The post Books for black kids appeared first on The Horn Book.

Photo: Gary Spector

By Shane W. Evans

As I sit down to write this, I watch the sun fall below the horizon and my spirits rise.

There is the sound of LIFE all around me: birds chirping, the roar of vehicles, the faint exchanges of words between neighbors, and children’s laughter in the air. I am encouraged and thankful on this Sunday, having shared my day at a small church called True Light established by Pastor Alice directly across from my Dream Studio in Kansas City, Missouri. We thanked GOD on this day for an extraordinary community as we gathered, ALL shapes, sizes, and situations, to make a JOYFUL noise.

Give us this day … our DAILY bread … a prayer that I say every day, recognizing the importance of the “US” in the asking, that we all have what we need.

Here I am today! Again, thankful and asking that we all have the bread that we need to sustain us for this day. There are many to thank: my family, wife, daughter, mother, father, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, and community. I have been inspired through their constant encouragement, prayer, and support. I want to thank all of those who helped to make Underground the book that you have chosen to honor: the publisher, Roaring Brook Press; my editor, Neal Porter, a man who trusts his vision as well as the vision of the artists he works with; Rebecca Sherman of Writers House, for sharing her passion for this work and finding this story a home; ALA and the Coretta Scott King committee, for going on this journey honoring the “voice on a page” with this amazing award; and to ALL of you for honoring authors and illustrators through the reading and sharing of our books.

I know that many artists and illustrators work tirelessly to “get the story right” … the facts of the matter. There are details in the history (our story) that can often be traced by other voices of the past through reference and research. For this book I wanted to reach back to that “original place” in my imagination that I would grab from when I was a child. A wonderful place where I mostly like to engage in the “happier” things in life, although always knowing that imagination is not bound only to that place. I have had to imagine, as an illustrator, things not so pleasant, feelings and situations that I would like to avoid at all costs…And here I am today, because I wanted to start with “The Darkness.”

I imagine that in my lifetime I have had thousands of sheets of paper pass through my hands with a crayon or a pencil making a “joyful mark,” telling a story of a sun in the corner and green grass below. I have also drawn heroes who could fly through the sky with capes blowing in the wind. I suppose there is a time and a place for everything.

There was a day some seven years ago or so when I found myself on a train in Japan, of all places. There was something about this moment that made me say to myself, “PICK UP THAT PENCIL and DRAW…” A command to begin the journey. There are times as an artist when I have to trust the process; sort of let go and let the light shine from within, even when the subject matter is dark. As I put the pencil to the pad, I remember that feeling that I had as a child, loving the resistance, the sound, and the outcome of line, and this was happening right before my very eyes. All of the sudden on this pad of paper there was a MAN and a WOMAN and they were READY. It did not matter who they were. It mattered more that they were ready FOR FREEDOM! As the pages turned I really began to cheer these people on, and then I knew the reality that I would have to have them face. The hardships, the moments of despair, the ups and the downs of a LONG road that was not defined by a date in time, beginning or end. I knew that these people were real and that they are real. I have seen many people today LONGING for freedom. I have made a conscious effort to not make comparisons, so it is safe to say that there are many definitions for the word FREEDOM as every journey is distinctly different. In some way we have ALL sought freedom. Ask yourself, “What is freedom?” Many of us cannot imagine, and do not want to imagine, a place and time in which people would need to STEAL AWAY to freedom. I have to say that we do not have to look very far to see that this remains with us. The spirit of this “Underground” never died; it transformed with the times.

We can see, based on our own experience, when we are READY for freedom, and we will seek with our hearts first, and this will open the path. It is when the words are first spoken, “I am seeking freedom,” that you will find someone listening who is seeking the same and who might reply, “Well, I have heard of a way…” The next thing you know, you are MOVING your feet on the path to freedom. You have sought the escape and the quiet, engaged the fear, you have run, crawled, rested, made new friends along the way, lost something in the process, felt the overwhelming tiredness, and yet YOU rose like the sun, recognizing how FAR you have come to be RIGHT HERE. This is ALL of our stories. This is the American story, one that is NOT necessarily about riding off into a brilliant sunset knowing that you will be okay. Perhaps in this story just seeing that sunset on your OWN terms means more than anything else at that particular moment. So it is in many ways ironic that I set the stage for this LOVING family at the conclusion of this book facing the RISING sun, yet knowing that if I were to continue drawing the next pages there might be darkness in the ongoing struggle to true freedom. We, as illustrators and authors, often need to depict characters who experience the darkness as well as the light.

And here we are TODAY… together—celebrating both “The Darkness” and “The Light” inside stories. This is the reason why we are here. To celebrate the characters who are on this stage called life. All of us here today stand for our yesterdays. It is today that we can pick which page of the story we want to be on and what role we want to play in this plot. Are we seeking freedom? Are we looking to help someone to freedom? Are we looking to take someone’s freedom away? And are we seeking the light?

Many thousands traveled along a path we call the Underground Railroad. We may never know how each of them would describe his or her journey to freedom. Their voices were not chronicled in a book that illuminated their steps. I am certain today that I am feeling the stories of yesterday in my heart through my brothers and sisters today, both the stories of darkness and of light. The mothers who encouraged the steps, the fathers who shined a light on the path, the brothers who held their sisters’ hands, the aunties and uncles who shared a voice of guidance, the family and friends who held you up to the STARS that guided the way. We are HERE TODAY because they were READY FOR FREEDOM. I AM READY FOR FREEDOM. Thank you.

Shane W. Evans is the winner of the 2012 Coretta Scott King Illustrator Award for Underground, published by Neal Porter Books, an imprint of Roaring Brook Press. His acceptance speech was delivered at the annual conference of the American Library Association in Anaheim, California, on June 24, 2012. From the July/August 2012 issue of The Horn Book Magazine.

The post 2012 CSK Illustrator Award Acceptance appeared first on The Horn Book.

“What are you?”
“What?”
“What are you? Preppy, er…What’s your style?”
“Uh, I don’t know, man…I’m just me.”

Shane Evans's high school ID card

Those were the words exchanged when I first met Shane W. Evans. It was the beginning of our sophomore year at School of the Arts in Rochester, New York. We were both transfers and hadn’t really gotten to know anybody yet. We became fast friends.

“I’m just me.” Shane has continued to live by those words, and “who he is” continues to impress me.

Renaissance man. A true artist, in every sense of the word. Illustrator, painter, sculptor, photographer, singer, songwriter, musician, composer…the list goes on. He’s the type of cat who just randomly picks up a guitar, and next thing you know, he’s teaching you how to play. In high school, he had never sung in front of people in his life. He auditioned for the school musical…and got the lead.

His hunger for life — learning new things and creating new experiences — has always inspired me. He can meet a stranger in an airport and end up being invited to the person’s wedding. It’s pretty remarkable. In this day and age when people are so wrapped up in their personal devices they don’t even have time to exchange niceties, Shane is always willing to make a connection. He succeeds.

I wish I knew the number of people Shane touches with his spirit and art, whether it’s through the numerous books he’s illustrated and written or the work he continues to do in Africa. His project Africa Dream has taken him to Lesotho, where he has worked with HIV positive children; to Mali, for the program Medical Missions; and to Uganda, where, in conjunction with an organization called Change the Truth, he worked with an orphanage of 150 children developing creativity through poetry, music, and art. He’s always looking to make that “connection.”

I’ve known Shane for almost thirty years. He is my best friend. He was the best man at my wedding. He is “Uncle Shane” to my son. I refer to him most times as “my cousin.” I often forget that we’re not actually related by blood. But we are related.

He is one of the most selfless, kind, even-keeled, and talented people I know. We worked on my first children’s book, Chocolate Me!, together. The book expresses the feelings of my five-year-old self and what it took to recognize the “sweet inside.” It was a piece that we began in college and one that stayed with us. Shane saw an opportunity to bring the story to life as an illustrator. It was a great joy to work with Shane and see the artistic style I’ve known since I was a teenager bring my story to life.

We will continue to discover ourselves and open doors to new adventures. I am honored to have him by my side in this world and look forward to having him by my side in the next.

Photo: Topher Cox

Taye Diggs is the author of Chocolate Me! (Feiwel), illustrated by Shane W. Evans. He is an actor whose credits include film (How Stella Got Her Groove Back; Chicago), stage (Rent; Wicked), and television (Private Practice). From the July/August 2012 issue of The Horn Book Magazine.

The post A Profile of Shane W. Evans appeared first on The Horn Book.

Donna Bray and Kadir Nelson. Photo: Alessandra Balzer.

By Donna Bray

It was May 2008, and I had just started my first new job in twelve years, as co-publisher of a new imprint at HarperCollins. I was energized, excited — and, frankly, a bit terrified. Being an editor without any books in the pipeline is, I imagine, like being a librarian with empty shelves. Luckily, before I had even unpacked my boxes, Steve Malk from Writers House sent me a proposal from Kadir.

The proposal was just a couple of pages long, but it was eloquent, powerful, and incredibly ambitious. Kadir wanted to create nothing less than a history of America and African Americans. While he had, of course, illustrated many books on African American subjects and had recently published his first work as an author, here he was synthesizing the material for children in a way that showed that American history is African American history — that this country could not have realized the promise of its founding documents without the contributions of African Americans. I knew right away that it was the book Kadir’s whole career had been building to — and that I had to publish it. Kadir and I had worked together successfully on the first book he wrote and illustrated — We Are the Ship: The Story of Negro League Baseball, a book of similar size and ambition — so I knew we could do it again. HarperCollins Publisher Susan Katz and editor in chief Kate Jackson were just as enthusiastic and ready to take the leap with me. I had acquired my first Balzer + Bray title. (Thanks, Kadir!)

Over the next several months, Kadir and I talked occasionally, and he’d tell me about the books he was reading and the documentaries he was watching. It was so fascinating that I wished I had the time to research with him. But as we talked about the scope of the project (and the closer the deadlines loomed), I confess, I started to get a little nervous. This was one massive subject, to say the least. (Kadir later said that he’d been nervous about wrangling the material, too. Apparently we were each too worried to tell the other!) Over the course of a few months I gently suggested narrowing the range a bit, creating a framework for the narrative that would allow Kadir to focus the story and selectively include — and necessarily, leave out — information. Although we didn’t have a concrete plan for the book for a while, I always had faith in Kadir’s amazing vision. And the more anecdotes he told me about the books he’d read, the places he’d visited, and the family members he’d interviewed, the more excited I became.

Then Kadir delivered the first draft of Heart and Soul: The Story of America and African Americans, and the fun began. As with We Are the Ship, the narrative was made accessible and intimate by the voice of an elder — that of a centenarian recalling her family’s history and her own history. Knowing how close Kadir is to his mother and grandmother, I felt certain their voices infused the story with their love and honesty. In the early drafts, the challenge was to make that voice consistent throughout, while conveying the historical moments just as convincingly as the family stories. This was no easy task, but luckily Kadir is not only a natural storyteller, whose turns of phrase and carefully chosen details can still, dozens of readings later, give me chills, but he is also an inspired and willing reviser. Working with Kadir ups my game, the way a match with a talented tennis player might — it’s exhilarating and I learn a lot!

Sometime after the first draft, Kadir sent in his thumbnail sketches for the art he had planned. The art director, Martha Rago, and I marveled at how just a few deft lines could suggest so much emotion and majesty — really, it was extraordinary. We made some suggestions here and there, but for the most part the best thing we could do was stay out of his way. We wanted him to paint what moved him, and it was clear that these were truly inspired pieces. Anyone who has seen Kadir’s work can attest to the power of his paintings, especially his portraits. The subjects often stare frankly and directly at the viewer, conveying so much while hinting at mysteries below the surface. The subjects are living, breathing people. The fierce determination of the girl at the center of “Brave children, Little Rock, Arkansas” is so palpable it’s almost shocking. Then there’s the gentle love in “A young woman teaches her father how to read”; the defiance in the eyes of Harriet Tubman and Frederick Douglass; the pride of the buffalo soldier; the defeat in the postures of the men in “Out of work”; and the camaraderie of the women in “Bus boycott, Montgomery, Alabama, 1956.” Even the trees Kadir painted in this book all have different moods and tell different facets of the story.

It is no wonder that Kadir’s art is so accomplished; he started drawing at the tender age of three and hasn’t stopped since. His whole family supported his obvious talent, buying him art supplies and saving his childhood efforts. He later attended Pratt Institute, where his talent is so legendary that even now illustration teachers are (jokingly?) advised to grade on a curve, with Kadir being an A. I was fortunate enough to hear Kadir give a talk to students at his alma mater, where he revealed the painstaking hard work that led to his seemingly “lucky” breaks. At Pratt he had been a tireless and dedicated builder of his portfolio and a standout worker at the Society of Illustrators, where he had landed an internship. The impressions he made there and elsewhere led to his being recommended to create concept art for the movie Amistad. Working on the film, he met producer Debbie Allen, who was so impressed by his work that she tapped him to illustrate her first picture book. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Kadir’s achievements in books alone are impressive: his titles have been named New York Times Best Illustrated Books of the Year and have won many awards, including Caldecott Honors, a Sibert Medal, Coretta Scott King Awards and Honors, and a Jane Addams Children’s Book Award Honor. He also has a thriving fine art career (his paintings have been exhibited in museums and galleries around the world) and is becoming an important national portraitist: he was commissioned by Congress to paint the official portrait of Shirley Chisholm, the first African American congresswoman, and by the U.S. Postal Service to create stamps featuring the Negro Leagues, activist Anna Julia Cooper, and author Richard Wright. He was even chosen to create the art for Michael Jackson’s posthumous album, Michael. This kind of success takes uncommon determination, hard work, and rare talent, for sure. But it also requires extraordinary vision. It’s this vision that I trust absolutely when Kadir comes to me with an idea for a new project.

Speaking of which: last fall Kadir and I were taking a cab across town after celebrating his Society of Illustrators Original Art Show Silver Medal for Heart and Soul when I asked him what he was thinking about for our next project. It’s much too early to share here, of course, but I can tell you that it will be totally different from anything Kadir has ever done. Whatever it is, I’m in.

Donna Bray is vice president and co-publisher of Balzer + Bray, an imprint of HarperCollins Children’s Books. From the July/August 2012 issue of The Horn Book Magazine.

The post A Profile of Kadir Nelson appeared first on The Horn Book.

By Kadir Nelson

Good morning. It’s a pleasure to be here with you to celebrate the work of African American authors and illustrators whose books have been chosen as the best of the best of 2011. I feel privileged to share the company of esteemed peers whom I have long admired.

I have always considered myself a painter, and have only recently begun to don the hat of an author. So I feel all the more honored to be recognized for my writing efforts by the Coretta Scott King committee. To have my work acknowledged by librarians who link good books with avid readers thrills me beyond measure. Thank you all for serving our youth in this noble way.

For much of my life and career I have been engaged in the pursuit of truth — about myself, about my family, about those whose histories bear similarities to my own. The African American story was one that most resonated with me and became my primary focus. For most Americans, this piece of history has often sat in the shadows, left to be discovered only by those whose curiosity would lead them to search deeper, beyond the generic survey of history we are generally fed in our classrooms. I knew the American and African American stories only as well as most Americans, and having both African and European blood in my veins, I felt a strong pull to learn them on a deeper, more personal level. American history is often presented in a one-dimensional, picturesque, and patriotic fashion that leaves students with a rather lacking impression of the African American story. This was certainly my experience. However, as I took on projects that expanded my understanding of American history, I discovered that the “sidebar” treatment of African American history was inaccurate and gravely inadequate.

This became crystal-clear to me during a visit to the United States Capitol building in Washington, DC, in 2008. Displayed inside the building’s famous rotunda are several large paintings that were created to tell the story of how America was founded. There are images of gallant soldiers on battlefields, our proud forefathers signing the Declaration of Independence, the end of the American Revolution, and so on. These massive paintings are filled with an all-star cast of early Americans, Europeans, and Native Americans. They are quite striking and beautiful. However, just as striking is the fact that there are no representations of African Americans. Not one. For those who know better, this omission and the reason for it is obvious. The stain of slavery and its integral part in America’s story might provoke questions about a proud country that was founded on the premise of freedom and yet held a large segment of its inhabitants in bondage. And rather than expose this paradox and inconvenient truth, the artists decided to — or were instructed to — simply leave it out.

I wondered what the psychological impact of such a slight would be upon the multitudes of children who visit the Capitol building every year. I concluded that it would make them feel the way I felt: that my story and that of my ancestors didn’t matter. As a result of my visit, I resolved to delve into that story, find my place in it, and share it through my work.

I began by looking no further than my own proverbial doorstep: I called my grandmother. For many years she and most of my elders were tight-lipped about the past — and for good reason. There are dark parts of American history that can be a heavy burden on young ears, and my elders were careful about what they shared so as not to weigh us down with grievances. However, I think that as time passed, stories that had been considered shameful began to lose their bite. In 2010, Michele Norris from NPR’s All Things Considered noted that with the joyful election of Barack Obama, elder African Americans felt a bit safer to share their stories. I tend to agree with her. The struggles of our ancestors seemed to have served a purpose and found relevance with the election of one of America’s darker sons.

And so my grandmother shared her story with me. She spoke about her husband, my grandfather, whom I never met; about her father; and about the last slave in our family, a man who refused to celebrate New Year’s Day with the traditional meal of black-eyed peas because of a painful childhood association. I found that by learning her previously untold story, I was able to put our family story into greater context. I began to interview other family members and friends. I heard tales of great world wars, labor disputes, factory accidents, and civil rights demonstrations. It was through these stories and history that the larger American story came alive. It’s one thing to read a history book filled with names, dates, and facts, but it is entirely another to hear these stories directly from people who lived them. For me that is the most compelling way to learn and share history.

As an artist, my primary means of telling stories has almost always been through paintings. Although the story of Heart and Soul: The Story of America and African Americans is shared through the spoken word, the visual story here is just as important. Heart and Soul is illustrated with more than forty original paintings, many of which are reminiscent of old family photos and early American art. As with any other project that is dear to my heart, I took great care to create artwork that is consistent with the power and grace of the story. I planned, as I had with my last series, to create large paintings that could fill each spread and eventually museum walls. However, as my deadline approached, those paintings grew smaller and smaller — but only in size. Some of the images have painted frames around them, which serve as a metaphor: this massive American story is literally “framed” by the intimate family story of the narrator. We purposely gave the cover of the book the appearance of an old family album or scrapbook for the same reason. It is a humble entreaty to readers to pick up this book and run their fingers over the cover. An experience that no e-book can ever offer. As picture books are often the very first encounter that children have with art, I feel that we, as creators of illustrated books, owe it to them to make it a meaningful one.

Now, as a youth, I was not a lover of history, nor was I a big fan of reading. So it is not a little ironic that I would grow up to become an author who writes about history.

My mother can tell you that it was quite the chore to get me to read as a child. And surely getting me to read about history was an even greater task. Every author knows that the prerequisite to being an author is to read — a lot. I was not interested in that assignment, and yet I really loved to listen to stories. I would soon make the connection that history can be looked at as a string of personal stories.

It wasn’t until I reached the tenth grade that I read a book I couldn’t put down: The Autobiography of Malcolm X. It would spur me on to become a lover of nonfiction and biographies. As a result of that experience, I looked forward with excitement to finding the next great book, the next great story.

Shortly after having published my first book as an author/illustrator, and almost twenty years after reading Malcolm X’s autobiography, that story would present itself to me inside the rotunda of our nation’s Capitol building, and from the recollections of my grandmother, my mother, aunts, uncles, and dear friends. I would construct a narrative that spoke to the individual and collective stories of families like mine, and then weave them into the greater context of the American story. America is a very large family, made up of millions of smaller families. All of which have their own stories to tell, and, when combined, tell the larger history with which we are all familiar.

Heart and Soul is a historical document that tells the story of America through the recollections of a century-old African American woman whose family story is closely tied to the greater American story. Her words and style of speech are reminiscent of both my grandmother, Verlee Gunter-Moore, who speaks with honesty and directness, and a sweet Texan by the name of Debbie Allen. Together their voices are merged into one very warm and sincere narrator who tells her story as though she were grandmother to us all.

Heart and Soul is not the definitive history of America and African Americans, but rather a starting point, a launching pad for readers of all ages to uncover the truth for themselves, so that when they sit in their classrooms or visit our national monuments and museums, they will understand that their stories do, in fact, matter. For we are all our nation’s heart and soul. Thank you.

Kadir Nelson is the winner of the 2012 Coretta Scott King Author Award for Heart and Soul: The Story of America and African Americans, published by Balzer + Bray, an imprint of HarperCollins Children’s Books. His acceptance speech was delivered at the annual ALA conference in Anaheim, California, on June 24, 2012. From the July/August 2012 issue of The Horn Book Magazine.

The post 2012 CSK Author Award Acceptance appeared first on The Horn Book.

Photo: Bill McGuinness

By Ashley Bryan

To be honored in the name of Virginia Hamilton, a person and artist I loved, opens personal feelings and the meaning of her lifetime achievement award. Virginia remains an ongoing inspiration in my life. I have recollections of time spent with her when the warmth and light of her personality enriched those moments. By written word and presence, Virginia sought to close distances, to describe the other as a recognition of oneself.

This is what engages me now. What does a lifetime achievement award mean to me and to each one of you? What does an award that seems so final mean when one is alive and absorbed in the ongoing daily effort to discover and offer something meaningful and creative of oneself? There are many ways in which we create and touch the lives of others.

Lifetime achievement may be considered progressive as it develops throughout one’s life. For example, as a kindergartener in a New York City public school, way back in the 1930s, I was taught the alphabet. My teacher asked the class to draw a picture for each letter from A to Z. We then sewed the pages together. The teacher said, “You have just published an alphabet book. You are the author, illustrator, binder. Take it home. You are distributor as well.” Oh, the awards I received then, hugs, kisses, cheers from family and friends! I was so encouraged by this applause that I have never stopped making books. First as one-of-a-kind limited edition gifts, but now my books are printed in the thousands.

Here I have offered an example of what I consider an early lifetime achievement award. When I am with schoolchildren and am asked, “Have you ever won any big awards?” I tell them of my first big awards of hugs, kisses, cheers from family and friends. I tell them you need awards of encouragement all along the way. That helps you to become the creative person that you would like to be.

These early awards are preparation for the awards received later from one’s peers for outstanding contributions one has made. Throughout her career Virginia received steady awards for her originality and artistry, yet each recognition returned her to her work, hoping to more closely approach her sought-after ideal.

The black American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar, writing in the late 1880s, was asked if the writing got easier as he progressed. He answered, “My work becomes harder, rather than easier as I go on, simply because I am more critical of it. I believe when an author ceases to climb, he ceases at the same time to lift his reader up with him.”

This lifting up of others was realized by Virginia Hamilton in her art. She created lives that touched ours. She helped us, through her play with language, to overcome distances and differences. I hold to that mystery of creation as a compelling ideal.

This is why the Virginia Hamilton Lifetime Achievement Award means so much to me. I would like this lifting up of others, through the experience of my art, to be as it was for Virginia: at the heart of all I do.

Ashley Bryan is the winner of the 2012 Coretta Scott King — Virginia Hamilton Award for Lifetime Achievement. His acceptance speech was delivered at the Coretta Scott King Book Awards Breakfast at the annual conference of the American Library Association in Anaheim, California, on June 24, 2012.

The post 2012 Coretta Scott King — Virginia Hamilton Award for Lifetime Achievement Acceptance appeared first on The Horn Book.

Photo by Drew Nelson

To tell the complex story of her great-uncle, bookseller Lewis Michaux, 2010 Coretta Scott King Author Award–winner (for Bad News for Outlaws: The Remarkable Life of Bass Reeves, Deputy U.S. Marshal) Vaunda Micheaux Nelson employs an amalgamation of historical research, family stories, and her own imagination. No Crystal Stair: A Documentary Novel of the Life and Work of Lewis Michaux, Harlem Bookseller is a uniquely collaged novel, and so I asked Vaunda just how she put it all together.

1. No Crystal Stair is an aesthetically daring combination of fiction and nonfiction, word and image. How is it different from what you imagined it would be when you began?

Vaunda Micheaux Nelson: I set out to write a straight biography for teens. In my early drafts I used quotes by Lewis as chapter headings and envisioned photos as part of the final work. But at some point in the process, and after feedback from people I respect, I saw that it wasn’t working. Unavailable and conflicting information left many crucial questions unanswered. More important, I didn’t feel I’d told Lewis’s story in a way that would move readers to care about and understand this amazing man and the significance of what he achieved. After the project evolved into the “documentary fiction” format, I found more pleasure in the storytelling. It allowed me to explore Lewis in a deeper way and to get to know the people around him more intimately. Sometimes you have to do an awful lot of writing to figure out exactly what it is you have to say. The project may have taken fifteen years, but as I think back on the process, I realize it needed those years. I needed those years to become a better writer. And I made exciting discoveries along the way that led me in unexpected and rewarding directions. I’m relieved the book is finished, but I miss being immersed in Lewis’s world.

2. Lewis Michaux was a supporter of such still-controversial men as Elijah Muhammad, Malcolm X, and Marcus Garvey — names you don’t see in children’s books nearly as often as Martin Luther King Jr., Frederick Douglass, and Rosa Parks. Do you think we have a tendency to play it safe in African American history for young readers?

VMN: I don’t know that I would call Lewis a supporter of Elijah Muhammad. But to address your question, the importance of, and emphasis on, individuals and events in our history are often determined by the media. People like Dr. King and Rosa Parks received greater coverage because they were more palatable to the general public, or have been portrayed as so by the press. There have been a handful of books for youth about Marcus Garvey. I could find none on Elijah Muhammad, though I believe he had a smaller circle of followers than either Malcolm X or Garvey. There is a respectable offering about Malcolm X, but, as you say, nothing like what is available on Dr. King. Garvey and Malcolm were out of the comfort zone, even for some blacks. They were explosive, enigmatic personalities. Most of the grownups in my world saw Garvey’s Back-to-Africa movement as extreme and Malcolm X as intimidating. I was eleven years old when Malcolm X was murdered. I’m sure it was covered by the media, but I don’t recall the kind of national mourning that came with the assassinations of President Kennedy and Dr. King. Both of these events saturated the news. I don’t know if publishers are playing it safe so much as looking at the market, a market that is strongly influenced by media, more now than ever. As Lewis said, “If you’re in the book business, you’ve got to sell books.” It’s up to us — the literary community — to help create a demand for topics we find important. I’m not suggesting that publishers don’t take risks. They often do and I’m grateful for that. But they do have to balance the risks with the safe bets in order to stay in business.

3. What bookstore was most formative in your development as a reader?

VMN: There was no bookstore in our small town, nor was there a library. My parents were key in my development as a reader. My mother read to us nightly, and my father introduced us to the work of poets such as Langston Hughes, Robert Louis Stevenson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and Walt Whitman. And Dad wrote poetry himself. Mommy took us to the bookmobile when it came every other week, which I loved, but I didn’t really find a bookstore that had a major effect on helping build my reservoir of children’s literature until, as an adult, I was introduced to Pinocchio, a bookstore for children in Pittsburgh. I worked there in the 1980s and read probably a thousand books during that time. The store no longer exists, but I will always be grateful to owner Marilyn Hollinshead for all that I learned while at her literary paradise. I wrote my first book and made the decision to go to library school while there.

4. What would a twenty-first-century National Memorial African Bookstore look like?

VMN: Hypothetical questions are always difficult for me, but I’ll take a shot. I’m pretty old-fashioned and often feel I don’t belong in the technological world. With the decline of independent bookstores, I can’t imagine a National Memorial African Bookstore like Lewis’s existing today unless the owner is doing it for love, not profit. A twenty-first-century National Memorial African Bookstore would still offer books by and about blacks and, of course, there would be tons of discussion through blogs and other online networks. Lewis would surely get a kick out of having such platforms from which to share his two cents. Instead of street speakers, discourse would be broadcast through Skype or YouTube. The Internet would enable Lewis to reach more people and perhaps offer a larger selection. Sadly, the heart, the spirit, the human interaction, the one-on-one, and the excitement that came with a rally at Harlem Square would be lost.

5. What is the most important thing being a children’s librarian has taught you about writing for children?

VMN: To not underestimate what kids can handle. They’re smart and beg to be challenged. I hope my writing stretches them. Sometimes we make the mistake of believing young readers need to have everything spelled out, that they can’t deal with subtlety. That which is left unsaid is often what gets them thinking beyond the text. The reading process becomes an interactive one, a give and take, a private affair that adds to a repository of experience they can draw from as they negotiate life.

The post Five questions for Vaunda Micheaux Nelson appeared first on The Horn Book.

Sixteen years ago, the pioneer spirit overtook my husband, Drew, and me. We packed our wagon (a U-Haul) and, with our cat riding shotgun, left Pittsburgh and set out for the Santa Fe Trail and Albuquerque, New Mexico. You know, the place where Bugs Bunny should have turned left? It’s been a grand adventure. We are still in awe of the big sky, the high desert landscape, and the fascinating history of the West. Writer that I am, it’s not surprising that I have found much wisdom and wit in the idiom of Western icons — that black-and-white, get-to-the-point, simple way of talking, from a time when folks helped each other and a handshake was enough.

As I give thanks for this award, I’d like to share some cowboy wisdom with you.

When you get to where you’re goin’, the first thing to do is take care of the horse you rode in on. I’m going to reverse the usual order of things and express my gratitude up front because I sure rode in on a whole herd of horses.

First, I thank my Lord for helping me through this past year and giving me hope for the future. I lost my brother to cancer and my mom to Alzheimer’s in 2009. Amid all the sadness, Bad News for Outlaws: The Remarkable Life of Bass Reeves, Deputy U.S. Marshal was released and received terrific reviews. Bad News kept me from digging myself into a hole. A cowboy saying goes — You can just about always stand more’n you think you can. Still, when the year ended, I told my husband, “I just want 2010 to be a straight line.” Well, that didn’t happen! The 2010 Coretta Scott King Book Awards jury saw to that. I am now happily taking back my wish for a straight line.

It was Martin Luther King Day at ALA Midwinter in Boston when I got the news. I was entering a program honoring Dr. King and reaching to turn off my phone when it rang. The caller said, “This is Carole McCollough.” Being a youth services librarian, I knew Carole was chair of the CSK jury; that it was Youth Media Awards day; and that winners are phoned right before the press conference. The moment she said her name, all these details connected. My heart started pounding, and I got choked up even before I heard why she called. I would have been pretty embarrassed if she’d said, “Let’s do lunch.” I’d love to have lunch with Carole, but I’m glad that isn’t what she said.

Having served on ALA awards committees, I know how difficult it is to select one from so many worthy titles. I know the odds. To start the new year with this firm nod of approval from my library colleagues, this amazing gesture that says, “You’re doing great, Vaun!” is a blessing. Thank you, dear, marvelous members of my CSK jury — Carole McCollough, Eunice Anderson, Alan R. Bailey, Brenda Hunter, Jonda C. McNair, Martha Ruff, Robin Smith. Thank you for appreciating the work and for helping to bring Bass’s story to readers. You have filled my heart with so much happiness. I will love you all my life.

I’m much obliged to my husband, Drew — my best editor, best critic, best friend; my protector and biggest fan. Drew believes in me more than I do. Although Bad News is finished, I’m not done with the West, being married to a man who is a cowboy at heart. At the end of my story, there’s nothing I want more than to ride off into the sunset . . . with him.

I love and fear words — their potential to uplift or tear down. My father taught me to respect that potential. Dad, a man of few words, wrote poetry and sketched. My mother made me love stories. She’d sit at the top of the stairs every night and create magic with a book. It was reader’s theater. If Mommy couldn’t be there, she assigned the reading to whomever she’d deputized to watch us that night. But no one could do it like her. So much of the writer in me is my parents’ doing. I got really lucky with them.

My siblings, Renee, Regina (who taught me to read), Billie, and Eddie teased me, bossed me, taught me, fought me, protected and loved me. I thank them for all of it, and for providing me with a deep well from which to draw my stories. I thank them and my huge extended family for being the net beneath my tightrope.

Thanks to Tracey and Josh of Adams Literary for allowing me to focus on the writing while they take such good care of the business.

A heap of thanks to Art T. Burton for his invaluable assistance. The true Bass Reeves expert, he generously shared his knowledge and passion. His commitment to Bass’s story is unmatched.

Thanks to my editors, Shannon Barefield and Mary Rodgers, for their patient understanding of my maternal concern over every word. And to Adam Lerner and everyone at Carolrhoda and Lerner — Danielle, Zach, Lois, Lindsay, Kathleen, Brad, Elizabeth, Terri, Julie, David, and Andrew, for their kindness to me and their respect for Bass.

Thanks to the masterful R. Gregory Christie for bringing Bass’s story to life through his amazing paintings. I think Bass would be proud of how Greg portrayed him.

I’m grateful to my writing group — Stephanie Farrow, Lucy Hampson, Katherine Hauth, Uma Krishnaswami, Jean Whitehouse Peterson — for never complaining when, for the umpteenth time, I brought yet another revision of the manuscript for just one more read. This award is partly theirs.

Special thanks to my pard Lori Snyder for her friendship. And to everyone back home at Rio Rancho Public Library. Thanks to all my friends in Pittsburgh and elsewhere, especially Christyl and Justin Brown, for their encouragement and caring.

Thank you, friends and colleagues in the library, writing, and publishing communities, for cheering me on over the years. I can hardly believe I’m standing up here. I’m used to being out there with you, looking in this direction. Thanks to my posse from the 2002 Newbery committee, the committee that refuses to let go. Most were seated with me when the announcement came and, in wild fashion, swarmed me in a mass embrace. It was a moment I will never forget.

Thanks to G. P. Putnam’s Sons for taking a chance on a brand-new author back in 1986, and to Random House for helping to keep that writer moving forward.

And many thanks to Deb Taylor and the CSK committee for their labor of love promoting books for youth by African Americans, and for allowing me to be part of this good work.

My love affair with Bass Reeves began in 2003. Drew wasn’t jealous. He, in fact, introduced us. Drew had already won my heart and knew, like it or not, he’d be stuck with me to the end of the trail. Besides, Bass had been dead since 1910, so Drew had no fears of finding us together except through the written word.

My research for Bad News began in 2003, but the project didn’t become real until 2005. My then editor, Shannon Barefield, told me Lerner was hoping to publish more picture book biographies and wondered if there was anyone I might be interested in doing. I immediately thought of Bass, but just said, “Maybe.”

I wasn’t sure of my ability to tell Bass’s remarkable story for a picture book audience. Could I do it justice with such limited text? There was so much captivating and complex stuff to consider . . . the keeping of slaves by Indians, the emergence of black towns, the culture of Indian Territory, not to mention the violent times in which Bass lived and the guns and killing that I couldn’t avoid. Though he took no pleasure in using deadly force, this was part of Bass’s job as a peace officer. I recalled my own childhood and how we loved the Old West, the shootouts, the horses, the grubby life of cowboys. And I realized I was falling victim to adult worries about children and violence. I decided if I told Bass’s story well, kids could handle the violence, and they’d eat him up as we did our Western heroes. I do want adults to love my work (and I’m thrilled the CSK jury did), but I write for kids and, selfishly, myself.

Here’s another bit of cowboy wisdom:

You don’t need decorated words to make your meanin’ clear. Say it plain and save some breath for breathin’. Working with Western language was a delightful challenge. I liked the touch of humor and flavor of the times this language added to the telling. My challenge was using it gently, finding a balance. I didn’t want to diminish the serious nature of Bass’s accomplishments.

There is much to admire about Bass — his strength, fearlessness, and skill with weapons, his clever use of disguises, phenomenal memory, and sense of duty and honor. Some believe he was the inspiration for the Lone Ranger. When we pretended to be cowboys, my siblings and I argued over who got to play Hopalong Cassidy, the Lone Ranger, Wyatt Earp, Roy Rogers, and other favorites, most of whom were fictional. I don’t recall spending a lot of time thinking about race during my childhood, but I wonder how I might have felt if among our heroes stood Bass Reeves — a black man who was not a minor character or a bad guy. A black man who was a hero — a real hero.

Old West lawmen like Wyatt Earp and Wild Bill Hickok were peace officers for less than a decade. They couldn’t hold a candle to Bass, who worked as a deputy U.S. marshal for thirty-two years in what was arguably the most dangerous area of the country. Imagine, a slave who rose to become the most feared and respected lawman of his time! Bass deserved so much better than he got. I am proud that Bad News is playing a small part in giving him his due.

Well, I can’t be jawin’ all morning. My moment is about over. I reckon it’s gettin’ time for me to mosey. So let me end with more cowboy wisdom, which comes from a fine book by Texas Bix Bender called Don’t Squat with Yer Spurs On!: A Cowboy’s Guide to Life, published by Gibbs M. Smith.

Here goes:

Makin’ it in life is kinda like
bustin’ broncos: you’re gonna get
thrown a lot.The simple secret
is to keep gettin’ back on.

Think the best of people, but it don’t
hurt to count your change.

Lettin’ the cat outta the bag is a
whole lot easier’n puttin’ it back.

Don’t worry about bitin’ off
more than you can chew.

Your mouth is probably a whole
lot bigger’n you think.

The quickest way to double your
money is to fold it over and put it
back in your pocket.

Don’t never interfere with something
that ain’t botherin’ you none.

Comin’ as close to the
truth as a man can come without
gettin’ there is comin’ pretty close,
but it still ain’t the truth.

Don’t let so much reality
into your life that there’s no
room left for dreamin’.

There’s one more, but before I share it, I again want to express my thanks to everyone who played a part in my being here today. I’m beholden to you all. And we all owe a debt of gratitude to Deputy U.S. Marshal Bass Reeves for his service to our country. He was, indeed, someone to ride the river with.

Okay, here’s the final piece of cowboy wisdom:

Never miss a good
chance to shut up.

The post 2010 Coretta Scott King Author Award Acceptance appeared first on The Horn Book.

By Kadir Nelson

It is such a thrill to be here in Chicago with you. This distinguished group of librarians, teachers, booksellers, and book lovers revere books for young people so passionately that every year you gather to celebrate your favorites with this early-morning and immensely heartwarming ceremony. I am deeply honored to be among those you have anointed, especially in a year with such historical significance as this fortieth anniversary of the Coretta Scott King Book Awards.

I was surprised and pleased to receive a call from the jury on that very early January morning with the news that I had been awarded the CSK Author Award (and an Illustrator Honor). Being primarily a painter, I was inclined to ask the jury, “Really? Are you sure?” I do not mean to say that I don’t think that I’m any good at writing. I mean, I got a solid B in my advanced English course in high school, and, believe me, I worked hard for that B. My teacher, Ms. Visconti, was tough — really tough. Some might even say she was mean. I can’t rightly say that I think she was mean as much as she was a stickler for quality. She merely demanded, above all, the best from her students — as every teacher should. So I was proud of myself for even being among those selected to be in her class. That is, until she handed out the first assignment and then the subsequent grades.

Up until that year, I had always been in standard English classes. Nothing special. I’d become accustomed to receiving a B for my most minimal efforts. But now I had been placed in a class where that would not do. I’d always thought of myself as a smart kid with a tendency to need a push every now and then to do my best work. Ms. Visconti would provide that push. My first effort at writing in her class was met with, shall I say, less than desirable results. The assigned essay I turned in wasn’t even worthy of a grade from Ms. Visconti. At the top of my paper she had written in bold red ink: “Not an essay.” Ouch. I was quite embarrassed. This was much too much for the young man to accept, so I approached Ms. Visconti and asked her to teach me how to write an essay, which she very kindly did — thus preparing me for successful careers in high school, college, and beyond. I’m thankful to Ms. Visconti because the skill of essay writing was what I built upon to write We Are the Ship, a book that would occupy almost eight years of my life.

I’ve often been asked why I chose to write the book both in the vernacular of a former baseball player and in a collective voice. The answer to this is simple: of all the historical literature I’d read in my life, the most compelling was written by those who had made and witnessed history firsthand. Now, anyone who has spoken to an African American elder about the past, particularly when it comes to slavery or segregation, knows how tight-lipped many of them can be. However, when it came to interviewing former Negro League ballplayers, it seemed as if there wasn’t enough time or enough words for them to describe what it was like to play baseball for a living during a time when the norm for most African American men was to work in a factory or in a field. It’s no big mystery as to why they were so inclined to share their stories. Those fellows made history and had a lot of fun doing it. They paved the way for so many who would in turn make their own history. Theirs is a great story, one that I felt compelled to share with others through my work. It’s a great story of perseverance, pride, determination, passion, and integrity.

For those who may not know, the Negro Leagues were born from the Jim Crow era in America, which grew out of the failed efforts of Reconstruction at the end of the Civil War. Every aspect of public American life was segregated, from restaurants to public transportation to libraries to, of course, major league baseball. Although there was no written rule that prohibited African Americans from playing in the major leagues, they were nonetheless barred as a result of a secret agreement among the team owners. So African Americans formed their own leagues — the Negro Leagues. The leagues would be home to great players and owners and would ultimately become one of the most successful African American–owned businesses in history up until that point. The Negro Leagues would also serve as a precursor to the civil rights movement of the 1960s. A great story indeed.

The story ignited in me a spark, an inspiration to tell the story in a series of large paintings that could adorn gallery and museum walls. I painted one, then two, then six, then almost a dozen scenes from the Negro Leagues. I painted these works for the sheer joy of painting them and had no further plans for them. By mere chance, however, a few of the paintings landed in the pages of Sports Illustrated, and soon I was asked if I’d ever thought of publishing the images in a book. I thought it was a great idea and began to think about who could potentially write the manuscript. Surely it wouldn’t be me. I was a painter, not an author, and quite frankly I hadn’t any interest in writing a book. I thought I’d find a great writer like Walter Dean Myers or Julius Lester to pen the text. I was absolutely certain they’d have time for me in their schedules. However, Andrea Pinkney, my editor, was quick to share with me the fact that in all reality it might be a bit of a wait to get on their calendars, should they even be interested. At the time, I had but two books to my credit, and being young I didn’t really have the patience to wait several years for a writer to start on my book. I had a pretty good idea of the story that needed to be told and how I wanted to tell it. On a whim, I asked Andrea if perhaps I might try my hand at writing the manuscript. After all, the worst she could do was say no, which is honestly what I expected. To my great surprise she immediately accepted my offer to write the book. I was both flattered and petrified. How was I going to do this? Well, the only real feather I had in my cap was the skill of essay writing, and a well-earned B from Ms. Visconti. It was time to put that B to work.

A wonderful writer by the name of Nikki Giovanni once shared with me that there is no such thing as writer’s block, only a lack of information. Keeping this in mind, I read plenty of books about the Negro Leagues, interviewed former Negro League players, and consulted baseball museums and baseball historians, all in an attempt to gather as much information as I could. With both oil paints and the written word I wanted to paint a picture of the life of a Negro League baseball player, both on and off the field. I wanted to take readers on a journey to Kansas City, Missouri, during the roaring twenties; to the backcountry roads and welcoming small community barbecues of the deep South; to the expansive and red-hot baseball fields of Latin America; to the barbershops and small streets of Pittsburgh, recently hit by the Great Depression; to the crowded buses that would travel along unpaved roads throughout the American landscape. To do this I would need the help of a great many historians, curators, writers, and filmmakers as well as a very select group of fine gentlemen who were among those who made history on baseball diamonds all over our great country, and indeed the world. It was a journey that I began at the tender age of twenty-one as a single college student working in my cramped Pratt Institute dorm room in 1995 and completed thirteen years later at the not-so-tender age of thirty-four, now a husband and a father of two, in my cramped one-room studio in January 2007. It’s a journey that I will cherish for the rest of my life.

I would like to take a minute to acknowledge a few of the people who would both knowingly and unknowingly contribute to this journey. Former Negro Leaguers Frank Evans, my chief consultant Walter McCoy, and the late Buck O’Neil. Authors John B. Holway, Phil Dixon, and Robert Peterson; my hero of a filmmaker Ken Burns; and a tremendous patron and supporter, John Moores, former owner of the San Diego Padres.

I was also very fortunate to have the patience and good advice of several editors, notably Andrea Pinkney, Garen Thomas, Jaira Placide, and Donna Bray. I would like to thank you all for your tact and expertise in making me feel like I, too, could be an author, and for making this book one that I am remarkably proud of. I’d like to extend a special thank you to Andrea, who signed me up for this book way back in 2000. It’s so wonderful to come full circle and share this day with you.

I’d also like to thank all of my Disney family who put their hearts, minds, and muscle behind We Are the Ship, getting it into the hands of those who needed to see and share this book. Thank you to Jeanne Mosure, Jonathan Yaged, Deborah Bass, RasShahn Johnson-Baker, Lynn Waggoner, Scottie Bowditch, and Angus Killick. I would especially like to thank my brilliant art director, Anne Diebel, who designed the pants off of this book! Thank you for being so patient, so talented, so forgiving, and so delightful. Because of you, I never tire of looking at We Are the Ship. And a special thank you to my wife for putting up with all of the large canvases that sat in our living room for months on end while I finished the book, and my children for not damaging them. And lastly, I would like to thank the Coretta Scott King committee for recognizing a book that I put so much of my heart into. It’s so wonderful to see your two beautiful shiny stickers on the cover, because it would have been all too sad if it had instead read at the top of the cover, “Not a book.”

Thank you.

Kadir Nelson is the winner of the 2009 Coretta Scott King Author Award for We Are the Ship, published by Disney/Hyperion Books. His acceptance speech was delivered at the annual ALA conference in Chicago on July 14, 2009.

Originally published in the July/August 2009 issue of The Horn Book Magazine.

The post Kadir Nelson, We Are the Ship appeared first on The Horn Book.