we’re not there.’”
Before she began illustrating for Zilot, Erin’s art was a lot more “conceptual and darker” than what would be fitting for children’s audiences: “I had to let go of a lot of the rules I typically follow or maybe the intentions I typically have, and it takes a lot of work to let go.” Luckily, she was in her childhood home, and could look through all her old books for inspiration—Shel Silverstein, MUTTS by Patrick McDonnell, Peanuts, Calvin and Hobbes. ”I started to really try to figure out what I liked about those things. What I thought I liked was that they were pen and ink, but I realized I also really liked the energy they had and their detail within simplicity.”
The end result was illustrations befitting bedtime poems. “I like Erin’s colors,” Bob says. They’re calm and warm.”
Working on children’s poems was also a sharp deviation for Bob who—once lockdowns were lifted—was busy portraying the consequences of Jimmy McGill’s moral corrosion for the ruminative final season of “Better Call Saul.” “It was really hard,” he says. “I mean, I need to be sort of singularly focused. I think a lot of guys are that way. I’m that way for sure. So I wasn’t so able to work on “Saul” and then just go home and write Zilot poems. I needed to have these breaks where I was able to refocus myself. . . . I would then go do Saul and lose myself in that role and in that energy. Then I would come back to this.”
About half of the book came directly from the poems Bob wrote with his children years ago, but the other 40-or-so poems were written the second time around with Erin and Nate as adults. “You don’t have a little kid there to ask ‘What happened to you today? What are you thinking about? . . . So I had to do another acting exercise of imagining I was talking with a little kid or seeing the world as kids do, from a lower height—the things that are such an important part of their day, you know: food, things that scare them, things they’re unsure of, bugs, cleaning up.”
Acting contributed to Zilot, but Bob is also fundamentally a writer, and he sees similarities between the poems and the “Saturday Night Live” and “Mr. Show” comedy sketches that got him started in show business: “They’re short pieces; they have a comedy concept. They have a journey. If you do them right, there’s a bit of an arc to them.”
Zilot was not picked up immediately by publishers. One even asked if Bob and Erin could make the tone “louder” and “more abrasive.” Although they considered it, Erin says they realized “it would have been phony.”
“I think that we differ from Shel Silverstein in a way, in the gentleness of our stuff,” Bob says. These poems “come from a sweeter place. They come from a kid’s point of view.” After all, the titular poem, “Zilot,” comes from a word Nate invented to describe a blanket fort. “We have no idea where he got this. This is like a brain fart [from] a 6-year-old. But we liked the word.”
According to Erin, “Giving kids the context and the permission to use big words, or pick a big word that’s theirs, or invent a new word even, is part of the goal of this book.” Bob encouraged his children to be free with words such as felicitations, undaunted, rambunctious or fulsome (as in “fulsome logs,” to describe dog poop).
The perspective of Zilot is “half grown-up, half six-year-old thinking. Hopefully combined, like in a blender,” Bob says. “‘Grandma’s Skin’ is me talking to my aunt Leona . . . who used to share all of her doctors, pains and medical problems with us. As a kid, you hear that stuff and you go . . . ‘I’m five, I don’t know any doctors,’” Bob says. “I wanted to write a poem to other adults saying, ‘Hey, calm down with your medical problems. Kids can’t help you. Leave them be.’”
“It was really sweet to go back and find that sort of childhood rawness—to have things that you totally forgot about be triggered in memory.”
Some of the poems grapple with serious themes: “A Cat Named Larry” is about a cat who outlives his pet mouse. “It’s a touchy, difficult thing to share feelings of loss with kids,” Bob says. So he wanted to write a poem about death. “In the course of their lives, most kids—if they have pets—will have to say goodbye to a pet. This is one pet saying goodbye to its pet.”
“Those sorts of poems were important to us to write,” Erin says. “But they were a bit tricky to find the way to say it [as] you might if there was a kid in the room.”
For example, “The Theory of Incrementalism” is “definitely engineered by a dad,” according to Bob. “It’s telling your kid you can do big things, but they all start with small steps.” The poem was inspired by a parkour documentary: “A guy looks into the camera, and he goes, ‘It’s called the Theory of Incrementalism.’ He talks about how, when you do parkour, you just do a little jump, then a bigger jump. . . . Every day you do a little bit, you push it a little further. . . . It’s really an approach to life that you want to share with kids.”
Of course, “The Theory of Incrementalism” doesn’t lose the playfulness that runs through Zilot: “Silliness can help if you have a lesson you want to share,” Bob says. “You still get to talk about the subject matter, but it undercuts some of the pedantic quality.”
Ultimately, for Bob, “all our messages are in this book.” He and Erin would like readers to know: “Please have a laugh. We wrote it for you to laugh at it and smile. We hope you will try things: write your own poems, invent your own words and draw your own drawings.”
Headshot of Bob Odenkirk by Naomi Odenkirk.
When the tragic deaths of his parents leave a young boy named Harish alone to fend for himself and his sisters, he does what he knows how to do best—dance, like the female Rajasthani dancers he watches. But the Thar Desert, where he lives, is not a place where lines blur easily between what is expected of men and women.
Harish doesn’t feel at home inside that strict binary. Golden streaks of joy encircle him as he is captivated by musicians and dancers swaying across the screen. His feet tap, and his fingers sway—but only “quietly, so no one sees.” After donning a ghagra, a choli and bangles on his arms and ankles, the boy “is shiny and / glittery and / NEW.” Then the boy begins to dance and slowly, delightfully transform into a swirling goddess.
Desert Queen is based on the true story of Queen Harish (Harish Kumar), an Indian drag performer known as the “Whirling Desert Queen of Rajasthan.” It’s hard to know what is more praiseworthy in this picture book: Jyoti Rajan Gopal’s spare poetry, which lends itself to the rhythmic sway of the dance it celebrates; or Svabhu Kohli’s exquisitely detailed illustrations, which are rooted in Indian cultural heritage and as bold and daring as the subject they honor. The boy’s initial timidity is particularly striking against backdrops that are anything but quiet.
The story doesn’t shy away from the difficulties of Harish’s life: Jeers and taunts are depicted that cause shining tears to flow. But this grief is shown alongside joy, and readers will rejoice as Harish finds a space as “not / Boy OR girl . . . But / fluid / flowing / like a dance / in between / and all around.” Together, Gopal and Kohli pay homage to a genderqueer hero who left the world far too quickly. Desert Queen is a fearlessly triumphant depiction of the wonder, magic and sparkle of dance.
At first glance, Do You Remember? seems to simply be a story of a mother and son sharing fond memories. But look closer and each memory deeply reveals a piece of their life together: the excitement of berry-picking at a picnic, the woes of learning to ride a bike, the tension and darkness of a rainstorm.
As in his previous Ezra Jack Keats Award-winning picture book Small in the City and the acclaimed I Talk Like A River written by Jordan Scott, author and illustrator Sydney Smith uses ethereal watercolors to enhance his lyrical text and beautifully bring each memory to life. The images and the memories themselves feel almost dreamlike as they evoke joy and thrills, anxiety and melancholy.
After the boy and mother take turns sharing memories, the boy somberly asks, “Do you remember . . . leaving our home behind? We packed up everything we own in our truck and drove down the highway, farther than we’d ever been.” “Of course I remember,” his mother replies.
The landscape changes from hills and hay bales and fields of wildflowers to cityscapes and traffic jams, and Smith’s illustrations subtly reveal changes not only in the environment but also in the family itself. We see through two beautiful, wordless spreads that the move they remember has only just taken place; this whole time the boy and his mother have been reminiscing upon their half-unpacked belongings.
As the sun rises, the boy decides their first morning in their new home can become a memory too. From the window, he sees his new street, smells the bakery across the road and hears the buses below. Although the first night has been hard, the magic of this first morning brings assurance that all will be well. “Yes,” he thinks, “I will remember this.”
Whether you have experienced a move, a change in your family or even just a stroll down memory lane, this nostalgic tale will find its way into your heart as it reminds us that our memories will guide us through the changes of life. Sydney Smith beautifully captures all the fear and hope that comes with change in this heartfelt picture book about remembering and starting anew.
With beautiful prose and engaging, colorful art, Every Dreaming Creature manages to be exciting and entertaining, yet ultimately calm and comforting. A child narrator dreams of experiencing how it feels to be a variety of animals, beginning with a salamander: “All the world was safe, snug spaces and a warm, wet blanket of decaying leaves. Secrets from the soil tickling my hands and soft belly.” The language describing each creature is sensory and evocative, while the art features bright, often close-up images, which range from varying sizes of spot art to spreads that stretch across the page. These size variations lend the images a certain sense of movement and mimic the barrage of images one might visualize while dreaming. Author and illustrator Brendan Wenzel’s website notes his “great affection for “all things furred, feathered, and scaly,” which shows in both this work and previous: He earned a Caldecott Honor for They All Saw a Cat.
Young readers will love guessing the next animal dream from clues in the text and art. For instance, a cloud above the elephant herd turns into a falcon. In dreamlike fashion, the animal appearances gradually speed up until an entire menagerie rapidly unfolds—a chameleon, a star-nosed mole, a hummingbird, sea turtles and more.
There’s a lovely, curvaceous fluidity to Wenzel’s art that ties each animal dream to another. He is a master colorist, whether when drawing a monarch butterfly so vivid you can practically see its wings flutter, or a prowling tiger jumping into a bright rainbow of a jungle with a giant paw so fluffy you can almost feel it. Throughout the intriguing mixture of animals and habitats, Wenzel uses eyes as a unifying theme and makes each pair a focal point that will draw in readers.
Variations of the refrain “until you came . . . and woke me from that dream” repeat until finally the child wakes up for real. Later, as the child slips “beneath the warm weight of a blanket,” readers are brought back to the salamander’s blanket of decaying leaves from the book’s beginning. Every Dreaming Creature is an eye-catching succession of nighttime visions that promotes a sense of empathy and admiration for the world’s many creatures.
A young unnamed Black boy wakes up on an ordinary school day with a smile on his face, eager to enjoy his favorite breakfast: “pan-fried bologna, homemade pancakes, strawberry jam.” He hugs his dog, endures a raucous school bus ride and settles in at school. But his unremarkable day is disrupted by insensitive, likely routine remarks from his classmates, who make assumptions and try to box him into prescriptive categories: “Can I touch your hair? . . . You don’t sound Black . . . Do you play basketball? . . . Where are you from?”
In I’m From, the protagonist is from all the things he loves: notebooks, caramel candy squares and late-night belly laughs. He feels most at home when he’s drawing pictures of himself and his dog as superheroes, and when he’s in the warm embrace of his family. Their gentle reminder about their shared traditions, hopes and aspirations give the boy a sense of purpose and belonging, which allows him to fall asleep warm and secure under “handcrafted blankets, knitted with memories.”
Illustrator Oge Mora depicts these blankets and the other illustrations with bold, warm colors and patterns. Her artwork—created with a mix of paint, collage, markers, airbrush and other media—echoes author Gary R. Gray Jr.’s heartfelt words. Harsh colors and shapes mirror the emotional impact of the classmates’ sharp words, but the words of affirmation from the boy’s family are set amid a culminating, joyful spiral of swirling purples and magentas that carry him as high as his imagination can reach. This buoyant story of everyday love and frustrations will comfort readers who just want to be valued for who they are.
Mole is not the sort of animal who likes big crowds. Mole’s idea of a fun time involves digging tunnels and working on construction projects. So when Mole gets invited to Rabbit’s birthday party, his anxiety spikes. For a critter used to spending time alone, a crowded party is going to be too much.
But supporting friends is more important than nerves, so Mole prepares Rabbit’s favorite dessert and heads to the party. However, Mole’s twisting journey through the tunnels is spent fretting, and when he finally arrives at Rabbit’s door, he is too nervous to knock. Then Skunk arrives, who isn’t a big fan of crowds either. Together, they build up the courage to knock on Rabbit’s door.
It’s not unusual for small children to fret about crowds, especially ones containing strangers. Maya Tatsukawa’s Mole Is Not Alone will help shy kids realize that they’re not alone. Mole’s anxieties around sharing space with so many other animals—even those considered friends—are clearly conveyed through text written entirely as speech bubbles from Mole.
Created through a combination of stencils, stamps, paint and digital illustration, Tatsukawa’s charming art includes many small details that will allow children to pore over each page in search of something new about their favorite animal characters. There’s even a two-page spread of a maze that readers can complete to help Mole move from one tunnel to the next.
Sweet and cozy—much like the cream puffs Mole makes—Mole Is Not Alone lends itself well to both storytime read-alouds and quiet snuggles before bed. Fans of Yeorim Yoon and Jian Kim’s It’s OK, Slow Lizard and Cori Doerrfeld’s The Rabbit Listened will want to add this to their shelves.
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