Cathy Ann’s Tips

Here are a few ideas I’ve been using with my grandkids to share A Cup of Quiet during virtual visits online. These ideas are specific to the themes of this book, but the idea of creating games that tie in with the themes of other books should work, as well. Try these on for size, and see what other ideas they might inspire.

1. The Quiet Cut Craft Show

This is a sweet, hands-on activity where one or more children are invited to create their own “Cup of Quiet.” You can organize with parents ahead of time to help gather materials — markers, glue, construction paper, or even printable mug templates that we can make available for download. Have each child design a unique cup. Afterwards, have them present it, describing what their personal quiet feels like. Is it blue like the sky, green like the grass, or maybe yellow like sunshine? Next, invite them to share what their quiet looks like, smells like, and how it feels inside. It becomes a heartwarming moment of self-expression and connection. 

2. Sound and Seek

My grandsons love a good game of virtual hide and seek, and Sound and Seek is a big hit. We take turns counting one-to-ten, then someone makes or plays a sound — e.g. a cat’s meow, the   honk of a big truck, or the sound of running water. We listen carefully and try to identify the sound. Is it loud or soft? This game helps   children notice the world around them with intention, and gently teaches them that quiet lives in the in-between moments, too.

3. A Hunt for a Cup of Quiet

This one is extra special. I hide little coffee mugs around my cozy Italian studio. With the iPad in hand, I take the boys on a virtual walk through my space. Their laughter bubbles up every time they spy one of the cups I’ve hidden. Every discovery becomes a new cup of quiet. With each cup, we pause, put our hands over our hearts, hold our hands over our heads then take a deep breath. What is the takeaway? It’s a treasure hunt for peace, and they love it.

4. Let’s Play in the Kitchen

We move our video screens to our kitchens, where we practice making our very own Cup of Quiet. Only this time, we fill our cups with something other than sounds. This time, we fill it with things found in our fruit bowls, refrigerators, or pantries.

“What’s in your cup?” I ask.

“My cup has strawberries,” one of them says.

“What color? How big?”

“I have mountain-sized strawberries in my cup,” Cairo, my two-year-old grandson, announces proudly.

“Nona, I want chocolate in mine!” he adds.

Then the boys help Nona imagine a very special cup.

“You need sugar!” one says.

“Is it white or brown?”

“White!” they both shout.

But Cairo insists, “You have to have milk, and it’s brown!”

Once everyone has their cup, we put our fingers gently over our lips and whisper.

“Shhhhhhh … be very quiet. We’re drinking our Cup of Quiet.”

There you have it — Cathy Ann Johnson’s tips for sharing our book A Cup of Quiet. So now, my friends, the question is, are you ready to share a special story time with the young readers in your life, whether near or far? Cathy and I are willing to bet your little ones are as eager as you are. I can hear them lick their lips, right now. Yum!

The post A Cup of Quiet: Tips for Long-Distance Sharing by Nikki Grimes and Cathy Ann Johnson appeared first on Nikki Grimes.

So the argument goes something like this: Policemen come into contact with any number of violent, criminal black men during the course of their careers, and so it is only reasonable that they should view all black men as potential threats, and should have their loaded guns at the ready, whenever, wherever, and under whatever circumstances they happen to encounter a black male, no matter his age, size, appearance, or demeanor.

To the above, I respond thus: As Negro, Colored, Black, African-American peoples, we individually, and collectively, carry in our hearts, minds, and souls, the memories of countless lashings, lynchings, cross-burnings, cattle prodding, water-hosing, hangings, bombings, whippings, rapes, mutilations, tarring, feathering, and police-baton beatings at the hands of people with white skin. In addition, we have in the past, and continue to suffer in the present, acts of discrimination at the hands of people clothed in white skin, some of whom hurt, harm, mistreat and misjudge us every day. (For those of you who think otherwise, racial discrimination is, sadly, very much alive in America. We wish it weren’t.)

Having said that, it’s important for you to know that I do not spend my days enraged or even angry. Life is too short to walk through the world with a permanent chip on one’s shoulder, no matter the rationale. The truth is, I’ve got better things to do. So have most of my friends. Besides, we prefer to interact with, and judge, each person we encounter based on the

content of their character, not the color of their skin. Most African Americans will tell you the same.

Now, re-read the earlier paragraph, and note that none of the aforementioned atrocities lead black people to leave our homes, armed to the teeth, and ready, without a moment’s hesitation, to mow down every white person we encounter, in whom we see the shadow of other whites who may have hurt or harmed us or threatened our very lives.

What, ultimately, is the key difference between a black person who refuses to see every white person he encounters as a threat, and a white person, policeman or otherwise, who refuses to see a black person, particularly a male, as anything but? Choice. It really boils down to choice.

Shooting to kill is not an accident. It’s a choice. It’s a choice in Ferguson, in Florida, in Chicago, in New York, in Anywhere, USA.

The arguments put forward by police and private citizens, for shooting to kill any and every black man or boy they see in the street, day or night, does not pass muster. A refusal to holster hate, or unprovoked fear, is a choice. Not bothering to tell the difference between a burgundy car and a tan car is a choice. Not taking care to distinguish between a car full of school children, and one full of potential adult male suspects, is a choice. Failing to differentiate between a boy, or a man, on the attack, and a boy or a man with his hands in the air, is a choice. And, by the way, punching, or pummeling an unarmed, middle-aged woman on the side of a freeway is a choice.

A choice is a decision, not a cause for making excuses. Any mature, mentally healthy adult can tell the difference between the two.

The post Under the Gun appeared first on Nikki Grimes.

Letter writing has become a lost art. I’m sure you’ve heard that before. I wish it wasn’t true. Beyond simply languishing in a sea of despond over the matter, though, I do my best to hold the line. I write letters, at least randomly, if not routinely. No matter how much time I need to set aside for the task, I’m never sorry that I did.

In recent months, a dear friend of mine lost his partner of over 30 years. Her death was both sudden and grisly. As you might imagine, her passing left my friend spinning. I’ve buried enough loved-ones to more than empathize.

I was rocked by the news when it reached me, one time-zone and hundreds of miles away. Immediately, I wanted to cover the crack in my friend’s heart with my own two hands, but I couldn’t. I wanted to offer my shoulder for those unutterable moments when he could no longer hold back the tears, but I couldn’t. I wanted to hop on the next plane and, literally, fly to his side. But, for a host of reasons, I couldn’t. And yet, I was desperate to be present for my friend.

I sat down to write him a letter, one of the things I had it in my power to do. I’ve written several letters since, penned a poem just for him, and sent a collection of verse that might bring him a little healing, a little light. I sent each with the appropriate postage, and something more: I sent each with a prayer, and I hoped. I hoped that my meager attempts at being present, from a great distance, would, in some small way, matter.

The other day, I received a card from this friend, with a carefully worded, handwritten note. The first words made my heart leap:

“Dearest Nikki,

Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

In the body of the note, my friend let me know that my words on paper had spoken hope to his heart; that they had given him glimpses of a future in which he would, once again, be able to step into the light; that my simple words of encouragement and connection had mattered to him in this extraordinary time of need, and had mattered deeply.

When was the last time you wrote a letter? I’m not talking about a hastily dashed-off email, sent between sips of coffee, or bites of a hamburger during lunch. I’m talking about an old-fashioned, carefully considered, handwritten or typed letter. When?

I know you’re busy. Who isn’t? But when did we become so busy that we don’t make time for a friend who hungers for the words of encouragement, hope, advice—or even humor—that only we, as friends, can offer? Yes, finding the time to write a letter can be difficult. However, when those words matter as deeply as they do, isn’t it worth the l sacrifice?

Maybe one day, you trade the time you’d spend hanging out on Facebook, or checking your Twitter feed, to compose a letter instead. Or maybe you give up one episode of that half-hour sitcom to do the deed. The fact is, time can always be found for the things that matter. All I’m saying is, this is one of them.

That’s it. That’s all I have to say on the subject, except this: What are you waiting for? Somebody needs to hear from your heart, and a letter can be the perfect package in which to send it.

The post What a Word is Worth appeared first on Nikki Grimes.

At the ripe old age of 63 (63 is the new—what?), I’m facing the hard fact that I may never achieve some of my career goals. I may never win that certain award, receive that particular accolade, attain a lasting place in the children’s book literary canon. It occurs to me, at long last, that my work may not be as worthy as I have imagined, that I have, perhaps, thought of my talent more highly than I ought. Ouch. Whether or not that’s true, another thought has begun to creep in. What if the work was worthy, and what if I did win those certain awards or accolades? How much would it really matter, in the end?

I’ve had a number of elderly friends in the business who, at the top of their game, were acclaimed, established, even “hot.” But, in their final years, they were fairly unremarked, largely unrecognized, and—saddest of all—their works were mostly out-of-print. I used to sympathize with them. Now, however, as I approach a good old age myself, sympathy has turned to empathy. I realize I’ll be lucky to be remarked upon a generation from now. Heck, even ten years from now, as fast as things are moving, these days. Not exactly the immortality most authors imagine! What is that line from Ecclesiastes? Vanity, vanity. All is vanity.

At my church, we’ve been studying the Book of Daniel lately. There’s a lot in this book about vainglory, particularly towards the end. In Chapter 11, there’s a compressed report of nations rising to power, often by virtue of intrigue, deceit, and hastily arranged alliances, only to be supplanted by the next conquer who comes along with visions of empire dancing in his head. None of the kingdoms ever last, of course. In fact, many are lost to the annals of history forever. Like I said: vainglory.

As I read Daniel, I realized nations aren’t the only entities guilty of vainglory. I’ve been wrestling with a case of my own. I’m hardly prepared to employ intrigue, deceit, or political alliances to climb to the top of the literary ladder, but what if I did? I would all-too-soon be pushed from my perch by the very next hot author to come along. And she or he, in turn, would only enjoy the limelight until the next hot author emerged, and so on, and so on. Don’t get me wrong: literary honors are lovely. The more, the merrier, I say. But, here’s the kicker: They simply don’t last. If that’s true, and it is, why consume precious amounts of time in their pursuit?

I know. It seems so obvious, but it’s hard not to be ambitious in this world. We’re constantly bombarded with messages that we deserve more, need more, should strive for more. The least little ember of dissatisfaction in us is feverishly stoked—by advertisers, talking heads, and, often, well-meaning friends and family. The notion that acclaim is something to rightly aspire to is whispered in our ears, day and night. Forget the need for speed. We lust after legitimacy, recognition, applause! And, for me, the desire for acclaim is also wrapped up with the need to make a living at my craft. There is always the hope, misplaced or not, that greater awards will lead to greater earnings.

Sigh.

It’s hard not to get sucked in.

There is a way, though. What if I stopped listening to the whispers of the world? What if I shut out all the voices except God’s and my own? Could it really be that simple?

Years ago, I gave up my subscription to Publishers Weekly because every time I read an article about a random author who closed a deal on a six-figure contract, it gnawed my insides. Why not me? I moaned. It took me awhile, but I eventually realized that wasn’t healthy. So, I cancelled my subscription and ended the insanity, which helped. A little.

In the years since, I have found myself cringing at the approach of book award season. Hard as I’d try not to, I’d read the list of winners each year, and whine, why not me? Why not my book? (Remember, that was before I came to the realization that I might not be all that and a bag of chips!). Thankfully, as the years have progressed, I’ve spent less time bellyaching about imagined slights, and have learned to move on rather quickly to congratulating that year’s winners and honorees. I may not be new and improved, but I am getting better.

The other day, I read a post about a young author who was recently honored with an opportunity that has never come my way, and probably never will. And I suddenly realized that’s okay. That’s his story, not mine. I can be happy for him and wish him well without feeling any sense of loss. He is doing good work, and he is being faithful to the stories he has to tell. That’s as it should be.

Friends occasionally remind me that there are those who view my story with a hint of envy. Of course, I never see things from that perspective, because my attention is on what I haven’t yet acquired, or achieved, or done. Enough!

Last week, I cancelled my cable subscription. It may seem like a small, unrelated step, but it is one in the right direction. There’s less static coming into my home, now. There are fewer voices telling me what I need, or deserve, or should want. After just one week, I’m already beginning to recognize the sound of my own thoughts, again. I’ve made space for my brain to breathe, cleared room for my inner self to reemerge, created quiet in which I can examine my own heart. In the quiet, I can remember what truly matters, can reconnect with the pure joy of working with words. In this third act, I can focus on making the deepest impact I can, here and now, with the generation of readers I’ve been given. That’s the job. That’s the one goal completely within my grasp. If I stick to it before, during and after book-award season, I’ll have no time to worry about singing the blues.

I can already feel a sense of peace descending.

The post A Question of Perspective appeared first on Nikki Grimes.

Pardon me if I presume to know what I’m talking about, but I am, in fact, sitting on a lovely sofa, set in a small, but beautiful home, paid for by a career built on writing children’s poetry and novels-in-verse. I believe that qualifies to say a thing or two on the subject, yes?

I recently spoke at a conference at which I heard it stated, unequivocally, that poetry doesn’t sell. When those words hit the air, I wanted to leap out of my skin. I’ve been hearing that old adage since I first entered this field more than 30 years ago. Had I, for a moment, taken that oft-repeated statement to heart, I’d have no career. The 50-plus books I’ve published, most of them children’s poetry, or novels-in-verse, would not exist. I would never have won the NCTE Award for Excellence in Children’s Poetry, nor awards for my body of work, or the ALA Notables, Coretta Scott King Award and Honors, or any of the other awards and citations my poetry has earned. None of it would exist if I’d believed that well-worn idea.

To be fair, if you are a poet, it is highly unlikely that you will become wealthy working in this genre, no matter how well you hone your craft. That much is true. But chances are, you already know that. I would wager that most writers, keen on this particular genre, aren’t looking to make a killing in the marketplace. They simply have a penchant for the lyrical line, and a passion for metaphor. Like me, they pen poetry because they, quite frankly, can’t help themselves. Poetry is in them. It’s part of their DNA. Poets don’t value their work in terms of fiscal weight, and that’s where we differ from agents and editors.

Agents and publishers are in the business of making money by selling books. We all understand that, although I wish interest in producing a rich and diverse variety of quality literature for the next generation, were more widespread. Still, we shouldn’t be surprised when agents and publishers push for vampire lore while the genre is hot, or discourage dystopian novels when they feel the trend is waning. Not so long ago, writers were dissuaded from creating books for teens, as there was yet no perceived market for them. That makes sense, right?

But. Aren’t we glad Judy Blume ignored the naysayers, back in the bad old days, and wrote novels for teens anyway? Aren’t we glad Jack Prelutsky and Shel Silverstein beat the poetry drum before verse was in vogue? Aren’t we grateful for Myra Cohn Livingston, and Eloise Greenfield, and Lucille Clifton, and Arnold Adoff, and a host of other poets who’ve enriched the lives of young readers?

I attended the first inauguration of President Obama, in 2009. One of my favorite moments of the ceremony was the reading of a poem. I love that poetry has played a part in inaugural celebrations of the past. Each time a poet has risen to that great podium it is a reminder that this genre has something substantial to offer. Poetry can provoke, challenge, disturb. It can soothe our souls, or spur us on to greatness. It can inspire, uplift, and make the heart soar. However, poetry can accomplish none of these things if it is not written.

I’m all for being honest with poets about the realities of the marketplace. I know that poetry, in the main, does not sell as well as prose. But it can, and does, sell. Is the field extraordinarily competitive? Absolutely. Is crafting quality poetry difficult? Of course it is. All good writing involves a huge investment of time, energy, and often, research. But that’s a lousy excuse for telling a gifted poet, who has a hankering for haiku, who eats and sleeps simile, who mires himself in metaphor that he or she should give up the very idea of penning poetry as a literary career.

Here are a few thoughts: the next time you come across a poet who clearly demonstrates a gift for this genre, don’t tell him to hide his light under a basket. Instead, tell poets to be smart about their choice of subject, to research the market to make sure their ideas haven’t already been done, to consider the needs of school curriculum and shape their work accordingly so that their books of poetry will be as marketable as possible. Encourage them to consider narrative books in verse—novels, biographies, historical fiction, creative non-fiction.

On the other hand, if the writer has no gift for this genre, tell him so. If his poetry is not topical, tell him that. If his poetry is not age-appropriate, tell him that. If you, personally, lack the know-how, or frankly, the interest in selling poetry, tell him that. But please, whatever you do, don’t tell a poet not to be a poet. That’s a bit like telling a leopard not to have spots!

One last thing: While poetry may, indeed, be difficult to place, it is not impossible. So please, please stop telling tomorrow’s poets that poetry doesn’t sell. If you do, you might as well tell them that New York Times bestseller Ellen Hopkins is a figment of our collective imagination; that Sonya Sones and Prince Honoree Helen Frost do not exist; that Newbery Honoree Joyce Sidman does not exist; that J. Patrick Lewis, and Naomi Shihab Nye, and Paul B. Janeczko, and Jack Prelutsky, and Sara Holbrook, and Jamie Adoff, and Tony Medina, and Marilyn Nelson, and Georgia Heard, and Marilyn Singer, and X.J. Kennedy, and Jane Yolen, and Margarita Engle, and Lee Bennett Hopkins, and Pat Mora, and Allan Wolf, and Gary Soto, and Eloise Greenfield, and Nikki Grimes, and a host of other working, publishing, award-winning poets do not exist. And that, my dears, simply isn’t true.

The post The Problem with Poetry appeared first on Nikki Grimes.

Someday, I’ll get around to crafting a complete memoir, but God keeps telling me that it’s time to share a bit of it, right now. No, I don’t hear voices, except for the occasional character from one of my stories. But God does effectively communicate to me through other people, through my devotionals, through his Word—pretty much any way that he can get my attention. Which, I admit, can require a considerable amount of effort on his part. Sometimes, I can see God banging his head against the wall of heaven, saying, “What is with this chick? Is she deaf?” Of course, we both know that I’m not, and sooner or later, God gets through, and I tell him, like I did this morning, “Okay, Lord. Message received.” He wants me to share, so I’ll share.

Ready? You’ll need to sit down for this one.

I once had a beautiful little girl named Tawfiqa. If you’re a dear and especially old friend, you know that. Otherwise, this may be news to you. I don’t talk about her much, mostly because I don’t want to go there. In 1974, my gorgeous girl drowned in a pool at the babysitter’s. She was just shy of 4 years old. I won’t try to convey the depth of my grief, because it was bottomless. Besides, language is thoroughly inadequate to the task. What I can tell you, though, is that, in all the years since, whenever I learn of the death of a child—anyone’s child—my heart is hurled back to the emotional tsunami of my own loss. What’s more, in those agonizing moments, nothing separates me from the mother of that other child. In that instant, the mother and I are one. As such, the massacre in Connecticut laid me low.

My immediate thoughts were not of the red-flag issues others raised following the massacre—gun control, mental illness, and the pervasive nature of violence in our culture. No. My immediate thoughts were of the mothers, whose hearts had just been ripped from their bodies, just like mine. No past tense was necessary. This kind of pain is present continuous. No language can approach or contain it.

Wrenching as this news was, and continues to be, I know exactly where to go with my grief. I gather the shattered pieces of my heart, and the hearts of all those mothers, and fathers too, and lift them up to God in prayer. I’ve had a bit of practice.

When my daughter died, all those years ago—yesterday?—a sound came out of me that was more animal than human. Then, once I could catch my breath, I began to whisper the most theologically sophisticated prayer I could muster: Help me, God. Please, help me. I followed that with three days of fasting, at the end of which I asked Jesus to come into my life and fill me up. And he did. Best decision ever!

Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve heard it all before, but I don’t care. I had come to the end of myself, and I needed help to take that next breath. The child, who barely filled that tiny coffin, wasn’t just any human being. This was the precious soul I’d carried in my own body for nine months, the warm, wiggling infant I’d nursed at my breast. This was flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, and her sudden, horrific, inexplicable absence—from my life, from the world—sucked all the air from my lungs, and left me prone. The death of your child will do that to you. Even the memory clogs my windpipe.

In those dark days, I needed solace, comfort, and strength. I went to the Cross to find it, and I did. But I received something more, in the bargain. I was granted a gift of peace. I’m not talking about some warm fuzzy feeling, or numbness, or the absence of pain. No. I’m talking about an unfathomable, palpable, pure sense of peace about the loss of my child. Did that peace eclipse my grief? Not even for a millisecond. But it did sustain me throughout my mourning, and it gave me the assurance—no, the certainty—that there was both light and life-abundant for me at the end of this unimaginable, pain-painted tunnel. God’s peace made it possible for me to live, heart open and hopeful, going forward. And that, as they say, is worth shouting about.

In this technologically evolved age, many in our culture make light of the Christian faith, but it is no feather on the wind. It is stubborn, and sturdy, and more powerful than some imagine. What happened in and through me in the days following my daughter’s death made that clear to all those around me.

One evening, I got a call from the adult son of the babysitter—we’ll call her Jane. Jane, it seemed, was inconsolable. Since my daughter’s drowning in her family’s pool, Jane had taken to bed, wracked with guilt, swimming in tears, and unable to function. Her worried son asked if I would please agree to see her. I did.

I visited Jane’s home, the house in which my daughter had breathed her last, and I found a woman bereft indeed. She was unable to care for, or even engage, her own children, safe in the next room. It was impossible that I should feel pity for her, but I did. I took her in my arms and I rocked her, and comforted her while she wept. I told her that I held no malice toward her, that I did not blame her for my daughter’s death. I’d leave it to God to sort out blame, I said. As for me, I clung to the belief that I would see my daughter again, some day.

Slowly, Jane calmed down, and I gathered myself to leave. I encouraged her to rally herself. After all, she had a family who desperately needed her. Then I left, never to see Jane again.

I look back on that day, and I shake my head in wonder. Whose arms were those wrapped round the woman who was, at least indirectly, responsible for the death of my child? Those arms were God’s. He loved her through me, spoke words of forgiveness and compassion through me, accomplished something I never could have done on my own. When I talk about the power of faith, and of God’s love, and of God’s peace, that’s what I’m talking about. And when I think of those mothers in Connecticut, it’s the love of Christ, and his healing, and his perfect peace that I pray for—for them. As for that bottomless grief I mentioned? Only God’s reach is long enough to touch it.

Each Christmas, as I the decorate the house and trim the tree, gather with loved ones and sip cider, write my Christmas poem and wrap presents, I remember the gift of peace I received from the Prince of Peace himself. His gift is available to all who seek it, and that’s something worth celebrating, isn’t it?

Merry Christmas!

The post The Prince of Peace appeared first on Nikki Grimes.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but haven’t we buried thousands of young men and woman who gave their lives to secure the rights and freedoms all Americans are blessed to enjoy? And don’t those rights and freedoms include the freedom of speech? And, unless someone altered the Constitution and all its amendments when I wasn’t looking, that freedom applies to all Americans, not just those with whom we happen to agree. Trust me, I’m none too fond of statements by, say, members of the KKK, with regard to their opinions of Black folk. However, as hateful as I might find their speech, I acknowledge their constitutional right to it.

The simple fact that we disagree with someone’s stated opinion, no matter how vociferously, does not give us some sort of moral high ground to threaten their livelihood. And, do keep in mind, we’re talking about a private citizen, here, not someone holding public office, serving at the federal, state, or even city level. Nor are we talking about someone in a position to legislate public policy. The brouhaha might make a bit more sense if we were. As it is, what this situation boils down to, in my humble opinion, is one set of Americans hammering another American for having the audacity to express a personal opinion contrary to their own. If we keep down this road, we won’t have to worry about enemies from without. We’ll be doing a pretty bang-up job of sabotaging ourselves from within.

If you don’t like the opinion of Chick-Fil-A’s CEO, or anyone else, for that matter, feel free to say so—even loudly, if you must. But once you’ve made your point of view clear, for goodness sake, move on. This is America, after all, remember? Everybody gets to have his say.

The post The Chick-Fil‑A Fiasco appeared first on Nikki Grimes.

Okay. I’ll try to calm down, but the effort required is tremendous.

Deep breaths. Let me begin, again.

When I was a little girl, I was an avid reader. The library was my sanctuary, and story was my safe place. I lived between the pages of a book. That said, the books of my childhood let me down in one respect. Too few of them featured characters who looked like me, or who shared my life experience. Reading book after book after book without seeing my face reflected began to make me feel invisible.  No child should ever feel that way between the pages of a book.

As an author of books for children and young adults, I have devoted more than 30 years to addressing that imbalance, by creating literature featuring children of color, primarily African American and Hispanic. The impact of that work, and the work of other authors of color—Latin, Asian, Native American, as well as African American—has already been felt in the generation that followed ours. But we’re still playing catch-up, in many ways. There remain genres in which our voices have been too seldom heard, fantasy and science fiction among them.

Now, just when our children are finally beginning to feel a sense of inclusion and empowerment, our books our being banned from school classrooms. And, yes, I said our because I align myself with any ethnic group targeted for censorship. There is no Latin children’s book community, or Asian children’s book community, or Native American children’s book community. There is only the children’s book community, and what affects one member affects all.

Censorship harms all children, not only the targeted ethnic group du jour. A book is the safe place for a child to learn about another culture. It is there that children come to understand that all humans are more alike than different. I was reminded of that in a letter I received from a reader who wrote: “I learned that no matter how different we are on the outside, we’re all pretty much the same on the inside.” That is one of the great lessons to be learned from books featuring Latin, Asian, Native American, Middle Eastern, African, and African American characters. Only someone, or some state, that wants to perpetuate the racial divide would take issue with that.

Are you listening, Arizona?

Of course, race-related censorship is not the only kind out there.

Today, I’ve got another itch to scratch.

What set me off more recently? An attack on author Rachel Held Evans for her blog about the stranglehold Christian bookstores have on the Christian publishing industry. She wrote about the frustrations felt by many believing authors who find themselves creatively straight-jacketed by a marketplace that prefers its literature sanitized, and a little left of reality. I resonated with much of what she had to say, and felt pressed to add my voice to the argument.

I’m livid about people trying to dictate what a Christian writer can, and should, write.  Or, for that matter, trying to dictate what can and should constitute “Christian fiction.” Let me explain.

I’m something of a rarity. I’m an author who publishes on both sides of the aisle, namely with both Christian and secular publishers. Over the years, I’ve noticed that as long as I’m focused on picture books, the problems are, for the most part, slight. However, the minute middle grade and YA fiction is the genre, hold your horses. “Language” suddenly becomes an issue. And by “language” I mean so-called edgy words like “damn” or “hell.” (“Shit” is completely out of the question.) As for subject matter, let’s not mention witches, or prostitutes, or—gasp—homosexuals. Mind you, I’ve never featured gay characters in any of my fiction, nor used the word “shit,” but I most certainly object to the idea of being told that I can’t.

Here’s my problem. I’ve been a student of the Bible since 1974 and, in all that time, I’ve noticed the following: stories in the Holy Bible include passages on witches, sorcerers, mediums, prostitutes, pimps, racists, adulterers, despots, and homosexuals, among others. These stories do not suggest that one should become a pimp, witch, prostitute, etc. But the Word of God does not shy away from their mention, or instruct readers to ignore the reality of their existence.

Some of the stories we find in scripture are cautionary tales, some are tales of redemption, while others focus on transformation. Instead of pushing for a literature that is “safe”—something the Bible never was—why not allow the creators of Christian fiction the freedom to follow the models found in scripture?

Consider this: Father Abraham pimps out his wife, Sarah, not once, but twice. The prophet Hosea married a whore, and did so on God’s instruction. Rahab, a prostitute, became a hero of the faith, and an ancestor of King David and, through him, an ancestor of Jesus Christ. What, exactly, do Christian booksellers do with those stories? Are you going to tell me that such stories are good enough for the Holy Bible, but not good enough for contemporary Christian authors?  Really?

I realize nothing I say here is going to convince these booksellers to take off their blinders, but still. One must speak out. Thank you, Rachel Held Evans, for taking the lead.

I’m not sure I know how to take on the censors. I only know that silence won’t work.

The Lord never neglected to call a spade a spade. Neither will I.

The post Censorship appeared first on Nikki Grimes.

Planet Middle School received wonderful reviews including one star. It’s gotten great feedback from fans. Everyone who has read it loves it. But the novel did not win an award. Does that matter?

On the eve of the Oscars, my thoughts turn to awards. Actual awards are worth surprisingly little. I’m talking about the medals, statuettes, and crystal figurines themselves. They cost only a few dollars. Yet, we imbue those awards with meaning that makes them seem priceless. But, why?

Suppose I write a great book, but a panel of three, or six or twelve judges deem another book to be the year’s “best.” Is my great book no longer great? Is great no longer good? Is good no longer good enough?

Here’s a thought. We are not called to be the best. We are called to be our best. It’s crucial that we understand the difference between the two.

I love watching figure skating. It is the sport I follow most closely during the Winter Olympics. But one thing that always disturbs me is how often winning silver or bronze for an event is treated as a failure. All the emphasis—by athletes, coaches, and commentators alike—is on the gold. Win the gold and, well, you’re golden. Win anything less and so, it seems, are you. That’s certainly the way Debi Thomas felt the year she was beat out by Katarina Witt for the top prize. She took home the bronze in the ladies competition, the first African American woman to do so, as I recall. Yet, her third-place finish was practically mourned.

How many hundreds of athletes did every skater, skier, luger, have to beat out to even win a place on that Olympic team? For my money, anyone who makes the team is already a winner. How about celebrating that? The argument works for authors, as well.

I remember the first book convention I attended. it was the ABA conference held in Las Vegas (yes, I’m dating myself. This conference is not even called ABA anymore. But never mind.) I walked onto the exhibit floor and gasped. There were acres of books laid out before me, a sight I’d never even imagined.

As I strolled down aisle after aisle, past booth after book filled with newly published books, I wondered how on earth I would ever make my mark in a field so enormous. Then, the impossible happened. I did. So did a lot of other authors.

A few authors, a precious few, have won the Newbery, the gold medal of children’s literature. I’m not one of them, but I am in great company. (Jane Yolen, anyone? Gary Schmidt? What about Naomi Shihab Nye? The list is too, too long.) Does not winning the Newbery mean that our books aren’t good, or even great? Of course not.

We have all made the team.

We are already winners.

Out of the thousands, upon thousands, of manuscripts submitted to publishers each year, ours were selected for publication. Ours were noticed. Ours won fans. Ours moved readers to laughter and tears. We need to let that be enough. I need to let that be enough.

Say it with me: We are not called to be the best. We are called to be our best. You can’t get better than that.

The post An Award by Any Other Name appeared first on Nikki Grimes.

That said, I take issue with the fact that reviewers routinely begin every discussion of my books by identifying my characters as African American. Now, before you chime in with comments about ethnic pride (“My Greek friends refer to themselves as Greek Americans,” one woman told me, while another said “I’d never call myself Greek-American”) that’s not what I’m talking about, here. Under consideration here are how books are defined in terms of race.

As I noted in a conversation on Facebook, if I were Italian, no reviewer would refer to the characters in my book as Italian-American, unless that heritage was of particular consequence in the storyline. Yet, when it comes to my books, no such distinction is made. The specter of race is raised right out of the gate, with every title, nearly every time, subject notwithstanding. Just recently, I read an otherwise wonderful review of my latest novel, Planet Middle School that did exactly that.

Sigh.

I know it’s possible to write a thoughtful review of this book without mentioning race because K.T. Horning created one for Booklist. Now, since I’ve been in the business for more than 30 years, and most of my books have centered on characters of African American descent, it can be assumed, without prejudice, that my new book does so as well. However, race is by no means germane to the subject or treatment of this particular novel. You’d never know that, though, according to the first review referenced above. Why does that matter? I’m glad you asked.

I understand why librarians might want to be able to quickly identify titles of particular interest to African American readers. And were I a first, or second, or third time author, with no track record, or body of work, or status in the children’s book community, one might argue the importance of mentioning race, at least initially, in connection with my titles. However, none of that is the case.

At this stage of the game, most people involved with, or making use of, children’s literature know that I’m African American, and that my primary characters are, in the main, African American, too. Mind you, I’m not suggesting that I’m “famous” in the sense that we speak of celebrities (God forbid!), but merely that I am well established in the children’s book community, and it is a fairly simple matter to ascertain that the characters of most of my books are African American without having the fact mentioned in review after review after review. Besides, the cover art makes it plain, does it not? (I’ve all but begged publishers to consider creating covers for my books that are not always race-specific, but to no avail!)

“But,” you ask, “what if the cover art is not included in the review?” No problem. Take two seconds to go to IndieBound.org or Amazon.com or the Barnes and Noble website, click on the title in question, and up pops the telling cover art, in no time flat. Problem solved. And oh, by the way, if race is the only common denominator book buyers are interested in, they’re free to check out the special listings publishers produce each year to highlight their own black and multicultural titles. Most publishers’ catalogs I see, these days, have a section set aside for those titles. And don’t forget the annual Publisher’s Weekly issue on black books in—when is that? February?

Of course, my issue with the whole race question in discussing children’s literature (or any literature, for that matter) is, if you will, more than skin deep. I have a problem with segregating teaching or reading practices in all schools, whether a school is segregated or racially mixed. Be a student black, brown, yellow, or white-skinned, he should be encouraged to read a diverse selection of good books by authors of every race. Period.

Is a book well written? Is the story well told? Will the subject matter resonate with readers? Does the book have the potential for making an emotional connection with readers? These are the kinds of questions teachers and librarians should be focused on. In the case of books in which race is central to the storyline, race should absolutely come in for a mention. But where it does not, it should not. That is my contention.

Race, as an explicit designation in books, has a marketing component that can’t be overlooked. Books identified as “black” are frequently marginalized in the marketing plan. Their appeal is automatically considered to be narrower than books written by Caucasian authors, sometimes even when those books are about non-white characters. The point-of-view is assumed to be universal, simply by virtue of the white author’s race. In the sellers’ mind, a so-called “black book,” i.e., a book written by a black author, should be exclusively marketed to black buyers. As such, said books are rarely made available in outlets located in predominantly white neighborhoods. This makes me crazy because I have avid fans in those neighborhoods, too. I know because I meet them during my school visits, and find their letters among my fan mail. Luckily for me (and them?) they were exposed to my work at their local library.

I can’t help but wonder how many students are missing out on these reading experiences because my “black books” aren’t being marketed to a broader audience. I never know whether to ball my fists or cry.

I find myself annoyed by reviewers who give my books left-handed compliments. In the first sentence of their review, they’ll mention the African American lead character. Then, in the final sentence, they’ll offer some version of “but the story has universal appeal.” Well, duh! If that’s the case, why bother to point out the fact that the character is African American?

(A question just came to me. Can you imagine referring to a computer program design, or a medical breakthrough, or a work of architecture as “black” simply because the creator was African American? I’m just wondering. Where do we draw the line?)

As I sit at my computer, typing this blog, I think back on some of the gorgeously crafted, well-imagined books I read last year as a judge for the National Book Award. I would hate to think that African American students will miss out on the titles that don’t happen to feature African American characters, or that white students will miss out on those books that do. What a crying shame!

I might be inclined to shrug my shoulders and say, “Maybe it’s just me,” except I know it isn’t. There are other authors of color who are bugged by this issue, as well. (And what about those authors who are from South Africa, but are not black? What kind of box do reviewers put their books into? Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to give race more than its due!) Still, I can’t speak for all authors of African descent. It’s quite possible that some are content to have their entire body of work boiled down to the color of their skin. As for me, I’d rather be known for writing books that are moving, inspiring, impacting, emotionally charged, beautifully written, cleverly constructed and—oh, yeah—universally appealing!

But that’s just me.

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